Tricks Today

I wonder what the tricks are now
For once, they used to be
Some splattered eggs or toilet paper
Draped around a tree.

Another one was sidewalk chalk
All crushed within a sock
Which then was bashed against a stoop,
Much to the owner’s shock.

The treats are much the same these days,
Though home-made ones are gone,
Yet are there any people left
To play those tricks upon?

For candy-holding-backers
Will pretend they aren’t there
Or else the consequences might
Be more than just a scare.

Black and White

When movies were in black and white
And TV shows as well,
Imagination was engaged
For really, who could tell

If someone was a redhead
Or wore colors that did clash?
Why, black and white could hide some zits,
A birthmark or a rash.

A sunset could look boring
As would gardens, clothes and food
And even birthday decorations
Would appear subdued.

How clever, then, when Dorothy
Left Kansas far behind,
She entered Oz whose colors
Blew the audience’s mind.

That movie’s coloration
Let the future in a crack.
Technology marched forward,
While imagining stepped back.

Vicious Cycle

Because I don’t sleep well at night,
The urge to doze I cannot fight
And so, in front of the TV,
With shuttered eyes, I’ll often be.

I never know how shows conclude
And can’t remember what I viewed
Yet when I wake, I haven’t shed
My tiredness; I’m wired instead.

And thus, when bedtime rolls around
I toss and turn with thoughts profound
Or worrisome or else absurd,
My mind a cauldron, non-stop stirred.

The hours tick by and sleep won’t come;
My brain’s awake, my body numb.
With luck, I’ll cave before the dawn
And greet the morning with a yawn.

Sunday Nights

On Sunday night, for years,
When it was time for us to eat,
We piled into the car to get
Some Chinese food, a treat.

My parents did the ordering
And mostly, they’d agree,
By choosing things from Column A
And also Column B.

The Family Dinner had those lists
But first we all had soup,
With crunchy noodles that in bowls
Of duck sauce we would scoop.

The next course would be egg rolls,
So more duck sauce we’d request
And following would be fried rice
And spare ribs to ingest.

My mom liked lobster Cantonese;
We also had chow mein
And never, in my memory,
Did anyone complain.

Some fortune cookies served with fruit
Would end our Sunday meal,
A far cry from home-cooking
But, to us, it seemed ideal.

Old-School

My aunt, who is nobody’s fool,
Has the attitude, slightly old-school,
That when giving a gift,
Though it gives her a lift,
Some acknowledgement should be the rule.

If a thank you is simply too hard,
Then her efforts seem, sadly, quite marred.
When next year rolls around
She will cover that ground
Sending nothing, except for a card.

Hadley's Ballet Class

The ballerinas, dressed in pink,
Adorable, you can't help think,
All rush to where their teacher waits,
Where music wafts and resonates.

The grown-ups must remain outside
Where covered windows seem to hide
Whatever lessons might be taught.
(Attempts to peek all come to naught.)

The moms chit-chat, comparing notes,
(Which cereals get all their votes).
The grands and sitters sit alone
And read or focus on the phone.

When class is over, spirits high,
She demonstrates the butterfly 
And how to point and flex her toes
While standing in a ballet pose.

Now slippers off and sneakers on;
Another lesson's come and gone.
We dress and take our dancer home,
The star, today, of Nana's poem.

In My Quilting Class

My stitches aren’t even;
My squares don’t line up straight
And if you want a quilt from me,
It’s years you’ll have to wait.

Yet every Thursday, there I sit,
My needle pulling thread,
With not a thought beyond that room
Carousing in my head.

I’m calm, relaxed and in control
And while my scissors snip,
I bask in camaraderie
And crafting fellowship.

My projects hang around the house
And in my grandkids’ rooms,
But it is in my quilting class
Where my composure blooms.

Online Reviews

Plan on online purchase?
Well, just click on the reviews.
It helps to hear what people say –
What have you got to lose?

Your mind, perhaps, for you’ll find out
Opinions vary widely,
From those described most glowingly
To others penned most snidely.

