My UniQlo Vest

The forecast said it would be cool;
I packed some pants - I'm not a fool -
And long-sleeved shirts, but still unsure,
As I was heading out the door,
I grabbed my trusty purple vest 
And wore it daily - who'd have guessed?

It's made of down and light as air,
Magenta-toned, to be quite fair.
So though the sunny warmth was gone,
I still felt cozy with it on.
I never will be underdressed
When I wear my UniQlo vest.

Phase Two

Saw an old friend who moved to St. Pete;
The town and her brand-new apartment are sweet.
She settled right in, learned the lay of the land,
With all of the shops that she needs close at hand.

She found a new hobby and goes to a class
Where, lo and behold, she has learned to blow glass!
A paperweight, vase and a colorful bowl
Attest to her efforts, with more as her goal.

I marvel at those who can pull up their stakes
And do all they need to, whatever it takes,
To chance the unknown; they're deserving of praise
For taking a leap into such a new phase.

What I Like

I like a peanut with a shell,
A cherry with a stem;
A church clock with a tolling bell,
A crown that's all a'gem.

I like my coffee steaming hot,
My bottled beer ice-cold;
A sharpened pencil set to jot,
An anecdote well-told.

I like a bed that's neatly made,
A day when breezes blow.
A tree with leaves providing shade,
A place where flowers grow.

I like to see a flock of sheep,
To hear a tinkling chime;
And most of all, I like to keep
My thoughts lined up in rhyme.

The Smoker Next Door

I'm sitting on the terrace
Of the condo of my aunt
And trying to enjoy the breeze
But sadly, I just can't.

For next door there's a neighbor 
I can't see, behind the wall,
Yet his smoking habit somehow seems
To permeate us all.

He obviously steps outside 
So all his inside air 
Stays relatively clean; at least
The smoke won't hover there.

But what he doesn't think of
Is about the smoke he blows,
Or when it wafts exactly
Where it is that vapor goes.

If he would ask, I'd answer
'Cause no matter what he thinks, 
It's invasive and intrusive
And to top it off, it stinks!

Happy Birthday Mozart

Happy Birthday Mozart!
You’re deserving of a gift
For the music you’ve created
Gives so many such a lift.

You must know that you’ve inspired
Countless people through the ages
As we listen from the radio,
CD's or concert stages.

So a toast to you today, sir
And a thank you from my soul
For the joy that you provide
I can’t sufficiently extol.

Ferdinand

Do you remember Ferdinand,
A bull who wouldn't fight?
First published 1936,
The pages black and white.

He liked to sit beneath a tree
And smell the blooms that grew;
A simple soul, unlike his friends,
A stomping, rowdy crew.

They chose him for a bullfight,
Wrongly thinking he was fierce
As he bucked and snorted when his rump
A bumblebee did pierce.

Of course, once in the ring he sat
And some of you, stop reading
If you do not want to know the end;
Despite all human pleading 

They couldn't get that bull to move.
He simply sniffed the air,
Enjoying fragrant flowers
In the fancy ladies' hair.

My grandkids listened to this tale 
And tried to understand
Why they'd want to fight a bull at all
In Spain, a far-off land.

Yet the message somehow made it through
And I was gratified
A beloved story can such pleasure
Still, today, provide.

No Concrete Reason

Barriers to buildings
Are familiar to us here.
Right after 9/11’s shock,
They started to appear.

But just this week I noticed
Something added to the stock –
At a stairway that I frequent
There’s a jumbo concrete block.

To be fair, the stairs are leading
To the mayor’s stately manse
So protection is important;
They’re not taking any chance.

Though I do not get the placement
Of this ugly concrete slab
For no vehicle could climb the stairs –
No car, no truck, no cab.

Some authority decided
To keep terrorists at bay,
They’d plop down a blob a concrete
And then all would be okay.

Dining Out

He needed help to get inside
And settle in a chair.
He didn’t need a menu –
Seems he’d often eaten there.

His wheelchair (the electric kind)
Was waiting on the street.
He didn’t seem concerned to leave it
While he’d drink and eat.

