At Wibby's

A string of lights on canopies,
A band up on a stage;
A crowd of mostly locals
(Though I guess it's hard to gauge).

Some couches strewn around, as well
As tables, chairs and stools,
While games of bean bag toss draw cheers
And relaxation rules.

The food truck line grows longer
But the meals are worth the wait.
The crafted beer you get inside's
The best I've had to date.

A night of laughs and stories 
Under Colorado skies 
At a brewery called Wibby's 
Is a welcoming surprise.

If Men...

If men could start a fetus
From conception as a seed
In their bodies, then of certain laws
There would not be a need.

For it's easy telling others
What they can and cannot do
When the rules you are enacting
Never can apply to you.

For equality I do suggest
Some balances and checks.
How about a law that forces
Men to all abstain from sex?

Sparing a Square

The line was long; I snagged a stall.
Before I locked the door,
A voice called out, “You’ll need this,”
And my faith it did restore.

For clutched in someone’s fist, which reached
Beneath the wall we shared
Was a wad of toilet paper
Which my neighbor had prepared.

I realized there was none inside
The holder in my space
And perhaps before me someone else
Had, pleading, made her case.

But to offer well before I asked
Was more than simply kind
And naturally, Elaine from “Seinfeld”
Quickly came to mind.

Rebooking

Book a room at a certain price,
After some comparing.
Checking rates just once or twice
Is fine if you’re not caring…

About exactly what you spend,
For sometimes rates start dropping
And surely you cannot depend
On clerks to do that swapping.

So diligence might really pay;
Although you’ve made a booking,
Before you throw some dough away,
You ought to keep on looking.

You might be pleasantly surprised
To find a deal that’s waiting
That you might just have jeopardized
By not investigating.

The Simple Things

What they like are simple things –
The driveway pebbles tossed
Or climbing rocks and jumping down
Or playground bridges crossed.

A supermarket outing
To select their favorite snacks
And markers, paints and paper
When it’s time to just relax.

A sticker book or mazes
Or a pad with dot to dots,
Some curly pasta or french fries
To dip in ketchup – lots!

A salamander spotting
And a hopping frog as well
Make a satisfying weekend,
Least as far as I can tell.

Leave the fancy and expensive
To the ones who must proceed
With indulgent complications
That they do not really need.

The Sweet Cool Shade

When the sun beats down 
You have got it made
If you find a good spot
In the sweet cool shade.

On a rock or some grass
All the heat rays fade.
You can chill and relax
In the sweet cool shade.

On the hottest of days,
Do not be afraid,
Just as long as you're set
In the sweet cool shade.

You won't sweat, you won't drip
If attention's paid
And you scope out a spot
In the sweet cool shade. 

Timeless

We're listening to old cassettes
From when my kids were small.
It doesn't seem like thirty years
(Or more) have passed at all.

My grandkids recognize the songs 
And even Raffi's voice.
They'd be content with rock or jazz 
But Raffi was my choice.

For now the circle is complete
Though thirty years apart;
I'm listening again with those
The closest to my heart.

What to Bring

Clothes and PJ's, bathing suits,
Bug spray, sunscreen, plus
Toothpaste and the brushes, too;
Snacks so they don't fuss.

Pool shoes, goggles and, for each,
A comforting stuffed friend,
Jackets, tablets (charger, natch)
And all so they can blend...

The time away with Nana
With what helps to feel secure.
(For them or me and Grandpa?
Guess I couldn't say for sure!)

Shakespeare in the Park

In the city, in the dark,
Shakespeare thrives in Central Park.
Tix are given out for free,
By lining up or lottery.

Noises sometimes interfere
But all your problems disappear
When roles, comedic and/or tragic,
Are performed as if by magic.

Every time I get to go
I marvel at my luck, although
The opportunity is there
For all with time and pluck to spare.

The Shoe

A beat-up shoe that’s toddler-sized
Has a sock that’s stuck inside.
We don’t know whose it was, but know
Its owner surely died.

It’s one of many artifacts
From Auschwitz on display
In the Heritage Museum*
Where I volunteered today.

The school groups come, we lead the tours;
They try to understand,
But really, how can anyone
Who hears it second-hand?

I speak into my microphone,
For all that I can do
Is to share the story of the child
Who left behind that shoe.

*The Museum of Jewish Heritage, currently
showing an exhibit entitled “Auschwitz: Not
Long Ago, Not Far Away”

The U.N.

The U.N. Building used to be
A place that kids would visit.
Its soaring presence, lined with flags
Seemed awesome and exquisite.

We learned so many facts and of
Its leader, called U Thant.
If kids today are asked to name
His counterpart, they can’t.

The U.N. once seemed powerful
And countries, when invited
To join its ranks were proud to be
A part of those “united.”

