Breaking Down

Our bodies, like machines, break down,
Their warranties expired,
So slowly we relinquish
Certain habits we’ve acquired.

The jog morphs into walking;
The glass of wine, a sip.
The dinners switch to “early birds”
At places not so hip.

The muscles and the joints get stiff;
We don’t move quite as fast.
A good night’s sleep is something
We remember from the past.

We visit doctors, hoping they
Can fix our aging parts
Which, with the help of meds, improve
But just in fits and starts.

Perhaps the future will include
A place that has displayed
Some younger versions of ourselves
So we can make a trade.

Dressing

With olive oil and vinegar
And spices for some zest,
My husband does his magic
And I’m always so impressed.

No bottled stuff for him
Or me and never for a guest,
His greens and veggies always pass
The oh-so-yummy test.

He’s really not conservative
But just a bit obsessed,
‘Cause a naked salad will not do –
So his is always dressed!

Pockets

In my pockets, there might be
A tissue or receipt,
A movie stub or wrapped-up candy
For a little treat.

Others may stash keys or coins,
A shopping list or gum.
Empty pockets are quite rare,
Though surely there are some.

Jacket pockets fill with gloves
Or even mittens, maybe,
And kangaroo moms’ pockets
May contain a sleeping baby.

But my favorite pocket use,
When circumstance demands,
Is as a place in which to plunge
My cold or nervous hands.

End of the Olympics

They say that viewership was down
But everyone I know
Watched some of the Olympics
And enjoyed the athletes’ show.

From the skiing, skating, hockey,
Curling, skeleton and luge,
The effort was amazing
And the jumps were simply huge.

To all those who won the medals
And the ones who didn’t place,
I applaud you for your discipline,
Your style and your grace.

From my couch, as you competed,
I sat riveted each night
In amazement as you battled
And the fans roared in delight.

Now it’s back to “Law and Order,”
The “Chicago” shows and such.
I will miss my evening viewing
Of the athletes very much.

Pistol Packing Pedagogue

When you walk into my classroom
Man, you'd better be prepared.
If your poodle ate your homework,
You might be a little scared.

'Cause I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
My Colt is on my hip 
And my trigger finger's itchy
So it's time to get a grip.

Better not be disrespectful 
And forget it if you cheat.
No one messes with my lessons
'Cause I pack a little heat.

Yes, I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
But do not be alarmed.
See they're paying me a bonus
If, inside my class, I'm armed.

It's a crazy world we live in
But I thank the NRA
And our president, for making me
What I've become today.

That's a pistol packing pedagogue.
You shouldn't be too shocked 
For at least my gun, like this idea,
Is less than halfway cocked!

Worming

Walking on a rain-drenched street,
Right against the sidewalk berms,
Glancing down beside our feet
We spotted many slimy worms.

A few were flattened, squished and still
But some were slowly squirming.
What a treat that fills the bill
With grandkids, to go worming!

I would highly recommend,
When it's damp and cloudy,
Taking time so you can spend
Some minutes to say howdy

To those weird and wiggly guys
That slither out from under,
Filling us (in every size)
With just a little wonder.

My Trusty Coat

My trusty coat is ages old.
For years, it’s kept me from the cold
But time is sometimes cruel, I find,
And to my coat, it’s not been kind.

The shoulder pads look out of style
(That’s been the case for quite a while)
And near the pocket, there’s a tear
Which I expect might make folks stare.

The lining I have had replaced
Ten years ago, so not a waste,
Yet now, alas, that’s ripping, too;
There’s nothing more that I can do.

Although this garment I do prize
It’s only worn for exercise
On morning walks with jogging pants
When no one gives a second glance.

I’ve other jackets, newer coats,
Though none would float as many boats 
As this, but now I can’t deny
The time has come to say goodbye.

When February Feels Like May

When February feels like May
And skies are blue instead of gray,
We flock outdoors, but do not know
Which way our clothing needs to go.

Winter jacket? Much too warm;
Lots of beads of sweat will form.
Sweater? Sweatshirt? Poncho? Fleece?
Doubts won’t let me leave in peace.

Short-sleeved shirt and if I do,
Does that mean I’ll get the flu?
Tights or socks or do I dare
Go out with feet and toesies bare?

I’m obsessing, I admit.
There are reasons, though, for it.
Temps today are just a tease
For tomorrow, we will freeze.

Chuckles

They came lined up like chorus girls -
Just five, though, in a row,
A plastic cover letting them
Be visible below.

Protected, they stayed soft and fresh
Until the wrapper tore,
Most likely well before you even
Paid or left the store.

The colors, bright and cheery,
Topped with sugar, never bled –
A lemon yellow, orange, green,
A licorice black and red.

I mostly ate the red one first
But sometimes chose the black
And green, without a doubt, remained
The last one in the pack.

