Cold Shoulder

The side of a road’s called a shoulder, but why?
The resemblance, to me, isn’t striking.
The berm or the edge, a more literal choice,
Would be, somehow, much more to my liking.

I enjoy a good metaphor when apropos
But in this case I’m driven to wonder
Why not elbow or ankle or even an ear –
All could help to keep stop lanes asunder.

Who came up with this phrase? Not a bureaucrat, no.
Maybe somebody clever with wordin’
And because of his efforts, we’re left, to this day,
With the need to thus shoulder the burden.

No Room at the Inn

They play the blues on Thursday nights
And oh, we love to go,
But obligations in the way
Don’t often let us show.

Last night, though, we would have a chance
And left our friends behind
To catch up on the music scene
For which we’d often pined.

We got there early, but we found
All tables filled or saved,
The locals guaranteeing that
Our hopes were crashed and caved.

Dejectedly, we turned around;
Drove back to Hemlock Farms*
Where our buddies welcomed us right back
With warm and welcome arms.

*the community where we have a home

FaceTime

FaceTime's not replace-time 
But I'd say it's second best
For connecting with your loved ones
Gives those missing-yous a rest.

You can see them, you can hear them
And, although you cannot touch,
You feel like you're right beside them 
And I like that, oh so much.

In these modern times, a distance,
Even that of many miles,
Can be narrowed using FaceTime,
Bringing happiness and smiles.

Diminished

Anxiety starts to creep in just a bit
As my spouse plans an upcoming trip.
When not on a tour there's an excellent chance
Of a mishap, a problem or blip.

There are flights and hotels and connections to make 
Plus the weather and luggage and such.
How much time to spend here? Do we need more time there?
All these questions for me are too much.

But my husband explains we'll just do what we can;
Take it easy and all will be fine.
Expectations from younger days we must adjust -
Like a glass, not a bottle of wine.

It's okay to accept that we're somewhat diminished
For onward we travel - there's much left unfinished!

Newer Choices

Tourists here to visit
In their multilingual voices
Have so many things to see
Including lots of newer choices.

The High Line, great for walking,
Built on railroad tracks forsaken,
Now endowed with gorgeous plantings,
Is a route most often taken.

The Oculus, a shopping mall
And transportation center
Is an architect’s fulfillment
Of a dream we all can enter.

And the latest new addition,
Hudson Yards, with room for climbing
On its famous Vessel sculpture
Is well worth a little rhyming.

Years ago when people traveled
To New York, if they’d a listing
Of the sights to see, it wasn’t these
‘Cause they were not existing.

Searching Online

You’d think that you could find online
Whatever you might need
But after wasting lots of time,
That is not guaranteed.

My dresser needs replacing;
It’s a very narrow size
And not one was to my liking
(That’s despite so many tries).

I’m defeated and I’m stymied.
This was not my first attempt
Yet the endless scrolling site to site
Has got me all verklempt.*

My search has now been halted
‘Fore frustration leads to tears.
I’ll guess I’ll keep my dresser
For another couple years.

*overcome with emotion, upset

My Laundry Basket

My laundry basket’s tall and round,
Of wicker or rattan.
We’ve had it since some years before
Our children’s lives began.

It sits beneath the windowsill,
Its cover in its place
And patiently accepts our clothes
‘Til it is out of space.

The sheet and towels, socks and shirts
And pants all end up there –
The spectrum of apparel
That my spouse and I do wear.

When wash day comes, just once a week,
The basket takes a rest
Until it’s time for one of us,
Again, to get undressed.

Faded

My bright pink hat has faded 
To a washed-out-looking shade.
The sun has done a number;
It looks awful, I'm afraid.

Yet still, I plop it on my head
Though it is far from new
For if we're being honest, well,
I'm pretty faded, too.

The End of August

As August approaches its end
It’s harder for us to pretend
That the summer’s still here
For it seems pretty clear
That to autumn our thoughts do transcend.

All the stores and the sites advertise
Sales on clothes and, of course, school supplies.
Camps have shuttered their bunks,
Swimmers had their last dunks
And the sun takes much longer to rise.

Those who can may enjoy one last week
When routines aren’t set, so to speak
But when Labor Day hits
Summer’s calling it quits
Leaving those not prepared up the creek.