Our check arrived, we paid the bill
And bid our friends good night.
I thought about the man inside
Who made it there in spite

Of all the obstacles he had
To navigate from home.
The least that I could do is pay
Him homage in this poem. 

Unwritten

Some poems don’t get written
For the consequence might be
Rejection or dismissal
Of my thoughts or else of me.

I do not have the courage
To express the way I feel
When there may be questions raised
Of what my writing might reveal.

I can dance around the subject
With a vague and subtle clue
And I must admit I’ve done so
In a couple or a few.

But for certain topics there is just
No way to even start
So I keep the hurt inside me,
Tucked in tight inside my heart.

Greasing the Poles

The Eagles accomplished their goal
To play in this year’s Super Bowl.
Their fans are all thrilled
That they have fulfilled
For Philly, a huge starring role.

For if they are the Super Bowl champs,
Then revelers won’t allow cramps
To their partying ways
Though in past winning days
The authorities dealt with some scamps.

To prevent this, they’re using some grease
On the light poles, so this will decrease
People climbing up high
To toss things and defy
Orders shouted at them by the police.

I just read that it’s Crisco* they use,
A fact that to some will amuse.
For if they had used lard
Certain rogues would be barred –
Now the hooligans, too, can be Jews!

*a type of shortening that is kosher, which
can be used for cooking by observant Jews

On the Fringes

In the 60’s, I would binge
On anything that sported fringe.
My leather jacket decked with beads
Had fringe that such a jacket needs.

My brown suede belt I wore down low
To hug my hips (the status quo)
Had fringe that anyone would crave.
(I wish that one I’d thought to save!)

I have one fringe-y sweater now.
Designers seem to disavow
This style, but if I’m on the fringes,
Joy in me this fringe unhinges.

A Sliver of Moon

A sliver of moon is enough for me
As it hangs there in the sky,
Like a smile of the Cheshire cat we’d see
If, like Alice, we’d wandered on by.

A sufficient hint that we’re not alone
In the vastness out in space,
A reminder that all of those songs we’ve known
About moonbeams we’re right to embrace.

Though it waxes and wanes and then disappears,
I can guarantee it will deliver
To my mem'ry the best of its souvenirs –
Not its fullness, but merely a sliver.

Mazes

You cannot know a person's strengths
When he is very young.
Which group with talents will he
One day find himself among?

The math or science whizzes
Or the athletes on the field?
The writers or artistic types
With pen or brush to wield?

You try a bit of this and that
To see what rocks his boat, 
Remembering that your own choice
May not procure his vote.

And certain smile-inducers
May not last for very long.
You think you've found the perfect match 
Yet find out you were wrong.

But at the moment, though it might
Be just a passing phase, 
Henry is enamored of
The paths within a maze.

His pencil grip is wobbly;
Still, he navigates the lanes,
Avoiding traps most deftly
As some confidence he gains.

I watch him as he travels
From the start until the end
And I wonder at the mazes
That in life he'll have to wend.

Waiting

In waiting rooms you sit and wait
And all the while anticipate
The calling of your name to learn
That finally, you’ll have your turn.

The TV drones, you try your best
To tune it out; it’s like a test
Which I am always sure to fail.
It’s tempting just to up and bail.

But I do not. I sit and sit
And lose my patience, bit by bit.
I guess in life it’s just our fate
To wait and wait and wait and wait…

Heeding the Alert

This morning when I went to walk
The streets were slick with rain,
But certain blocks were icy
So the message was quite plain:

Don’t take a chance; just turn around.
There’s no need to complain,
For it you fall, you’ll lose much more
Than with this walk you’d gain.

Obeying such an edict really
Goes against the grain
And in the past, from such advice
I surely would refrain.

But aging slows the body down
So reason has to reign.
Reluctantly, I heeded
The alert sent by my brain.

The Corner Store

The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.

On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).

The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.

Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.

Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!

Coming Attractions

The theater gives you just a taste
Of what’s to be expected,
So if you don’t have time to waste
Some films may be rejected.

My husband hates them but not me
For I enjoy the peek
At movies I may never see;
I form a quick critique.

