Caps for Sale

Bought my grandkids Caps for Sale
And checked when it was written - 
Back in 1940! Still,
The story has me smitten.

A peddler cannot sell the caps
He carries on his head
And so he takes a nap beneath
A giant tree instead.

On waking, all the caps are gone
But way up in the tree
A monkey's perched on every branch
And guess what we can see?

On each one's head there is a cap
Which he will not surrender.
The peddler, in frustration,
Leads us to the happy ender.

He shakes his fists and stamps his feet,
The monkeys imitating,
Then throws his own cap on the ground
And without hesitating,

The simians all follow suit
So all the caps come falling.
The peddler piles them on his head
And keeps on with his calling:

"Caps for sale! For 50 cents!"
The guy gets props for trying.
The story leaves us with a smile
(Though no one still is buying).

Tying a Scarf

I’ve never learned to tie a scarf
Which makes me quite the fool
‘Cause scarves can make an outfit
Look both chic and really cool.

I stare at women sporting them
Tied in a jaunty knot
And wonder what it is they have
That I just haven’t got.

My mother never taught me
How to carry off, with flair,
A swath of silk around my neck,
So suave and debonair.

What isn’t in our wheelhouse,
Even if it could be taught,
Likely never would be something
We would seek if never sought. 

Cell Phones

Many people deprived of a phone
Couldn’t function when they were alone
            For in this day and age
            It’s the norm to engage
With the screen of the cell that they own.

Human contact has suffered a blow
For technology’s now status quo.
            We might not recognize
            Someone just by his eyes
‘Less they’re lit by a battery’s glow.

Makes me wonder if old Alex Bell,
If brought back to earth just for a spell
            Would be more than just shocked
            But would have his world rocked
Watching everyone glued to a cell!

Complaining

The printer isn’t working.
The faucet has a drip.
I can’t decide what clothes to pack
Before my coming trip.

I ordered something but it seems
There is no record of it.
The restaurant was awful but
I used to always love it.

My sneakers got my feet all wet
And so my socks were dripping.
My magazines are piled so high,
One bump and they’ll be tipping.

It’s gray outside to match my mood
But there’s a point to raining;
If only blossoms bloomed
As a result of my complaining!

Immortality

Mozart will forever be
Endowed with immortality.
For Beethoven, the same is said;
His music means he’s never dead.

Einstein, Dickens and Van Gogh –
Names that future folk will know.
Lincoln, Hemingway and Twain
On reading lists will e’er remain.

William Shakespeare guarantees
That even after centuries
A genius will secure a place
That time or distance can’t erase.

The list goes on, this just a few
Of those whose talent or IQ
Insures we’ll always owe a debt
To ones whose brilliance dazzles yet.

Philosophy 101

In life, we get to pick and choose
And live with each decision.
There’s more to it than win or lose
For what we might envision

Most often won’t exactly match
Reality’s rendition
And even if we start from scratch
To bring it to fruition

Another road may take us where
We’d never planned to travel;
Despite some welcome plusses there,
Our souls may still unravel.

Therefore to this lesson heed:
Wanting gets usurped by need.

Lending a Hand

There’s snow in Colorado
And Florida has rain
While it’s been cold and sunny
For the folks who live in Maine.

In New York it’s like springtime
But tonight we’ll almost freeze.
The weather’s been so crazy
It can bring us to our knees.

Though Mother Nature’s fickle
And we know she’s in command,
With all this screwy weather
Seems like mankind’s leant a hand.

The Poet in the Subway

Seated in the station
At a table he had brought,
A poet (as his sign announced)
Typed poems that he had wrought.

His hands were ready at the keys
To tap out a request;
Just choose a topic and you’d hear it
In his words expressed.

He offered me his email list;
I added my address.
Without disclosing what I do,
I wished him much success.

I had no need for what he’d write
And so I headed home,
Delighted that he’d given me
A subject for my poem.

City of New York Vs. Ilene Bauer

Got a notice in the mail
That made my blood run sour,
Announcing “City of New York
Versus Ilene Bauer.”

