Gilty

The penthouse of Donald J. Trump
Has pillows quite plump for your rump
     But it’s filled to the hilt
     With the wrong type of gilt
Which is why I’ve been stuck in a slump.

If the guilt I’d prefer were displayed
Then I wouldn’t feel quite so betrayed
     But the sparkle of gold
     Even fake, I am told,
Is sufficient, at times, to persuade.

In the White House, perhaps we’ll be graced
With some glitz in Melania’s taste
     And there’ll be no debate
     Once America’s great
All that gilt will be warmly embraced.

Rainy Day Reflections

Took my morning walk beneath
A slow but steady rain,
Protected by my new umbrella,
Carried not in vain.

Changed into relaxing clothes
At home and passed the hours
Catching up on reading, sheltered
From some piercing showers.

Packed my suitcase for a trip
And solved some crosswords, too.
A rainy day’s the perfect time
For things one needs to do.

I could accomplish just as much
If sunshine filled the sky
But in that case, to be indoors
I couldn’t justify.

Holiday Shopping

Cyber Monday’s almost gone
So everyone at Amazon
Can take a minute and a breath;
(I’m sure they must be worked to death!)

But as the holidays approach,
Some frenzied shoppers will encroach
On all the patience of the clerks;
(For out there, there are lots of jerks!)

Let’s hope that stores and online sites
Help customers procure delights
For friends and kin without much grief;
(And after New Year’s – what relief!)

Anniversary Reflection

We married on this date, though then
It was Thanksgiving Day.
The meal, of course, was turkey
With all trimmings on display.

The family flocked together
To observe us say “I do,”
Though with the traffic, it’s amazing
Everyone got through.

So what’s the date to celebrate?
It is a bit confusing.
The holiday itself seems like
The day we should be choosing.

‘Cause each year on Thanksgiving,
I remember when we wed
And I wish we’d chosen any other
Day for that instead.

Yet tonight we’ll go to dinner
And reflect on our mistake,
Forcing folks to sacrifice the pies
To eat our wedding cake.

Visiting a Writer's House

I’ve visited some writers’ homes
And what I love the best
Is not the room where they relaxed
Or ate or slept or dressed…

But rather where they sat and wrote –
Their typewriter and desk
And what their window framed,
Often a view most picturesque.

Today it was Pearl Buck’s estate
And staring at the keys
Of the Royal perched upon her desk
(She’d brought from overseas)…

I realized it won’t be the same
For authors of today.
To gawk at someone’s iPad
Will the fans come out and pay?

Perhaps I do romanticize
But there’s a certain charm
To a writer’s clacking which, alas,
A P.C. does disarm.

Olives

I don’t like all varieties,

Especially the green,

But it's a treat to see them

On the appetizer scene.




My favorites are the Nicoise,

Very small and brownish-black.

I can polish off a bowl of them 

And still keep coming back.




I'm up for trying other types 

And, though I won't throw fits,

My preference is very strong

That they retain their pits.




For I'll reveal a secret

That I've not before admitted -

I can't respect an olive

That has somehow gotten pitted.

Thanksgiving Night

We ate the turkey and the sides,
We watched the big parade,
Conversed with all the grown-ups
And with grandkids laughed and played.

A typical Thanksgiving
But quite special nonetheless
And as a guest, I didn’t cook
Or clean up all the mess!

Of all the holidays, this one
Unites both kith and kin,
Reminding us of where we are
In life, and where we’ve been.

Too Far for Face to Face

When relatives and friends are
Much too far for face to face,
A few words through the ether’s
All you need for touching base.

Of course, that type of contact
Will not ever quite replace
A real-life meeting with a kiss
Or cozy warm embrace.

Still, when holidays approach
It is a saving grace
To have access to technology
Which helps us all touch base.

Earlier

I haven’t heard the songs yet
But the trees are out for sale.
The autumn goods are off the shelves
And winter scenes prevail.

The stores are filled with ornaments
And ads are pushing toys.
Salvation Army bells will soon
Compete with city noise.

It seems that every year
The Christmas season gets here earlier,
Resulting in a population
Grouchier and surlier.

Be a Guest

Instead of a holiday host, be a guest.
Believe me, it’s so much less taxing.
In lieu of the shopping and cooking and such,
You’ll have plenty of time for relaxing.

You don’t have to make your home sparkle and shine
For no one will come to inspect it
And you needn’t despair if the food isn’t good;
It’s not yours, so let people reject it.

Of course, you’ll contribute some wine or dessert
And will offer to help clear the table
Since the hostess will be so exhausted by then,
She might feel that she isn’t quite able.