Some dialogue, the place it’s set
Is quite enough to know
If I will like it and I’ll bet
Reviews won’t make me go.

So keep ‘em coming; I’m prepared
To sit through five or six
And when they’re done, from those that aired,
I’ll know my next few flicks.

Cuffs

At protests in the 60's
We were dragged away in cuffs.
The cops arrested everyone -
The peaceniks and the toughs.

As we grew up, the only cuffs
Were those found on our pants.
Designers did determine when
Those bottoms would enhance.

The senior years have now arrived
And cuffs are all the rage
As we strap them on and pump them 
So our pressure* we can gauge.

*blood pressure

Jersey Gas

You need some gas? We'll, step right up
And pump it 'til you've had your fill 
Unless you're in New Jersey, where
You best make sure you know the drill.

For it's the last remaining state
Where pumping gas is not allowed
Except for paid attendants and
Of this New Jerseyans are proud.

So even if you're in a rush,
You must sit in your car and wait
Until a service station guy 
Can bother to accommodate.

And if you try to speed him up,
You'd better learn to zip your lip,
For then he'll wash your windshield,
Slowly, hoping to procure a tip.

When questioned why this law exists,
Which out-of-towners do detest,
A local politician said,
And I can just assume in jest:

Perhaps our Jersey diet
Full of greasy food's to blame;
Therefore, if we pump the gas ourselves,
We'll burst right into flame!

A Schmutzy Day

The weatherman's announcement: "Hey,
It's gonna be a schmutzy day!
With howling winds and rain in sheets,
It won't be fun on city streets.

This news report just wouldn't fly
In other places; this is why - 
I live in New York's melting pot
Where Yiddish words are used a lot

And "schmutzy" is a word we'd use.
(It's not restricted to the Jews.)
To all of you across the nation
Who may need this in translation -

Schmutzy days you take in stride 
If you can snuggle up inside.

Sliding Scale

If you’ve been to New York, I’ll bet
You paid a visit to the Met.
It is the premier place to start
If on your plate you want some art.

Before some hours you invested,
You were charged a fee – suggested,
Meaning you could pay much less
And gain entrance with success.

Now, though, that’s about to change
Which out-of-towners might find strange,
For those who out-of-state reside
Will find their lesser fees denied.

New Yorkers who can prove they are
May still contribute under par.
Does this seem fair? Well, no or yes – 
I have the proof of MY address!

Breaking the Surface

Way beneath the ground, the subway
Rolls and rumbles on the track,
All the cars equipped with brightness
The surrounding tunnels lack.

We take all of that for granted
As we travel through the dark,
Knowing there will be no daylight
‘Til the time we disembark.

Yet some subways break this pattern
And emerge from down below,
As when divers barrel upward
With a smooth and mighty flow.

Then they surface into sunshine

And it’s always a surprise.
You can see it as the passengers
Adjust their blinking eyes.

It’s like unexpected magic

With the views and other perks –

You might even catch a sunset

And up top the Wi-Fi works!

Notebooks

I found my son’s old notebooks
Going way back to first grade.
His early writing and his thoughts
Are carefully displayed.

He was a quiet kid and mostly
Praise he did amass
But there, repeated 15 times:
“I will not talk in class.”

I marveled as his skills improved
And humor did appear
As he matured and gained a bit
More confidence each year.

These notebooks are a pure delight
But I am in a fix;
I hate to throw them out, but hey –
My son is 36!

Stable Genius

A topic that’s still on the table
That we should discuss, since we’re able
Is whether or not
The prez that we’ve got
Is really a genius that’s stable.

A stable is also, of course,
A place that’s a home for a horse
And perhaps there, indeed,
Is a very smart steed
That’s a genius who grazes on gorse.

But that’s not what our leader, alas,
Meant when he let those famous words pass.
He was doing his part
Proving he is, like, smart
Like a horse (or that animal’s ass!)

At the Top of the Stairs

We get there with the kids asleep,
Too early for the sun.
We have some coffee quietly,
To not wake anyone.

When Hadley wakes, my husband goes
To scoop her if she cries.
I hear her giggle with delight
From tickles he supplies.

