Striped

Zebras and tigers and lemurs’ long tails
Have stripes both distinctive and cool,
As well as some convicts in old-fashioned jails
Who wear black and white stripes as a rule.

The American flag and a barbershop pole
Both have candy-candy stripes white and red,
While some p.j.’s and blankets and sheets have the goal
To add stripes that will jazz up your bed.

Lots of clothing is striped – shirts and sweaters and socks
In all colors, both vibrant and plain,
For in nature or otherwise, stripiness rocks –
Sporting some, much attention you’ll gain.

Acorn Plops

An acorn plopped down from a tree
And hit the deck right next to me.
It joined some others waiting for
A stronger breeze to drop some more.

It almost bounced upon my head;
I'm glad it found the porch instead
For it came down with so much force 
I'd have a bump, but it changed course.

The squirrels must be set to dash
And round these up for winter's stash.
I sit outside, relax and wait
As acorn plops reverberate.

Extra-Curricular

Tae Kwon Do, gymnastics,
Swimming, piano and ballet,
Music, baseball, fencing,
An activity a day.

Such a far cry from my youth - 
If mem'ry is my guide,
When school was done, we had a snack
And met our friends outside.

On skates or bikes we got around;
With jump ropes, balls or chalk,
We entertained ourselves with no one
Watching like a hawk.

That freedom now does not exist
In suburbs or the city
And looking back, I have to say
It really is a pity.

The Hearings

I believed Anita Hill;
So did all my friends.
History repeats itself;
We know how it ends.

Watching makes my stomach turn
For loyalists won’t budge
And thus the Court will have on board
Another suspect judge.

It really isn’t a surprise
When those in our regime
Distort the truth with consequences,
In this case, Supreme.

Dark

We woke in darkness, not because
The dawn had not arrived
But rather due to power, 
Of which we had been deprived.

An underground transformer,
We were told, at our hotel,
Went on the fritz and when it
Could be fixed, they couldn’t tell.

Our flight was in the morning, so
We packed and dressed to leave,
A challenge in a pitch-black room,
Which you could well believe.

We skipped the shower and no make-up
I could thus apply,
And so I looked as bad
As I could look if I did try.

Although, within the scheme of things
That can go wrong each day,
This glitch, while quite annoying’s
Hardly reason to inveigh.

Shared Memories

We all remember some events,
Although in different ways,
For there's a prism that distorts
When in the past we gaze.

My bros and I can reminisce
And laugh without reprieve, 
Yet recollections vary
From the truth we each believe.

There is no way to prove who's right -
We all are, in our minds -
But memories we share still form
The tie that always binds.

Old Lyrics

When lyrics that you haven't heard
For maybe forty years
Come pouring out from deep inside 
There might just be some tears.

For hearing Graham Nash last night,
Nostalgia reigned supreme
And I was back in college
(Like we all were, it did seem).

I mouthed the words to "Bus Stop,"
But when "Our House " came around, 
I sang along, as asked to,
With a joy that did abound.

Like filings, we, the audience,
Were drawn into the pull
Of Nash, the band and venue,*
Where the sound was rich and full.

There's magic to be made, for sure,
When past and present meld
And release some secrets we forgot
That we had tightly held.

*Chautauqua Auditorium - Boulder, Colorado
(Thanks, Burt, for the tickets!)

Lifestyles

When traveling, the lives I see
Are different from my own,
The choices made unlike the ones
That I have ever known.

It's really not a question of
What's better or what's worse,
Though if you questioned others,
They might answer the reverse.

To me, I think our journeys,
Whether minuscule or long, 
Encourage us to gravitate
To where we best belong.

So when I'm someplace else I note
The lovely things I see,
But know the lifestyle that I chose
Works perfectly for me.

On Board

Some people, when flying, are bored,
Feeling maybe a little unmoored,
But they try to relax 
If there are no attacks
Of a sound which we all have endured.

Since its urgency can't be ignored,
It can drive you right out of your gourd.
Yet today, I believe,
We will have a reprieve,
For there's no crying baby on board.

The Gardeners

I watch the gardeners at work 
And as they rake and mow
I wonder, when their workday ends,
About where they all go.

I doubt if they have homes with lawns
As lush as those they tend 
Or flower beds like ones to which
Their talents they do lend.

It's possible the only place
Their spirits may be buoyed
By what they do is at the sites
To which they've been employed.

Insurance Thoughts

The thing you must know ‘bout insurance
Is it’s giving you lots of assurance
That if something goes wrong
It will help you along
And you’ll live with a sense of endurance.

It’s ironic, though, that you must pay
(Though you hope things will turn out okay)
For those times, just in case,
Yet get smacked in the face
And your plans or your health slip away.

All that money it’s cost through the years
To protect against all of your fears
Won’t seem very well spent
Except, in the event
That disaster leaves you in arrears.