The bar graph gives percentages
Of how the ratings fare
So follow the conclusions
Or reject them, if you dare.

For everyone’s impressions
Will be different and distinct
And those who thus ignore them
Will be very soon extinct.

A Stamp

The Postal Service doesn’t have
Too many in its camp
And I know why, for I just learned
It’s 50 cents a stamp!

No wonder folks send e-cards
And pay all their bills online,
For 50 cents a stamp provides
A solid cause to whine.

I mostly purchase sheets of stamps
Which last me quite a while,
So buying just a single isn’t
My accustomed style.

And yet today, to mail a card
That wouldn’t be belated,
I gave the clerk 2 quarters
And for change I stood and waited.

‘Twas then I learned that 50 cents
Is now the going rate.
I think towards e-cards I may just
Begin to gravitate.

Pledge Drive

I'm ready for some music;
The radio's all set,
But begging me for money
Is all that I can get.

The pleading is relentless,
Yet does beseeching serve?
For constant supplications
Really get on my last nerve.

To turn off their entreaties,
Subtle as a striking sledge,
I simply switch the station;
No allegiance will I pledge.

A Walk Around

A walk around suburban streets
Is peaceful and it's pretty
But if you want to people-watch
You just can't beat the city.

My grandson's neighborhood's
The perfect venue for a stroll
With lots of ghosts and pumpkins
But with not one living soul.

I love to have his company
Though when it's only me,
Manhattan, with its melting pot,
Is where I'd rather be.

Balancing the Scale

When I was young, I had a toy
That was an adding scale.
You hung the plastic numbers
'Til equality you'd nail.

Of course, it only worked
If what you added was correct.
Two twos would balance out a four;
A five it would deflect.

With age I've learned that life's like that,
A scale we mustn't tip,
Though keeping equilibrium 
Means trying not to slip.

To stay in balance is, to me,
Much harder than it seems.
That "gentle stream" that life is called
Is just the stuff of dreams.

My scale of life, most often,
Dangles slightly on a tilt.
A plastic number's not enough
To fix things to the hilt.

Wired

The lights went out; the power died.
We had to call Con Ed.
Three hours later, it was fixed
And this is what they said:

A squirrel on a wire outside
Decided he would chew it.
He took one bite and that was all
It took for him to do it.

The loss was 20 houses wide,
All due to foolish chomping.
That squirrel should have stuck to
Just his daily feats of romping.

Instead, our power up and died
And all because a squirrel fried.

What's Your Poem About?

Although I write a poem a day,
Most people do not read it.
It's fine with me; my ego
Needs no compliments to feed it.

Yet sometimes an acknowledgement 
Can lift my spirits high 
And yesterday I got one
From my favorite little guy.

From out of nowhere, Henry asked,
With interest you can't fake,
"Nana, what's your poem about?"
Such joy I can't forsake.

For knowing that a 5 year old,
As dear to me as air,
Is curious about my life -
Well, nothing can compare.

Though children are surprising
And those close to us excel, 
I'm still pleased as punch with Henry -
Or perhaps you couldn't tell!

They

I know this isn’t quite PC
But if I had my way,
The gender-fluid people
Could not singularize “they.”

The New York Times accepts it,
Also making single “their.”
For English teachers, such a use
Is reason to despair.

I try to understand those folks
Who are not “he” or “she”
And know that modern life demands
That’s how it’s got to be.

But let them form some pronouns
Which don’t currently exist,
Creative words that by the grammar
Police won’t be dismissed.

The world’s evolving, that’s for sure,
And many things are strange,
Yet I believe that certain rules
Should not be forced to change.

Vested

How I love to wear a vest!
It really piques my interest.
For though it's kind of like a sweater,
Somehow, stylish-wise, it's better.

Whether made of down or tweed,
For warmth, it's what all wardrobes need.
With buttons, snaps or halves that zip,
It helps its wearer look quite hip.