Inside the envelope there was
A 50 dollar fine
With photos of a car attached
Whose license plate was mine.

It seems our speed was 36
But we were near a school
So 25 is what’s allowed;
My husband broke the rule.

Oh yes – although my name appeared,
He was behind the wheel.
The registration lists just me,
So this is how I feel…

Annoyed to get a ticket when
We didn’t have a clue
That a camera on a pole replaced
What policemen used to do.

My vexation, though, is also ‘cause
The ticket bears my name
For the City of New York assumes
That I’m the one to blame!

Our Worlds

We make our worlds from what we know
And since we’re all unique,
I may be quite well-versed, yet you
Won’t know of what I speak.

From TV shows to children’s books,
Museums, movies, plays,
My knowledge comes from what I learn
While living out my days.

Yet talk to me of swimming pools
Or Facebook, football, stocks
And I have nothing I can say;
I’m empty as a box.

To fill me up would have me go
To places I’m not knowing,
Although such forays would, of course,
Insure that I’d be growing.

Horizons that expand are great
But limits to my time
Prevent my branching out beyond
The borders of my rhyme.

Bedspread

On many beds there is a spread
(Or blankets may be used instead)
To cover pillowcase and sheet;
It makes the bedroom nice and neat.

I know not everyone agrees.
In life, there are no guarantees
That what appeals to someone’s taste
Will be by everyone embraced.

For surely many find it strange
To smooth the sheets and rearrange
The pillows and to place on top
What needs removing ‘fore you flop.

To some an unmade bed, I guess,
Is not perceived to be a mess
But rather someplace, it would seem,
All set to delve into a dream.

Yet I would feel a heap of guilt
If daily I’d not lay my quilt
To be peeled back when sleep seems sweet
And in the morning, thus repeat.

An Ode to Avocados

I sampled my first one in Israel
And instantly fell for the taste,
Devouring one then another,
While adding some heft to my waist.

That happened way back in my 20’s,
When quite a bit more did I weigh,
So though I’m not quite as indulgent,
I still love to eat them today.

Sliced up and tossed into a salad
Or mashed up for dipping some chips,
They’re healthy and filling and yummy;
Just one won’t add much to your hips.

But eaten with some moderation,
They’ll add to a meal some pizzazz.
Your taste buds will groove with sensation,
Each bite smooth and silky like jazz.

Ice Cream for Lunch

The greatest lunch I've ever known
Consists of just an ice cream cone.
The flavor may be stuffed with chips
To form a dam against the drips...

Or else have nuts to add some crunch
And justify it as a lunch;
But even choices smooth and creamy
Make a mid-day meal that's dreamy.

Health food folk won't understand
And might resort to reprimand,
Reciting every benefit
That quinoa has to keep one fit.

But keep your salads and your grains.
This is one chick who still refrains
From lunches served within a bowl;
Each lick a smile remains my goal!

Going to the Bank

When I first started working
(And things were low-tech),
Each payday I'd march
To the bank with my check.

I'd sign it and wait for
The teller to take it,
Depositing some
Just as soon as I'd make it.

I'd glance in my passbook
To check the amount,
So proud that I'd managed
To have an account.

It's years now since I've
Stepped inside of a bank.
I guess that technology's
What I should thank.

Yet somehow I miss
Those transactions of yore.
There is no connection
Like I had before.

With auto-deposit
The money I earn
Never touches my hand
(Though it's still mine to burn).

Yes, it makes my life easy - 
Well, timewise it does - 
But it's just not the same
As the way it once was.

Conversing with a Stranger

Conversing with a stranger
Is a New York City norm,
To comment on a situation
Or to just inform.

My chat with stranger #1
Took place as we observed
A tow truck hooking up a car
Which likely it deserved…

For it was parked illegally.
My stranger friend and I
Agreed that we would hate to be
The "where's-my-car-at?”guy.

My next exchange took place
At the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
A woman with green gloves enjoyed
A choice that I had made.

“I like your earrings – though they’re green,
They’re subtle, yet they say
I’ve got my Irish on to hear
The bagpipes holding sway.”