Though chewy Chuckles candies
In my childhood gained acclaim,
They never lived up to the joy
Expected by their name.

Hanging-Out Clothes

I’m hanging around
In my hanging-out clothes,
The ones you won’t see
When I’m striking a pose.

I have quite a few –
They’re outdated and loose
And compliments, likely,
They’d never produce.

They might have a stain
Or be faded or ripped
Or wrinkled (for ironing’s
Surely been skipped).

And yet, they are comfy
And cozy to me.
While wearing them, I’m
As relaxed as can be.

If you ring my doorbell,
Don’t think that it’s strange
For there’ll be a delay
While I hasten to change!

Sledding

A perfect day for sledding –
Lots of snow, but not too cold.
Though Henry tackled hills, his sister
Wasn’t quite as bold.

So I pulled her sled behind me,
As she laughed, on level ground,
While Henry and his dad (my son)
Were bravely downward-bound.

The kids were beaming, filled with joy,
By heeding winter’s call,
But I’d swear their sledding daddy
Had the most fun of us all.

The Faces of Money

If Washington came back to life
I wonder how he’d feel
To be pictured on a quarter
And a dollar bill – surreal!

Abe Lincoln, too, would bust a gut
If he became alive,
To see his visage plastered
On a penny and a five.

And Alexander Hamilton,
If he could live again,
Would love the play about him
And his picture on the ten.

Had Andrew Jackson ditched his grave,
He’d likely argue plenty
About his image front and center
On our nation’s twenty.

Ben Franklin, though, would be real proud
If he came back to earth,
To find out that a hundred dollar bill
Proclaims his worth.

McKinley’s portrait graces
Money that we rarely use.
(I’ve never even seen that bill –
Five hundred smackeroos!)

Poor Jefferson, despite his wealth
And all he got to do,
Unfortunately got his mug
On the elusive two!

The pictures on our currency
Have long been set in place.
Thank goodness or our current prez
Would swap ‘em for his face.

To Spin

Children love to spin and spin 
With no need to be cautious.
Just watching them's enough for me
To feel a little nauseous.

Our inner workings, in our youth,
Allow the blood to flow
But as we age, attempts to twirl 
Will give us vertigo.

Perhaps that is the reason why
My grandson, being bold,
Announced that spinning's not for me -
Because I'm just too old!

Zippo Lighters

Soldiers sent to Vietnam
Were oftentimes equipped
With Zippo lighters they’d engraved
And in their pockets slipped.

The sayings varied. Some were fun,
Irreverent or wise.
Each reflected feelings
Of those most unlucky guys.

I guess they’d hoped to leave behind
(If they did not return)
A small memento to pass on
To someone of concern.

I saw a whole collection
At a Vietnam display.*
The messages (with fates unknown)
Will in my mind’s eye weigh.

My favorite one (not rated X)
I’ll print in full below.
The owner sounds like someone
That I might have liked to know.

            Fighter by day
            Lover by night
            Drunkard by choice
            Marine by mistake

*at the New York Historical Society

This Poem

This poem doesn’t want to get written.
It’s fighting with all that it’s got.
Apostrophes, commas,
Their daddies and mamas
Are joining to give it a shot.

I’m dragging each word that’s resisting
And plunking it down on the page.
So every letter
I’ve forced, with a fetter,
To take its place up on the stage.

This poem didn’t want to get written.
Its protests were lusty and loud
But the pencil I wield
Made hostilities yield
For the poet’s compulsion’s unbowed.

Robo-calls

The Do Not Call list doesn’t work
For scammers still get through.
I answer, feeling like a jerk,
But what is there to do?

My house phone has no way to check
Just who is on the line.
(You see, I’m really not hi-tech;
I guess the fault is mine.)

But still, there has to be a way

To stop those robo-calls.
It puts a damper on my day
And sometimes even galls.

A voicemail on my husband’s phone
Said he must call right back
Or else in jail he would be thrown,
An interesting tack.

We’ve heard it all so did not fret
At tactics they’re employing,
A price we pay for life today – yet,
Still, it’s so annoying!

A Peacock Tale

Dear United, tell me why
You will not let my peacock fly.
I’m really quite a worry wart
And Dexter gives me such support.

He also can do double duty
Gracing others with his beauty
When, because he is a male,
He spreads his most amazing tail.

It isn’t true, as some have said,
That if he’s spooked, his feathers shed
Or that he might get in the way
Of drinks you’re serving on a tray.

Now peacocks really are unique
And if we could hear Dexter speak
I’m sure that he would plead his case
And your concerns he’d thus erase.

However, if you don’t concede
To give me what I surely need,
My other pet can fit in coach –
It’s Fred, my hissing cockaroach!*

*a little poetic license on the spelling

Olympic Ice Skaters

It must be strange to do your best
And find out what you never guessed –
That critics find your style a bore
And so do judges, when they score.

