A Dozen Ducklings

A hi-rise building in my nabe,
With fountain out in front,
Was where I saw 12 ducklings
And it wasn’t just a stunt.

For yesterday, I saw a duck
Within the fountain’s pool,
A rare sight in the city,
Where most often pigeons rule.

She must have been preparing
For her brand-new balls of fluff,
Now all lined up by the water,
Not a one quite brave enough.

The city has its wonders
And it perked me up to view,
On my morning walk, 12 ducklings
Huddled on York Avenue.

The Last Laugh

On a bench in the park,
A memorial plaque
Made my husband glance twice;
He was taken aback.

It basically stated,
“In memory of
Bernie Silverman…”
(Someone deserving of love.)

But a sentence was added
Which sure underscores
Bernie’s life – “Who preferred
To be (mainly) indoors.”

My spouse took a photo;
I chuckled out loud
But wondered if Bernie’d
Be angry or proud.

For the last place he’d be,
If the truth was portrayed,
Was outside on the bench
Where the plaque is displayed.

The Week

If Monday’s when the week begins
And Sunday’s when it ends,
Then how come on the calendar
That logic it suspends?

For Sundays show up on the left
And Saturdays the right,
Implying that week goes
Sunday morn to Saturnight.

Since many people work 5 days,
With weekends times of rest,
The Monday start is one that is
Most commonly expressed.

Yet we accept the way things stand
And honor the mystique
For, calendar or not, tomorrow
Starts another week.

Waiting for Spring

Spring arrives at different times
Depending on location
And where I spend the weekends
We have springtime deprivation.

The trees are bare, the ground is brown,
The daffodils lack flowers 
And insects haven't yet appeared
To wield their stinging powers.

The city, though, looks lush and filled
With vibrant pinks and reds 
Of bushes, blossoms and of tulips
Nodding all their heads.

I think I'd trade the quiet here,
Where springtime is a'snooze,
For Manhattan - noisy, crowded
But decked out in gorgeous hues.

Obituary Photos

Obituaries often feature
Photos of the dead
But many aren't current,
Showing younger selves instead.

At first I found this disconcerting 
For it seemed so weird 
To showcase someone looking
Like he, years ago, appeared.

A picture of a dashing soldier,
Smiling and alive,
Might accompany the bio
Of "Deceased at 95."

Yet on further speculation, I
Decided it's okay
To want people to remember
Someone in a certain way.

I think we'd all agree we look
Much better when our faces 
Don't reflect what time has done
When put through all of lifetime's paces.

Unicycle

He was pedaling in my direction,
His feet never losing control.
His age? 9 or 10 I am guessing,
But his confidence lit up his soul.

We locked eyes for the briefest of seconds.
I was grinning and though he held back,
I could tell that the hint of a smile
Was just busting to peek out a crack.

For he had to know that he was special – 
You don’t see unicycles each day –
But the streets of New York do encourage
Every talent one has to display.

Short Report

Today there's nothing to report;
Hence, this little poem is short.

On the Train Tracks

On the train tracks, I can see
A pink and velcroed shoe,
Straws and empty water bottles;
Also in my view:

A balled-up t-shirt, bottle caps,
A little book for writing,
Some orange peels and ciggie butts -
In all, not too inviting.

I focus on that sneaker, though,
Its owner just a child
And wonder how she lost it,
If her guardian went wild.

She must have had to make it home
With only one shoe on,
Like when we sang of "Diddle Diddle
Dumpling, my son John."

These little hints of what went down
Are there for us to see,
Inspiring poems as well as piquing
Curiosity.

The Same Inside

A famous quote by Gertrude Stein
Is one I can abide.
It says that, “We are always
The” (exact) “same age inside.”

A film on Leonard Cohen I saw
Embraces this belief,
For age and all its facets
Is a dominant motif.

Performances of famous songs
Are featured back to back
By Cohen in youth and middle age
And on the senior track.

His passion never waivers;
He retains his slender frame
And his voice and repartee remain
Remarkably the same.

We can’t explain to someone young
That what our age does hide
Is all that makes us who we are,
Tucked, safe and sound, inside.

Two Seders

At Seder 1 we helped prepare
The soup and matzoh balls served there,
The hard-boiled eggs and chicken dressed
In farfel flakes, which tastes the best.

At tables set to serve sixteen,
With kids and grandfolk on the scene,
We read and sang, sipped wine and juice,
The atmosphere relaxed and loose.

The meal complete, the kids ran ‘round,
The afikomen finally found.
The grown-ups schmoozed, dessert consumed
‘Til things slowed down as bedtime loomed.

For Seder 2, we hit the road
And drove in windshield-wiper mode
To visit family miles away
Where overnight we planned to stay.

The Seder table, set for five,
Did beckon us to keep alive
Within Haggadahs Ken revised
The same old tale, but modernized.

We dug into delicious food,
Conversing in a festive mood.
No kids around, but Darby’s tail
Was wagging on an epic scale.

Two Seders, different and unique,
To welcome in this matzoh week
Were back-to-back reminders of
The past and present, fused with love.