So my advice, to spruce your flair
And make your outfit debonair, 
Just top your shirt when you get dressed
With, as you might have guessed, a vest!

Tissues in your Pocket

If you have a little sniffle
Then your pockets might contain 
One or several crumpled tissues
So you will not search in vain.

But the trick is to remember
When your clothing hits the wash
That those pockets must be emptied
Or you'll come upon - oh gosh!

Lots of shreds and clumps of tissue 
In the lint trap and, as well,
Stuck to every top and bottom
That the dryer spins pell-mell.

It will take some time to gather
All those scraps that you can glean,
But don't blame yourself too harshly
For at least you know they're clean!

About Gourds

They look like little pumpkins,
Cute and orange, with a stem,
Or else like tiny long-necked squash;
The stores sell lots of them.

They serve as decorations
As they brighten homes for fall,
A counterpart to jack-o-lanterns,
Faceless, though, and small.

However, I do wonder
Why they’ve gotten so maligned
For when someone’s out of someone’s gourd,
It means he’s lost his mind!

In a Diner

The menu: a dozen slick pages.
The venue: wood tables and chairs.
From breakfast to dinner
You’ll never get thinner
With food that a diner prepares.

The choices: from eggs to paninis.
The voices: from hushed to guffaws.
There’s no place instead
I would rather break bread
And the answer to why? is because…

It’s a place meant for every consumer
With the space to relax and to schmooze.
Never fancy or rich
It’s a restaurant which
Serves you coffee, a malted or booze.

You can keep all your Michelin ratings
And those steeply exorbitant bills.
Slap a sandwich and fries
Down in front of my eyes
In a diner – for me, that fulfills.

An Autumn Day

Today the air is crisp and clean 
To set the scene for Halloween.
The ghosts and witches in the trees
All bounce with ease at every breeze.

With jackets zipped, the kids run wild
As if beguiled, through leaves so piled
The landscape people know they've won, 
Their work undone, but worth the fun.

Though yesterday was muggy hot,
Most surely not what autumn's got,
Today we really caught a break,
A day to make up that mistake.

Straw to Gold

The balls of yarn are all lined up,
By color and by weight.
The knitters check them out, deciding
What they might create - 

A sweater, scarf or pom-pom hat,
A blanket or a vest.
Whichever they select I know
I'm bound to be impressed.

For as in "Rumpelstiltskin"
When the straw turns into gold,
A skein of wool made wearable's
A mystery to behold.

I stare at all the choices
Though I cannot quite envision
The transition, via needles,
To the vest of my decision.

Still, at last, I make a purchase
And, will wonders never cease,
Once my aunt performs her magic, 
I will wear my masterpiece.

Unprepared

I thought that I was unprepared
In case the day got colder.
I should have brought a sweater 
I could toss across my shoulder.

I wasn't sure I'd brought enough
To read to be fulfilling
In case some plans fell through and there
Was time that needed killing.

I thought I might get hungry
And forgot to bring a snack,
Though once I'd had that thought, it was
Too late for turning back.

It turned out I was warm enough,
Not hungry and not bored,
So luck was on my side,
A most mysterious reward.

For though the Girl Scouts tell us
We should always be prepared,
Without such luck we never know
Just how we might have fared.

The Crossing Guard

He rarely smiles but does his job
With serious intent,
Protecting lives as his demeanor
Makes quite evident.

He strides into the street so that
When children make the crossing,
The cars hold up, respectful of
Just who is out there bossing.

At times, within the intersection,
Traffic starts to inch.
His hand shoots up, a signal
Like a small but painful pinch.

It does the trick and drivers wait,
Impatient though they are,
For if a winner were declared,
It wouldn’t be a car.

The Money Pot

Some people play* for money.
My friends and I do not,
But every time we play, we toss
Five dollars in the pot.

Our games are only once a month
But still, the pile does grow
So there’s enough to have a meal
And see a Broadway show.

That sounds like a solution
Yet it’s not a simple task.
Five different busy women –
What’s the problem, you might ask.