But time and circumstance have caused
That unity to ebb,
Its power sapped and trampled
By the so-called “world wide web.”

The tower still remains, a modern
Ozymandias,
A symbol left for history
And students to discuss.

Heckboy

Censorship’s alive and well
In Dickson, Tennessee,
Whose Roxy Theater advertised
Upon its proud marquee:

“Heckboy,” playing there beside
Both “Dumbo” and “Shazam.”
Of course, there’s no such movie
And that title is a sham.

The owner thinks profanity
Should not be on the sign,
So “Hellboy” was a name that she
Decided to refine.

To me, there’s not much difference
In those words; they’re neck and neck,
But such censorship implies this country’s
On its way to Heck.

Sunday in the Park

Dogs of every shape and size
On leashes pass by, prancing,
While breezes from the river blow
And set the leaves to dancing.

Balls are tossed and trees are climbed
As sweat-stained joggers, bouncing,
Make tracks around the strollers,
Like their fitness they're announcing.

Families and friends converse 
And benches fill, inviting
The readers and observers
And a certain poet, writing.

99 Percent

An afternoon of sunshine,
The kids in the backyard,
To coax them back inside
Is, understandably, quite hard.

They’re heading to a party
Which, though crazy, starts at 6.
Exhaustion and a trampoline’s
A combo that won’t mix.

To help my case, I tell them
That their energy won’t last
But they reply, despite the hours
That sapped my own real fast…

“My energy is 99
Percent;” they both agree.
They promise this as if
I would believe this guarantee.

I do my job and bring them in
And give them food and drink.
They curl up on the couch,
I read a book and what I think…

Is that within a mile of driving,
Daddy will not hear a peep
For my grandkids will be 99
Percent, I’m sure, asleep.

Urban Playground

The mommies or daddies
Or nannies convene
With toddlers or infants in tow.
The strollers get parked
And, as well, on the scene 
Are the scooters for those in the know.

The sandbox and monkey bars
Plus all the slides
Keep everyone happy at play,
While the older kids run
And, at times, someone hides
On a typical after-school day.

The playground is jammed;
All the benches are filled
As the laughter and shouts fill the air
And as evening draws near
Soon the sounds will be stilled 
As the silence, so strange, settles there.

Vote for Me!

I think I’ll run for president –
It seems to be a thing –
So since I own a lot of hats,
I’ll toss one in the ring.

Most people haven’t heard of me –
I have no claim to fame –
But I have one advantage –
They can all pronounce my name.

Though the field’s already crowded,
I believe this is my time
For what’s missing is a candidate
Whose thoughts come out in rhyme!

Alabama

If I lived in Alabama
I would so much disapprove
Of the attitude towards women
That I’d simply have to move.

There’s a revolution coming
And, despite those southern charms,
Many Alabama females
Should right now be up in arms.

For to challenge a decision
That’s been law for many years
Proves that women’s low-class status
In that state still perseveres.

I’ll not visit Alabama;
I don’t know why someone would
But I hope there will be protests
And perhaps they’ll do some good.

What We Eat

The vegans eat their vegetables,
The carnivores their meat.
The gluten-haters stay away
From foods containing wheat.

The carbohydrate shunners
Won’t eat pasta, cake or bread
But can eat a pound of bacon,
Not the healthiest, instead.

Organic fruits and veggies,
Plus organic milk and cheese
Are believed to lengthen life, although
There are no guarantees.

There are those who don’t eat dairy;
There are those who don’t eat pork.
There are some who just use chopsticks
And reject the knife and fork.

There are decaf coffee drinkers;
Others guzzle their caffeine.
Everybody has a preference
When it comes to their cuisine.

So I’ll eat the foods I relish
And you eat the foods you choose
Since we both have the option, when offered,
One another's repast, to refuse.

Joining the Club

Occasionally we might miss
Performers so admired
Their talents still get airtime
Though it’s years since they’ve expired.

A case in point is Leonard Cohen –
I knew of his existence,
But to his books and concerts somehow
I displayed resistance.

However, a museum has
A very moving show
Filled with footage of his singing
And so much I didn’t know.

I guess no one can stop me,
Though I have procrastinated,
From becoming one of Leonard’s fans,
Although a bit belated.

More Fortunate

Not everyone on Mothers’ Day
Has cause for celebration.
For some, it’s health or distance
That provides the explanation.

For others, complications
May have caused a nasty break
Which may fester even though
It might have all been a mistake.

But for those of us more fortunate,
This day provides a chance
To hang out with kids and grandkids,
Maybe do a silly dance.

Get a card addressed to “Nana,”
Eat a meal a son prepared
And feel gratified when thinking
Of the day you all just shared.