Tissue Mountain

On a shelf above his bed,
Looking like a fountain,
Henry has what has become
A little tissue mountain.

Each tissue gets one wipe or blow
And then it joins the pile,
A mound that had been growing
For much more than just a while.

When asked if I could clean it up,
The answer I keep getting
Is an emphatic No; I guess 
I'm aiding and abetting.

It isn't really gross because 
There's not a lot of issue
Allowed to make its way upon
Each single 2-ply tissue.

And Henry laughs when I point out 
His tissue mountain's growing,
An impish twinkle in his eye
Which he delights in showing.

The Organ of Notre Dame

We listen to classical music 
At times while on the road.
This morning there was organ music -
Bach's - the mother lode.

But this recording had been made
In Notre Dame, in France,
Which makes it very special
Due to recent circumstance.

The organ wasn't damaged 
In that awful fire, although
It will be silenced for a while,
How long they just don't know.

With restoration promised,
Maybe someday we will hear
More of Bach played from this organ,
Piping deep and loud and clear.

Relative Quiet

For the first time in months, it is quiet
(Well, as much as the city can be)
‘Cause the neighbors upstairs
(Which caught me unawares)
Have moved out, which is super for me.

Their wood floors didn’t have any carpets
And somebody (a child?) liked to drop
Balls or playthings all day
(They were never away)
And I thought that it never would stop.

But a moving truck parked by the building
And it loaded up all of their stuff.
Now they aren’t around
And I don’t hear a sound
But the traffic, and that’s quite enough!

Ambitions

Ambitions oft get put on hold
For there are many strings
By which our freedom is controlled,
A clipping of our wings.

But sometimes we must take the blame
When laziness pokes through.
In that case we can’t really claim
There’s nothing we can do.

The projects waiting for a start
May languish months or years
When motivation falls apart
Or up and disappears.

It’s great to have ambitions
And an end to which we strive
But the best of all magicians
Can’t keep every goal alive.

In Costume

A costume lets you be transformed
Into a different being.
Your insides feel as unfamiliar
As the parts you’re seeing.

Just a wig or make-up
Or some clothes you’d rarely wear
Can construct a new persona
With few aspects that you share.

Thus, a costume also liberates,
Allowing you to try
Behaviors, looks and accents
Which in life you’d not apply.

An actor understands this
When preparing for a part,
For the costume gives a hint to where
Portrayals might just start.

Play it Loud

Instruments of rock & roll
Are showcased at the Met.
It’s closer to some classics
Than I’d ever hoped to get.

From Ringo’s drums and Clemons’ sax
To numerous guitars,
You get to see the favorites used
By legendary stars.

Jimi, Eric, Chuck and Prince,
Elvis, Keith and Bruce,
Lady Gaga, Sheryl Crow
And more, who all let loose

When on the stage, like Jimmy Page,
Van Halen, Patti Smith,
Bob Dylan, Stevie Ray, Neil Young –
Each player matched the myth.

With interviews, performance clips
And more, the music crowd
Will have a blast at this exhibit,
Titled “Play it Loud.”

Changing Views

When I was young and clueless,
If retirement appeared
Somehow upon my radar
I would think it pretty weird.

But if I gave some thought to where
My future self might be,
Most likely it would be a little
Cabin by the sea.

A stroll into a charming town,
My cottage with a view,
A garden and a lot of time
To do the things I’d do.

But life takes unexpected turns
And there’s no magic math
To calculate the ending
As we chart our chosen path.

And as the years unfold we find
The follies of our youth
Seem fictional when they’re compared
To living’s harsher truth.

Ironically, though, in my
Long-time view-free home, I am
Retired, far from seaside
And contented as a clam.

If It Ain't a Dollar

Overheard outside the store,
Mother to her son,
"If it ain't a dollar..."
That's the sentence she'd begun.

You can figure out the rest,
Knowing what would fit - 
"If it ain't a dollar, well,
Then you're not gettin' it."

Was the kid upset? No way;
He'd heard that line before.
He shrugged and went to check it out
Inside the dollar store.

I guess in this economy,
There'd be no risk in bettin'
That many things for lots of bucks
A lot of kids ain't gettin'.

With the Times

It doesn't pay to criticize
The world we see before our eyes
But I'll admit, it's very strange 
Accepting each not-needed change.

Alexa keeps your shopping list 
(A paper one has been dismissed)
And all the bills are paid online
(A mailer, stamped, did suit me fine).

The things we get from Amazon 
(To name them, I'd go on and on)
Once waited, shelved, within a store;
Such shopping trips exist no more.

You program music on your phone
(The CD player left alone)
And brand-new shows you get to stream
(TV's no longer reign supreme).

Yet what's the point if we complain?
There's nothing we can really gain.
We must adapt or we'll be linked
With others who've become extinct.

Gliding on the River

I watch the traffic crawling by 
As I upon the river glide.
The satisfaction that I feel
Is something that I cannot hide.

For years and years this river flowed 
Without a ferry plowing through. 
What took so long to figure out
That one and one add up to two?

But why complain, for now I have
A ride where I can just relax 
With all the peace and quiet that
The crowded subway surely lacks.