Because we must concur on
Both a date and then a play,
There’s never a consensus
So each month we just delay.

Our bankroll keeps increasing
Though there is no guarantee
That we’ll ever spend that money
For we simply can’t agree!

*mah jongg, a game played with tiles

Mr. Not-Fixit

There are people who fix things
And those who won’t try
But strangely, a third type exists –
The ones who believe they
Can fix things, though why
Is unclear, yet their sureness persists.

They’ll attempt, with their tool kit,
All kinds of repairs
Though they rarely will meet with success
And when challenged, they’ll laugh
Or confront you with glares
And, of course, you’ll be left with a mess.

If you happen to know someone
Like I’ve described
The frustration’s familiar to you,
But there is no solution
That can be prescribed –
Every project becomes a snafu.

Patience, or Lack of

Older folk are crotchety,
At least that’s what they say,
But age and wisdom, intertwined,
Kick in to lead the way.

Experience instructs us
So we’re smarter through the years
And therefore lack the patience
When inanity appears…

Or pushiness or rudeness
Or entitlement or bile
Or selfishness or nastiness
Or ignorance or guile.

So tolerance for one of those
Or all of the above
Is something that we seniors
Give the boot to, or a shove.

Though patience is a virtue
(That’s what younger folk are taught),
Factor in both years and worldliness;
The sum adds up to naught.

Lonely Monarch

I opened the car door 
And into my face
A butterfly flew.
(I got into its space.)

It fluttered around me
And then it alit 
On the driver's side window,
In back, for a bit.

It seemed sorta sluggish
So sadly, I know
It missed the migration*
Where others did go.

It clung to the window
As if keeping track
Of a friend whose reflection
Was staring right back.

In maybe a minute
It flitted away 
In search of a welcome 
(Not likely Ole!)

*Monarchs migrate to Mexico. 
Final word is pronounced o-lay)

Stuff

There’s so much stuff I do not need
Yet still, I cannot trash it.
If I bring one more item home,
There’s no place I can stash it.

I wish I had the wherewithal
To toss it all away,
Except for certain special things
Which, naturally, could stay.

And there’s the rub – for how to choose?
I simply cannot do it.
If I were gone, my husband, though,
Would gladly hop right to it.

I do not hoard, for I possess
An average bunch of stuff
But getting rid of half of it
Would still not be enough.

The Flu Shot

Last winter, 80,000 people
Perished from the flu.
That’s only in the USA –
Sounds crazy, but it’s true.

Most who died were just like me –
That’s over 65 –
But some were kids and teenagers
Who still should be alive.

The flu vaccine was not so great –
(That’s less than half effective)
And many use that knowledge
If rejection’s their objective.

But still, we’re urged to get the shot
For reasons quite simplistic –
Preventing being one small part
Of next year’s flu statistic.

Pistachios

Pistachios, once colored red,
With dye that stained your fingers,
Are nuts I really like, although
One memory still lingers.

In Istanbul, at twenty-one,
I bought some from a vendor
And got so sick, that might have been
My thumb-crack nut snack ender.

Though dyeless, they were fresh and huge
And tasted just fantastic
But somehow they produced in me
Unpleasant spasms (gastric).

That episode’s another tale
Yet now, some decades later,
I crack those shells and don’t expect
A stomach detonator.

Still, memory kicks in sometimes
When ‘stachio shells I’m splitting;
I’m glad that that experience
Did not result in quitting.

Under the Weather

I think I might be getting sick –
I’m cold and oh, so tired,
For nature played a dirty trick
So in the muck I’m mired.

A little cough can’t keep me in –
I’d plans I’d had for ages;
Ignoring signs means you can’t win –
So sayeth all the sages.

And so I met my friend to walk,
The park our destination.
We filled the day with catch-up talk;
I had no hesitation.

But now I’m home and freezing cold
And bundled in a sweater.
Some soup will place the germs on hold –
Tomorrow hope I’m better.