We chatted then ‘bout this and that
As bands came into view;
But what’s her name or where’s she live?
I haven’t got a clue.

What I love about the city is
The choice is ours to make –
Converse or blend into the crowd;
There isn’t much at stake.

Anonymity’s the rule
Though strangers, when connected,
May enjoy a conversation
Knowing nothing is expected.

Fingernails

Fingernails begin to grow
When babies are in utero
And keep on growing ‘til we die
Though some appear to death-defy.

A person’s nails can help reveal
Why someone’s lacking in appeal;
For those not clean or way too long
Will advertise there’s something wrong.

To know what makes a person tick
Take note of nails bit to the quick,
But lengthy painted nails can tell
A lot about a gal, as well.

To polish, buff or leave them plain?
Our fingernails are our domain
And likely they are quite well matched
To those to whom they are attached.

A Treat

Met some friends we rarely see
For a little midday treat
At a bakery with tables
So their pastries we could eat.

We caught up as we indulged;
Had some laughs within our schmooze.
It was cozy and relaxed,
Like our days spent on a cruise.

These are fairly recent pals
Met vacationing at sea,
But ten days aboard a ship
Forms a camaraderie.

So we see them when we can
And it makes the day complete
For, with pastries there or not,
Seeing them is still a treat.

Touching Base

Sometimes a phone call’s
Just meant to touch base,
A way to let someone
Remember your face…

Conveying a message
“I didn’t forget you.
If that’s your intention
I’m not gonna let you.”

If voicemail picks up,
I just say a quick hi
So the person I’m calling
Knows who and knows why.

I may get an answer
But even if not,
I did what I had to
And gave it a shot.

Heir Apparent

The young have energy to spare;
Some old folks, too, but they are rare.
The difference, though, when we compare
Won’t help those younger to prepare.

For life is stressful and unfair
With pain and sorrow we must bear
And as we age, we have our share
Of circumstances that can scare.

There’s bound to be some wear and tear
On brain cells caught in worry’s glare,
Depleting strength from reaching where
There’d be a chance at some repair.

So those of us with graying hair,
Though not quite in a rocking chair,
Are, through our bodies, made aware
That where the bed is – we’ll be there.

Eye of the Beholder

The world is filled with babies
And the parents who adore ‘em,
Though unrelated bystanders
Most often will ignore ‘em.

For many aren’t near as cute
As relatives believe.
The filter that’s tied up with love
Is easy to deceive.

Some infants wear the faces
They’ll parade in when they’re old
And others, even dressed to kill,
Are homely to behold.

Since I became a nana

It’s just natural to compare.
I assure you, though, my grandkids
Outshine everyone out there!

Waxing Crescent

The moon's a waxing crescent
(If my husband knows his stuff)
And it's wonderful to stare at;
I just cannot get enough.

'Cause tonight I'm in the suburbs
Where there's lots of open sky,
I can see it very clearly
With some stars a'twinkling by.

Since my home base is the city,
I don't often have the chance
To experience this vision
Filled with beauty and romance.

So I'll gaze a bit in wonder
For at least a little while
At this perfect waxing crescent
Which both forms and brings a smile.

Buyer's Remorse

It’s only a matter of course
That a buyer is filled with remorse.
     What looked good at first glance
     May soon lose its romance
And become what you’d never endorse.

If it’s possible, get to the source,
Checking out if they’ll really enforce
     “No returns.” As a rule,
     Some exchanges are cool;
Well, except in the case of divorce!

Checking Your Bags

In a theater or museum
Someone’s there to check your bags
And I wonder what exactly
An inspection like that snags.

Are there weapons nestled next to
People’s wallets or their phones?
Have they confiscated contraband
That some attendee owns?

As the line moves up, my bag’s unzipped;
I let them glance inside.
Although they have a flashlight,
There’s so much that I can hide.

But I don’t, of course, and neither do
The visitors behind me.
I think of 9/11 then;
Precautions still remind me.

The bag check’s just a surface ploy
So we can all pretend
That we’re safe, but that’s the error
On which terrorists depend.