Siblings Day Again

It’s Siblings Day for those of us
Attached by blood to others,
Relationships important as
The ones to dads or mothers.

Our sibs may be supportive
And a key to our survival
Or possibly competitive,
The classic “sibling rival.”

We might be close while growing up
And drift as we get older
Or bond as age encroaches
And we seek a lean-on shoulder.

But whether we’re in contact
Or are lacking in affection,
Our circumstance of birth provides
A permanent connection.

The Vessel

Bug or beehive, either way,
It’s ugly and imposing
Yet everyone will talk about it;
That’s what I’m supposing.

The sculpture, recently unveiled,
Has varied stairs and landings
And one small lift where one strict guard
Was full of reprimandings.

From every level, there’s a view,
The river in the distance
And as you climb up higher
You can feel the wind’s resistance.

Opinions clash about this structure,
But it isn’t moving,
Welcoming all comers,
Which includes those disapproving.

Momentum

Joggers and walkers and puppies at play,
Taxis and Ubers and ferries –
All that I saw at the start of my day,
Plus the fruit stands with melons and berries.

7 AM and the city’s alive –
Awakened, refreshed and prepared
To bicycle, power walk, run or to drive,
Some with coffee they quickly have snared.

The energy, palpable as my own face,
Entices us so we believe
That the rest of the world’s at a similar pace
Though, of course, such a thought is naïve.

For New Yorkers do move to a different beat
And you love it or hate it, but still,
It cannot be denied that each morning we greet
That momentum New York does fulfill.

National Beer Day

Today’s a day to shout and cheer
And naturally, to have a beer
For it’s the day, across the land,
When Prohibition lost its stand.

We owe it all to F.D.R.
And whether you are in a bar,
At home or at a tailgate party,
Fill your glass and drink up hearty.

Let us toast to Franklin D.
For bringing joy to you and me.
So be it lager, I.P.A.
Or stout, let’s shout Hip Hip Hooray!

And savor every precious drop
Beginning with that foamy top
For fellow beer folk everywhere
Know nothing else can quite compare.

The Odds

When is it worth it
To plow straight ahead
When the possible outcome
Imbues you with dread?

When is it better
To not take a chance
And stick with the ease
That a comfort zone grants?

Neither is perfect
But what I have learned
Is if you avoid fire,
You will not get burned.

Of course, then your world
Very quickly does shrink
So a risk might be worth it,
You foolishly think.

You let down your guard;
Into danger you ramble.
Most likely, you’ll find
It was not worth the gamble.

Lava

On the walk to school, we had
To jump from time to time,
Avoiding red-hot lava
Which could turn our shoes to slime.

The lava was invisible
(At least it was to me)
But Henry saw it all
Down to the tiniest degree.

On high alert for danger,
He gave warning when a leap
Would prevent us both from sinking
Into places dark and deep.

Though there isn't a volcano
For ten thousand miles around,
In a boy's imagination,
There is plenty to be found.

Sunshiny Guilt

A sunshiny day makes you guilty
For staying inside your abode.
You glance out the window and wonder
If you’ve gone against some kind of code.

For who wouldn’t prefer to be outside
To soak up those wonderful rays
Especially since, in the springtime,
There’ll be so many rainy-type days?

That’s why I miss having a terrace
Or patio, porch or a yard
So I could sit out in the sunshine
And all of that guilt disregard.

The best of both worlds at my fingers,
Just steps between inside and out
Would make me a happier camper
And happier poems I would spout.

Birthday Wishes

Whenever it’s my birthday
(And that would be today),
I like to note who reaches out
And who stays far away.

A lot of friends and family
Sent their cards some days before
And lots of texts arrived today
And maybe there’ll be more.

But there are those who just forgot
Or simply didn’t care.
It shouldn’t matter, but of this
Omission, I’m aware.

I’m grateful for the wishes
From the ones that I hold dear
And know I’ll always hear from them
In each upcoming year.

Razing My Spirits

Five brownstones lined up on the corner
Have been there a hundred plus years
Until demolition equipment
Knocked them down, once they got the “all clears.”

The tenants had somehow departed,
Perhaps with a buyout of cash.
I wonder if they were there watching
The bulldozers hammer and smash.

The neighborhood’s losing its status
And certainly lots of its charm.
Replacing those brownstones with towers
Is surely a cause for alarm.

We’re squandering history’s treasures
And also big chunks of the sky,
For greedy developers hover
And space is in dwindling supply.

I mourn all the relics we’re missing
For with every toppling of bricks,
The city succumbs to the sameness
Of others, just part of the mix.

Rock and Roll

Went to a party
And savored the chance
To groove to some oldies
And dance, dance, dance, dance!

The theme was the 50’s;
We all dressed the part
And soon as we got there,
The music did start.

The twist and the pony,
The stroll and the swim,
To honor the birthdays
Of Janet and Jim.

What fun to let loose
And to swing to the beat,
With the swaying of hips
And the stomping of feet.

We revelers, all
Slightly long in the tooth,
Let the rock and roll gods
Bring us back to our youth.