But Henry, ever since the time
He moved into a bed,
Gets up and lifts the shades to greet
The day that lies ahead.

He flips the light switch, turns the knob
And opens up his door,
Then sits himself right by the stairs
Upon the hallway floor.

He knows on Fridays I’ll be there
But doesn’t make a sound,
Just sits and waits most patiently
Until I come around.

Of course, I listen carefully
To hear a telltale clue,
So he’s not waiting long before
We both come into view.

His face lights up and so does mine;
I scamper up the stairs.
We share a great big hug-a-mug;
Nothing else compares.

The time will come, as Henry grows,
And much to my regret,
That he will tire of this routine
Though I will not forget.

Two Trains

The railroad ride was smooth as silk
Though it was ten degrees.
The train was just a minute late –
No time to feel the freeze.

We passed through towns of snow-topped homes
While sitting warm and snug,
The ticket taker’s attitude
As friendly as a hug.

But at Grand Central, we got off
And had to make a switch
To ride the city subway;
Let’s enumerate each glitch:

The crowded platform packed with people
Cursing the delays;
The trash-strewn tracks accruing more
On which the rats will graze.

Announcements stating that all trains
Are locals, not express;
Yet finally, we cram on board
As all those bodies press.

We go one stop and then the doors
On certain cars won’t close.
We’re ordered off and stumble out –
Well, that’s the way it goes.

We grab a cab and make it home
And think of those two trains –
Whatever calm the rail provides,
The subway quickly drains.

Teaching Time

The little hand, the big hand,
The numbers all o'clock;
The way the seconds move 
With every tick and every tock.

Explaining the positions
Showing 30 on its face,
A knowledge that no digit-flashing
Timepiece can replace.

I guess it's as old-fashioned
As when teaching kids to spell,
But there's value in those lessons,
Least as far as I can tell.

Filtered

When I was a kid, we would act
With what we were taught was called tact.
If we did forget
What happened, I’d bet
Was that we would get yelled at or smacked.

But sometimes, we’d simply react
And want to blurt out what, in fact,
Was the way that we’d feel
Which would likely reveal
Thoughts that possible might get attacked.

Larry David, though, never has lacked,
On his show, what it takes to attract
Lots of negatives glares
‘Cause he gutsily dares
Those who’d challenge the truth he had yakked.

His opinions, although rarely backed,
Somehow don’t do much more than distract.
If I followed his suit,
I’d be in a dispute
And I know that for sure I’d get whacked.

You Can't Have it All

My neighbor from across the hall
Complains about the cold
Within her home; she sleeps with socks
And sweaters, we are told.

Her windows face the river
So perhaps the frigid air
From the water blows inside;
The winter causes her despair.

But on my side we face the street
And here it’s warm as toast.
We have to crack the windows
In all weather, or we’d roast.

I guess you can’t have everything.
To gain that river view,
I’d gladly pile on socks and sweaters –
Really, wouldn’t you?

Cocooned

I’ve been cocooned for three straight days
Within my warm apartment,
Accomplishing assorted things
And writing (my department!).

Though sick at first (which made me sleep),
I read and watched some cable,
Then made some photo books when I
Felt better and was able.

Some crosswords kept me occupied;
A book held my attention.
I never cleaned a closet,
Though that had been my intention.

Outside it’s freezing cold, I heard
But at my body’s urging,
I think tomorrow from my snug cocoon
I’ll be emerging. 

Cutting Short the Alphabet

Kinsey Millhone owned a single black dress
And wore it whenever she'd need it.
If you were a fan, you'd know all of her quirks,
For the alphabet books guaranteed it.

From "A is for Alibi" right up to "Y"
For "Yesterday," Kinsey did capture
The hearts of all readers, who counted the days
'Til the next book delivered its rapture.

Though Kinsey was fictional, she was entwined
With Sue Grafton, who made her seem living.
Like all her devotees, I owe Grafton thanks
For the joy that for years she's been giving.

The news just came down that Sue Grafton has died,
A loss for the world and for me,
Especially since when I catch up with "Y,"
There will be no more waiting for "Z."