Scraps

Within my bags of quilting stuff
Are lots of little scraps,
The remnants of some projects
Which I saved, thinking perhaps…

I would use them in the future
Like they once did long ago
When they gathered snips of fabric
And a patchwork quilt they’d sew.

It was done then from necessity
So nothing went to waste
And I’m sure that many beds
With scrap-made blankets have been graced.

But realistically I realized,
Without patience or privation,
I should ditch these scraps for my idea
Was just a fabrication.

My Grandma's Tablecloth

My grandma did embroidery
And several things she did for me.
Her tablecloths (I have a few)
On holidays must get their due.

Each cross-stitch, sewn by her own hand,
As needles followed her command,
Is neat and perfectly aligned,
Her handiwork and heart entwined.

My table’s set, her cloth in place
And so tonight I will embrace
Her love that I can draw upon
From every stitch, though she is gone.

Until It's Gone

There are people who never will eat
Food that’s left-over, whether it’s meat,
Salad, veggies or pie;
I don’t really know why -
Guess they simply don’t like to repeat.

That’s not me, for I so hate to waste
Food that one time my table has graced,
That it may take a week
And be slightly past peak,
But I’ll eat ‘til the very last taste.

To all those who are holding back sneers,
It’s okay, for the food disappears
And most times, I don’t mind,
But this week, was resigned
Since the kasha* was up to my ears!

*a grain served with pasta bow ties
(called kasha varniskes), traditionally
served at the Jewish New Year

Henry's 5th

The party, planned at Henry’s camp,
Familiar and quite near,
Had a couple of way-up slides, which seemed
To kick-start the birthday boy’s fear.

Before the friends arrived, the guy
In charge led Henry there
And joined him on the top
Where they both slid, like on a dare.

But Henry had a pressing need
To conquer it alone;
His courage, on those sample runs,
It seemed had somehow grown.

And though the guests were due,
His dad said, “Henry, you can do it!”
And sure enough, he climbed
And as we watched, he hopped right to it.

The party was a blast for all,
Such joy you couldn’t shake,
With Henry’s burst of confidence
The icing on the cake.

Easy Pickings

A blueberry stand in rural Maine
Sold pints and cakes and pies
But after hours, I discovered
Quite a nice surprise.

A money box was left beneath
A price list; it was filled
With coins and bills. We added ours –
Such honesty instilled!

I thought that such a thing would never
Fly where I reside
And yet today I saw a sight
That couldn’t be denied.

A fruit cart in my neighborhood,
Well-stocked, displayed a sign
Announcing it was “Closed for now;”
No berries could be mine.

No cash box, sure, for after all,
Manhattan isn’t Maine,
But all the fruit was there, a fact
I really can’t explain.

Perhaps it’s just a simple truth
That when we’re met with trust,
We’ll like return the favor
And leave no one left to bust.

Where They Are?

A tiny baby dollhouse doll,
A bunch of dominoes,
A puzzle piece, a stacking cup -
Where are they? No one knows.

The cover to some match-up cards,
The crayons in a box,
Three golf balls from the matching set, 
Assorted Lego blocks.

These items and a dozen more
Are AWOL and I'd bet
That I'm the only person
In the house who seems to fret.

A Shallow Excuse

A friend had booked a river cruise,
The Elbe the go-to river,
But got this message: “Sorry, but
This trip we can’t deliver.”

It seems that Europe’s waterways,
Due to a broiling summer,
Are much too low for ships to ply;
For tourists, what a bummer!

We’ve booked a cruise some months away,
Though I have got a notion
Hot weather won’t be quite enough
To drain away the ocean!

Through the Soot

When living in any big city,
The air might be sooty or gritty,
So many will lose
Their apartment’s nice views
Due to windows with grime – what a pity!

It’s cumbersome keeping them clean.
All New Yorkers will know what I mean;
For the sparkle I got
When I Windexed, will not,
By tomorrow, retain any sheen.

So my vistas are subtly skewed,
Since with schmutz all my views are imbued.
Yet somehow, through the soot
I might notice afoot,
On a terrace, a neighbor who’s nude!

The Smallest Shofar

The rabbi had a lot of trouble
Blowing the shofar.
The congregation waited
But the sounds were just bizarre.

Some strangled bursts of air came out
But music was resistant.
The notes he tried to play, I’d say,
Were pretty non-existent.

He tried three shofars – all were long,
The pride of any ram,
Including those who wandered
In the time of Abraham.

With children gathered at his feet,
The rabbi seemed distraught,
For with his biggest audience,
His efforts came to naught.

But then he grabbed, a last resort,
The smallest shofar yet.
Without a fancy curvy shape,
What music could he get?

He took a breath and we all smiled –
A golden tone emerged,
Outshining all those shofars
On which somebody had splurged.

That little shofar saved the day;
Its sound was strong and clear
And hopefully, it will be first
To have a chance next year.