There’s only one drawback which needs to be said
‘Cause, despite the great meal and the laughter,
You get to go home to a fridge that reflects
Not one leftover for the day after!

First Snow of the Season

The snow came swirling down last night
And blanketed the trees in white.
The whipping wind blew wild and free,
Obscuring visibility.

We didn’t have too far to drive
And made it, glad to be alive.
The house was cozy, snug and warm,
The perfect place to watch the storm.

The morning beckoned and the sight
Of sparkling trees brought such delight,
Their charm enhanced, to some degree,
By Nature’s wrath, I guarantee.

RecomPence

A member of the cast
Of "Hamilton," addressing Pence,
Implored him to do right by all,
On both sides of the fence.

With knowledge of how he believes,
It made a lot of sense
Although, from some reactions,
Seems the Veep-elect was tense.

Advice to other bigwigs
In Trump's inner circle, hence -
When in New York, prepare yourselves
For cries of recompense.

P.S. The only bone here,
And of course I need to pick it,
Is how, to "Hamilton" was Pence
Allowed to snag a ticket!

Stealing Time

I steal some time to write a poem
Though other chores are waiting,
For when I have a moment free
There is no hesitating.

I grab my pencil and my pad
And hope ideas are flowing.
Of course, at times, I have no clue
Just where they’ll end up going.

The papers waiting to be read,
What I need from the store,
The emails, dishes, floors to clean
Will have to wait some more.

‘Cause once my poem is written,
Other chores I will attack.
I can take the time I’ve stolen
And begin to pay it back.

Casting About

Would-be actors read for roles
And give it all they’ve got,
Hoping that their name will fill
A vacant casting slot.

They gesture, pace, project and still,
Some don’t get any part.
Rejection hurts; it’s very hard
To not take it to heart.

Though confidence is needed
Just as well as some ambition,
Determination is the key
To face the next audition.

Scaffold View

Across the street, on scaffold rigs,
Construction workers hover
And if they’d glance my way, this is
What they just might discover:

A bedroom filled with books and pictures
All in frames of black,
A quilted bed and clutter
I’ve been meaning to attack.

And then, of course, upon a chair,
The other sight they’d see,
With pad and pencil, jotting words,
A rhyming poet – me!

Group Dynamics

A group has a dynamic
That gets set as time goes by,
But sometimes something changes;
Then we sit and wonder why.

A member of the group departs
Without an explanation
Despite the history of
35 years of duration.

We can’t expect to stay the same
For people grow apart,
But it only takes one apple
To upset the applecart.

Losing an Anchor

I watch the news on PBS
The rare times I’m inclined,
For their reporters are, to me,
Well-spoken and refined.

Election times are when I turn
To listen to their panel
And there’s no need to ever feel
I need to change the channel.

Gwen Ifill was an anchor there,
As classy as they come.
The news of her demise has left me
Sad, surprised and numb.

Her absence from the station
Led, as far as I could tell,
To some viewer speculation
That she wasn’t feeling well.

For I’d bet the chance to talk
After the candidates debated
Would be one she’d never miss unless
She’d had to be sedated.

I’ll not soon forget Gwen Ifill
With her funky specs of blue.
She performed in brilliant fashion,
Which is what she’d meant to do.

A Sunny Sunday

A sunny Sunday afternoon
With family in the park
Is one that on a calendar
You wouldn't think to mark.

Yet out among the leaves of gold,
The weather crisp and bright,
Our kids and grandkids by our sides,
Things start to feel all right.

The recent news recedes a bit
And not at all too soon,
For hope can be restored on such
A sunny afternoon.

Agreeing to Disagree

Let's agree to disagree
When differences arise
For every person has some traits
Which really might surprise.

To focus on the things we share
Is what we ought to do.
Relationships can last
When commonality's the glue.

We can't expect to be in sync
On every point in life,
So keeping quiet might be
One sure way to keep out strife.

But sometimes reaching out a bit
Seems like it's worth a shot.
It may convince or change some minds,
But also, it may not.

The bottom line, though, is to try
To not allow a rift
To develop in connections
Which have given us a lift.

Shooting Star

Last week I saw a shooting star,
A rare and wondrous sight.
Inside our car, my spouse and I
Reacted with delight.

I made a wish, remembering
Instructions I'd once heard.
My husband missed his chance,
Believing such a thing absurd.

My wish was for a future time
But since Election Day,
I wonder if I could have helped
Turn things a different way.

Perhaps if I had wished for help
Electing You-Know-Who,
The outcome of the race just might
Have switched from red to blue.

The Popular Vote

For the second time in memory,
We’re faced with the ironic
When we look at an election
More divisive than harmonic.