Squeals

At 3:00 you hear the squeals
As children race from school.
Exuberance goes hand in hand
With youngsters, as a rule.

As puberty advances
And the kids hit junior high,
Such squealing seems the type of thing
They’d have to justify.

Self-consciousness wreaks havoc
With the way a person feels,
So fallen by the wayside
Are those unimpeded squeals.

A Slew of Stories

A slew of stories wait for me
Arranged upon the shelves;
The characters, impatient,
Want to introduce themselves.

I scan the titles, seeing if
Some gems I can discover
And yes, I’m guilty as I judge
A few just by the cover.

To help with my decision,

I’ll peruse page 1 to see
If the writing or the subject
Will exert a hold on me.

If so, I’ll check it out and leave,

With expectations high
That among that slew of stories
This one’s like to satisfy.

Underneath the Words

We think our message gets across
But often we are wrong.
It’s quite amazing, really,
People ever get along.

For underneath the words we say
Or write or text or mail
There may be other meanings
We intend to no avail.

Despite the information
We exchange with friends or kin
The way we really feel’s quite often
Buried ‘neath the skin.

And so communication trips
As conversations go
For one thing’s on the surface
But the truth is down below.

Hot from the Oven

They bake the bagels fresh in Fairway*
In the public eye.
I rarely pay attention
Even when I'm passing by.

The pumpernickel bin was bare, though;
Nothing else would do.
I asked the baker rolling dough
If, possibly, he knew...

When there would be another batch;
He checked and told me - wait!
In just 3 minutes they'll be done.
Though I was running late...

I followed his advice and yes,
Within 3 minutes' time,
I filled a bag with bagels 
That were worthy of a rhyme.

*local supermarket

The Museum Pen

I went to a museum
And its focus is design.
They offered me a special pen;
I chose, though, to decline.

It was an interactive toy
To add to the exhibits,
But learning new technology
My aging brain prohibits.

I wandered 'round and read the cards
Describing what was there
While others tapped their pens in ways
I'd chosen not to dare.

I didn't mind until a room
Entitled just "Immersion"
And watched while walls transformed
From white to every pen-folk's version.

They got to play creatively
While I stood on the side,
Bemoaning an experience 
I'd to myself denied.

A fellow offered me his pen;
Embarrassed, I said no,
But I'll accept my own
The very next time that I go.

Though fears should not inhibit
An attempt at something new,
So many people just like me
Lose out because they do.

Dust

A housewife who hated to dust
Had to wrinkle her nose in disgust
     For the house looked much worse
     Though she’d emptied her purse
To a maid that she thought she could trust.

But it turned out the maid, filled with lust,
Didn’t do what the two had discussed
     Since she cleaned up, instead,
     With the husband in bed
And her dusting rag never got mussed.

There’s a lesson here – plans may combust
And we all have to somehow adjust.
     Now the wife’s learned to clean;
     Not a speck can be seen
Though her husband has bitten the dust!

The Confines of a Cell

I can’t imagine living
In the confines of a cell.
The claustrophobia alone
Would be a living hell.

The bar-striped windows, concrete walls
And narrow lumpy cot
Paint a sad and sorry picture
Of the home an inmate’s got.

As I gaze from my apartment
At my very urban view,
I am struck by all the buildings
Where some blue is peeking through.

Still, it’s someplace I can get to
If I choose to go outside,
While the prisoner must rage
Because such access is denied.

Some say all of us are inmates
In the prisons of our minds
But a vista you’re not part of
Is the bane of the confined.

Weathered

Our living room’s recliner
Is a comfy place to sit.
My husband beats me to it
But I let him, I admit.

It’s Stickley-style with lovely oak
And cushions looking weathered.
That crinkly rustic look, once cool,
Now needs to be releathered.

An estimate that we received
From one whose site seems made for it
Surprised me for in truth it was
More than what we once paid for it!

For now, we’ll stick with what we’ve got.
Although it’s far from peak,
Our chair, while looking shabby,
Might just pass as “shabby chic.”