You’ve practiced ‘til you couldn’t move,
Rejoiced, at times, when in the groove,
Watched every ounce that you would eat,
Rejected friends who’d want to meet…

Repeated jumps and spins and twirls,
Made sure your teeth were gleaming pearls,
Went over music, outfits, hair
In hopes you would be skating there.

And now at last, Olympics start;
You calm your nerves, control your heart.
You hit the ice, you do your best;
The judges, though, are not impressed.

Costco

Show your card to enter;
Gaze at all the piles –
Boxes after boxes
Stacked for blocks or maybe miles.

All the sizes jumbo;
Price-wise it’s a steal.
To the average shopper
I can see that’s the appeal.

Maybe I’m too urban,
But it’s not my thing.
Shopping in a warehouse
Is, to me, a one-time fling.

I prefer my markets,
Though I pay much more,
For me and Costco somehow
Don’t have much of a rapport.

How to Write a Poem

This is how you write a poem:
Let your feelings flow.
Follow what your mind pours out
Wherever it may go.

Choose your words most carefully;
Try to not repeat. 
Watch the rhythm but don't fret
About iambic feet.

Rhyme if rhyme is what you love
Though dangers sometimes lurk;
If your rhyming words sound forced
Your poem will just not work.

Anyone can write a poem;
Trying has no cost
But reality assures
We're not all Robert Frost.

(written in response to a poetry site posting)

Nana

I’m not Grandma, Granny, Gram
And certainly not Bubby.
It is Nana who I am
And Grandpa for my hubby.

Choosing monikers is strange –
We rarely do the picking –
And, once chosen, we can’t change
So what we choose is sticking.

When I’m greeted or I’m paged
With “Nana,” here’s the thing –
All my senses are engaged;
My heart begins to sing.

Navy Turtleneck

He wore a navy turtleneck
And man, he looked so cute,
An observation, I believe,
Nobody would dispute.

I can’t recall my outfit -
Don’t know if it factored in -
But on that night, our lives together
Somehow did begin.

Today we both remember
How our smiles were set aglow
On that February seventh
Forty-three short years ago.

The Fates

I watch the morning people
Freshly showered and caffeined
As they head into their day
While somewhere all the fates convened…

Deciding who would sink or swim
Or who would rise above,
Whose health or job would suffer
Or who’d find that one true love.

Each daybreak holds such promise
But as hours tick away,
We realize most of life takes place
Where we have zero sway.

I watch the evening people
Trudging slowly home from work.
There they’ll prep to face tomorrow
Where the fates already lurk.

Hosting the Game

Today it was my turn to host
And this is what I like the most –
Although I have to shop and clean
(A little more than what’s routine)…

And brew some joe and make some lunch
(Including pre-meal snacks to munch)
And set the table up ahead
(That mostly hides behind the bed)…

Then wash the dishes when they go,
At last I take a breath and know
I’ve done my part to make the day
A cozy one to chat and play.

The bonus? I’m already home
With time enough to write my poem.

The Super Bowl

The supermarket carts are filled
With chips and dips and beer
To celebrate the Super Bowl
Which comes but once a year.

They’ll play in Minneapolis
Where it’s just three degrees,
But luckily the stadium’s
Indoors, so they won’t freeze.

I’m rooting for the Eagles
In the mem'ry of a friend
And because it’s time their zero wins
In Super Bowls should end.

As kick-off time approaches
We’ll all settle down to watch
And tomorrow there’ll be lots of belts
Made looser by a notch.

The Beatles Channel

The songs come on; we sing along,
Whoever’s in the car.
No matter what our ages,
We can hum to every bar.

Despite familiarity,
Each tune sounds fresh and new,
A contradiction, it may seem,
But one that’s also true.

The time and distance on the road
Just seem to up and go
As long as there’s a Beatles channel
On the radio.

Hole in My Head

"Call me if you need me;"
To my husband, this I said.
So he replied, "I need you like
A (pause) hole in my head!"

In Yiddish, this expression
Translates to a "lokh in kop,"
A phrase I heard a million times
When I was growing up.

Though what we call "4-letter words"
Were naturally forbiddish,
You always could put someone down 
With insults gleaned from Yiddish.

Lourdes

The smile was what you’d notice first
Before you’d even catch
The necklace and the earrings, which,
Of course, just had to match.

The stylish silver hair cut short
You’d note ‘cause it was thick
And then you’d focus on the clothes,
For color made her tick.

But most of all, it was the laugh –
Staccato, bold and loud.
You’d hear it in an audience
Or find her in a crowd.

And now that laugh’s been silenced.
How things change in just a minute!
The world will be a duller place
Without dear Lourdes in it.

(in memory of Lourdes Ayala)