City Rats

Very little skeeves me out
More than a city rat.
Seeing one can spoil my mood
(Snap fingers) – just like that!

A sighting often can be found
Down on the subway tracks
And spotting one precipitates
Some skeeviness attacks.

Unfortunately, they are smart
For in that tiny brain,
The city rat somehow avoids
A smushing by the train!

View from the Stage

From the stage, the audience
Expectantly awaits,
Their faces all reflective 
Of the mood the play creates.

I keep them out of focus
But make note of certain smiles
Which inject a boost of confidence 
That reaches 'cross the aisles.

The me they know is not the one
Who's up there on the stage,
But rather an embodiment
Extracted from the page.

So when the spotlight's on, I'm in
That pure performance zone,
Connected to the ones who watch
But blissfully alone.

The Cranes

All around I see the cranes
Of buildings growing taller,
Contributing to blocking out the sky,
Which seems much smaller.

They haul supplies, enabling
The placing of the beams
To disrupt the city skyline
And fulfill somebody's dreams.

The cranes are not at fault, although
They're easier to blame.
Without them our fair city
Couldn't play this modern game.

But since they're here, the buildings rise,
Monstrosities of glass,
The beauty of the views we knew
Abruptly come to pass.

City Bird Bath

If I were a sparrow
And lived in the city,
Where soot and pollutants
Could make feathers gritty…

I’d fly to the Garden
Near 103^rd,
The perfect location
To bathe for a bird.

For there, in a fountain,
A girl holds a bowl
And the trickling water
Needs naught to cajole.

So the sparrows all flutter
To romp and to splash
For a minute or two
Then they’re gone in a flash…

While the humans sit watching
With grins on each face
As the birds take a bath
In this lovely sweet place.

Ode to the Unworn

My closet has a few mistakes,
My dresser drawers, as well,
Of clothing that I bought for reasons
That I just can’t tell.

For sometimes in a dressing room,
Though something’s not my style,
I convince myself that buying it
Would make it worth my while.

I get it home and hang it up
Or fold it so, so neatly
And there it stays for weeks and months,
Forgotten quite completely.

At times I’ll notice shirts like these
Or skirts or tees or pants
And try them on to wear them,
But there’s really not a chance.

It’s best to stick to tried and true
Where clothing is concerned
Or deal with hangers filled with proof
Of money you have burned.

Timing

I’ve heard it said that timing
Is the key to one’s success
And planning works out better
Than most any last-ditch guess.

Yet we can’t predict that circumstance
Will work out as we’d like
For we never know when lightning
Or good fortune just might strike.

On occasion, though, we get someplace
At just the perfect time
With results as unexpected
As good poetry in rhyme.

Kaki

The vendor advertised his wares
Eliciting assorted stares.
For just six bucks (a price quite wacky),
You could buy some pants – in kaki!

English likely’s not his tongue
And yet, before that sign was hung,
You’d think he wouldn’t be confused
On how to spell the word he used.

My husband shrugged and disagreed;
That “kaki” sign was all he’d need
For none would understand it better
If it had that missing letter.

Blanket of Pink

Beneath the tree, a blanket sits
Of petals, soft and pink,
A spring ensemble that the wind
Took care of in a blink.

The blossoms that remain attached
Have somehow passed the test
And cling with all their might
So branches aren’t quite undressed.

Another gusty day will come,
Perhaps with drenching rain,
Erasing every trace of where
That lovely blanket’s lain.

Ferry Poem

I'm writing this poem on the ferry.
How much do I like this? Well, very!
The water, when smooth,
Does nothing but soothe
And my stress I am able to bury.

Though sometimes the river is choppy;
My handwritten words come out sloppy.
But still, I can write;
On my desktop, tonight,
I will print out a neatened-up copy.

Days Drift By

Days drift by with seeming haste,
Time to fill or time to waste.
Minutes spent can’t be replaced;
They aren’t worth regretting.

Memories are often based
On moments that our minds have traced
To joys or sorrows interlaced
With reasons for forgetting.

Thus, as seconds tick, we’re faced
With weeks appearing closer-spaced
For age makes time seem faster-paced,
Technology abetting.

A Hot Cup of Coffee

Unless it’s iced, it must be HOT –
Not warm but really steaming;
Yet when that isn’t what I’ve got,
I feel like simply screaming!

I rarely order coffee out
‘Cause tepid’s what I’m given
And just one sip erases doubt –
To breakdowns, I am driven.

I don’t add milk, I like it black
And hot like an inferno,
Which can be made, if you’ve the knack,
On stovetop, drip or Sterno.

When coffee’s sold in eateries
Or any other venues,
Unless it’s hot enough to please,
Remove it from the menus!