*a ram’s horn blown on the Jewish holiday
of Rosh Hashanah (the highlight of the service)

Rosh Hashanah

Buy a challah - make it round.
Cook some kasha - lightly browned.
Bake a brisket, with a mound
Of onions on the top.

Lots of vino to be downed.
Honey cakes to add a pound.
Hugs and wishes to abound 
And smiles that never stop.

Hear the shofar's plaintive sound.
Links to childhood somehow found.
Ready now - we're New Year bound -
New sins to which we'll cop!

Wash Out

The art fair's planned way in advance;
The artists, grateful for the chance
To have their artwork on display,
Just hope that buyers come their way.

I'm sure today they weren't pleased;
The weather gods were not appeased, 
For pouring rain fell from the skies
And crowds were sparse, not a surprise.

I stopped beside each covered booth
To get a glimpse, although, in truth, 
I really wasn't out to buy.
(No room upon my walls is why.)

It seemed most vendors didn't bail
But likely some made not one sale,
But that's the risk of outdoor shows;
We bow to Nature, I suppose.

Quiet Resistance

An Op-Ed in The New York Times,
Anonymously printed,
States that the White House mood is worse
Than what the press has hinted.

The President’s “amoral,”
And “erratic,” it declares,
With “ill-informed decisions”
Catching staffers unawares.

The author, an official
In the Trump administration,
Is hoping that what he reveals
Will jolt awake the nation.

Asserting he and others
Are resisting from within,
He wants the world to know
That what he claims is not just spin.

The President is seething now
With Tweeting calls of “Treason?”
Denouncing, too, The Times, for holding
Names back for no reason.

As speculation builds, so many
Choices would make sense.
There’s even talk the writer
May be Trump’s VP – Mike Pence.

Whoever wrote the piece, though,
Is a brave and daring soul
And hopefully, he’ll shake
Some people up, which was his goal.

Kindergarten

My grandson started kindergarten;
This is school day 4.
My job was simply walking him
Up to the entry door.

With his backpack on my shoulder
We strolled slowly, holding hands
And I felt the kind of feelings
Every Nana understands -

That the years have flown too quickly!
Wasn't it just yesterday
When I rocked him to accompany
A lullaby's soft sway?

At the school he grabbed his backpack,
Slung it over like a pro
And I faded to the background,
Where all Nanas need to go.

The Room Where It Happened

I peeked in the room where FDR
And Churchill made a deal –
The chairs and table where they sat
Made history so real.

I stood in the room where JFK
And Eleanor did meet.
Discussions there allowed him
To successfully compete.

Lin-Manual Miranda,
In his most successful play,
Described what I experienced
In Hyde Park yesterday.

It’s special being in the room
Where history occurred
But as to what went down there,
We have only someone’s word.

Daily

Eleanor Roosevelt, six days a week,
Wrote a column that many would read.
Since ninety-odd papers did carry her work,
She had all of the readers she’d need.

Called “My Day,” her writing described what she felt,
Where she traveled and all whom she met.
For twenty-six years she kept up with this pace,
Such a gig not too many could get.

Though I certainly don’t mean at all to compare,
She and I share that daily fixation,
But I’ve sixteen more years to catch up to her yield
And for that she gets my admiration.

Mansions

If your apartment or your house
Could use a slight expansion,
May I suggest, instead, that you
Just build yourself a mansion.

Today I've toured a couple,
Both in Hudson River towns.
With property like that, your moods
Should have no room for downs.

A bit of ostentation
Seems de rigueur, though, I guess,
But servants take good care of it,
So you don't have to stress.

If you're looking for an upgrade
And you've mega-bucks to spare,
Do like Vanderbilt or Church* - construct
A mansion for your lair.

*Frederick Vanderbilt and Frederic Church

The Start of School

School begins tomorrow;
All the teachers must report.
For most of them, the summer always
Seems to be too short.

They’ll decorate their classrooms
And mentally prepare.
For years I did the same but now
I’m glad that I’m not there!

I’ll sleep tonight without the dreams
That back-to-school inspired.
Let others plan and worry –
I’m at work being retired!

Warnings

Mosquitoes buzz to let you know
That they're about to sting
And snakes with rattles shake them
So you know the pain they'll bring.

Skunks release their special scent 
To warn you, "Stay away!"
And bears stand up and growl to keep
Their predators at bay.

There are certain creatures, though,
Who silently attack,
The way that certain humans do
Who stab you in the back.

After the Visit

My grandkids paid a visit
To our country house last week
And filled the house with joy 
Which emanated from each shriek.

I dragged out all the books and games 
From when their dad was young 
And played the old cassette tapes 
With the songs that Raffi'd sung.

The pillows from the couch made roads;
The dominoes made towers.
The dollhouse rooms were rearranged;
The playing lasted hours.

I'm back this weekend; they are not.
I miss their laughs and smiles
And all they left behind outside
Are stones in little piles.