Though the states made their decisions
And Republicans can gloat,
Seems the Democrat, the loser,
Won the “popular” (ha!) vote.

Something’s wrong with such a picture.
If the population’s voice
Does unite in its selection
We should, thus, respect that choice.

So we end up with a president,
Unpopular at best,
Leaving more than half the country
Pessimistic and depressed.

The Day After (Black Cloud)

I don’t know how to write this poem;
I’m nauseous and depressed.
Instead of moving forward,
Seems this country has regressed.

I’m fearful for the future
And I shudder at the thought
Of a leader whose demeanor
Such divisiveness has wrought.

There’s a black cloud that’s descended,
Filling half of us with dread
But we have to keep our strength up
For the battles still ahead.

Waiting to Vote

I’ve been in line 2 hours now,
Some scanners somehow broken,
Annoyance and anxiety
Apparent but unspoken.

We inch along, a patient group,
With no way we can tell
Who’s on the side we each support
And that is just as well.

At last we are inside and now
Our ballots are in hand,
But there is an announcement
Hard to really understand.

It seems the working scanners have
Decided, too, to quit.
And do the voters like this?
They do not, one little bit!

So what to do? Each scanner has
A box within its base
Into which you slide your ballot,
Meant for using “just in case.”

The votes will be “hand-counted,”
We are shockingly assured,
Incompetence a syndrome
That, it seems, cannot be cured.

In 3 hours’ time, I cast my vote
But left there in dismay
That such a thing should happen
With technology today.

The Day Before

The day before we cast our votes
I sit here and reflect
On how we make our choices
For the person we select.

We read the news, we watch debates,
We listen and we choose,
In hopes that if our nominee
Wins out, we’ve less to lose.

It doesn’t always work that way,
For anyone with brains
Must know we really cannot trust
What’s said in most campaigns.

Yet still, on this Election Day,
We’ll cast our doubts aside
And register our ballots
With our conscience as our guide.

We Are Who We Are

We are who we are
From the time we are young
For we’re born with our own set of rules
And the people who think
They can mold us like clay
Are deluded, or else they are fools.

As the cautious or risk-takers
Follow their paths
They'll find joy in the roads that they choose
And the ones who encourage
Will share their delight
While the “molders” will certainly lose.

We can’t plan in advance
How we wish we could be
Or the ways that we might just excel
But we’ll learn as we grow
Just what makes our hearts soar
And hope others will notice as well.

Divisive

Hanging from porches in rural Pa.,
Right next to the signage for Trump,
Confederate flags were a'fluttering there
And my heart seemed to thumpity-thump.

It's anyone's right to display what he likes -
That's what's great in the US of A -
But a symbol divisive as that seems to me
Meant to keep non-agreers at bay.

Older than Columbus

New Jersey has a special tree,
A sturdy, mammoth oak,
Beneath whose shade George Washington
And Lafayette once spoke.

The tree was there before, from Spain,
Columbus started out.
The experts say 600 years
Might be its age (about).

Alas, the tree's demise is near.
It's dying and, though faved
By everyone who knows it,
It's too rotten to be saved.

For now, they're just removing limbs;
Next year it will be felled
But think of all the history
That mighty trunk beheld.

The Cubbies

A curse that lasts a century
Sounds like a fairy tale
But like those stories, at the end
Redemption does prevail.

The Cubbies* waited more than that –
100 years plus 8 –
To win this year’s World Series;
Now their fans can celebrate.

The team that they defeated
Has, like them, spent many years
(68 in fact) in hopes that
Their own bad luck disappears.

Though the Cubbies were the victors,
Well-deserving, I might add,
If the Indians** have 40 years to go,
That will be sad.

*Chicago Cubs   **Cleveland Indians

After the Election

After the election,
That’s assuming we survive,
We must hope that some civility
Will manage to revive.

Whoever is the winner,
It’s most likely she will strive
To recover some decorum,
For it’s taken quite a dive.

When the vote, at last, is over
Somehow most of us will thrive
But I think we’ll all be missing
Those debates on SN*Live!

*Saturday Night Live

The Met

I’m walking distance to the Met*
So when I’ve time to spare,
I take a stroll and see whatever
Might be showing there.

Of course, I check out new displays
But I will not depart
Before I pay a visit to
My favorite rooms of art.

I’ve seen them all a hundred times
But always they surprise,
Providing such a rare a wondrous
Banquet for my eyes.

My zip code has no ocean views;
No mountain vistas lurk.
Proximity to masterpieces, though,
Is quite a perk.

*Metropolitan Museum of Art