A Bunch of Words

A poem is just a bunch of words 
Unless somebody reads it
And, like a plant, will droop and fade
If there's no one to feed it.

It doesn't need a lot of care
To help with its survival,
Just someone to acknowledge it
And welcome its arrival.

A quick perusal will suffice 
Though surely there's no onus,
But if more readers get on board, 
Of course, that is a bonus.

The poet writes because she must
And plants her words, not knowing
If they will wither on the vine 
Or maybe keep on growing.

My Senior Cone

Certain stores have discounts
Saving this or that percent 
If you're old or are perceived that way -
I think that's their intent.

In supermarkets in my 'hood
On Tuesdays, says the sign,
Seniors save a whopping 10% -
Just mention it in line.

They never ask for proof; I guess
They take you at your word,
Assuming claiming to be older
Would be quite absurd.

Yet still I was surprised today
(I read the notice twice)
To purchase at the ice cream shop
A cone at senior price.

A Wednesday special, but in truth,
Am I in this alone,
To question why a senior
Needs a discount on a cone?

Emptying the Reserves

Growing older, one observes
That energy starts waning.
Though it’s not what one deserves,
There’s no use in complaining.

Aging throws us learning curves
To deal with verve that’s draining.
When nothing’s left in the reserves,
It’s time for some refraining.

The Perfect Gift

My Aunt Sydelle turned 91;
To find a gift was hard,
But then I had a great idea –
A years-old Mah Jongg card.

She’d mentioned wishing that she had
A card from ’55,
The year when she first bought her set,
To keep that time alive.

On eBay I did track one down
To match her Mah Jongg set.
Her face when she unwrapped it
Was as thrilled as one could get.

Way back in 1955
When this same card was new
No one could have quite predicted
It would make a fresh debut.

Feeding the Grands

Yogurt smoothies, Cocoa Puffs,
Mac & cheese and chicken;
Mushrooms, couscous, turkey (sliced)
And lots of snacks for pickin’.

Cheetos, corn chips, Goldfish,
Peaches, olives and a plum;
Watermelon, cantaloupe
And still, there’s more to come…

Swiss cheese, pickles, Kit Kats
And some mini ice-cream cones;
Yummy corn still on the cob,
Organic milk for bones.

Sautéed broccoli and oh,
Some lemon poppy muffins,
All to fill the bellies
Crying out for constant stuffins’.

A weekend with the grandkids
Is exhausting but so sweet
Just as long as we supply the food
They really love to eat.

Cricketus Interruptus

The crickets' constant critching call
Is covered when the raindrops fall.
A sudden downpour, Nature-made,
Did cause their noise to quickly fade.

Much earlier, the grands complained 
They couldn't sleep unless it waned.
(The "it" they meant was cricket chatter,
Not the raindrops' pitter patter.)

Though soon they both were lulled to sleep
Into a rest so sweet and deep
That when the chirping chorus drowned 
They noticed not the lack of sound.

But I enjoyed the critch and thrum,
As soothing as a noise can come
Especially, when most exquisite,
H & h* are here to visit.

*my grandkids, ages  almost 6 and 4

Object Misplaced

There are times when an object misplaced
Is the most pressing problem you've faced
For you search and you search
But get left in the lurch,
All that time you spent searching a waste.

If you're lucky, you'll find what's been lost 
After each pile of stuff had been tossed
Yet it's possible that
You won't find where it's at
With frustration and sadness the cost. 

A Math Teacher's Observation

When kids can’t read analog clocks
There might be some stumbling blocks.
Just try on for size
The expression “clockwise”
And watch as confusion unlocks.

For both “clockwise” and “counter” are based
On the way a clock moves as it’s faced.
Though with digital screens
Who can tell what that means
So that concept just can’t be embraced.

Woodstock

I still have my tickets
And what I recall
Was the feeling of kinship
Connecting us all.

We rolled down our windows,
In traffic for miles,
As peace-fingered V-signs
Elicited smiles.

“You goin’ to Woodstock?”
We’d shout as we passed
Though since everyone was,
We knew we’d have a blast.

They talk of the mud
And the sex and the drugs
But we went for the music
And peace, love and hugs.

The 60’s was magic
With hope in the air
And all who remember
Were glad to be there.

Back at Home

The hotel room was quiet
And the curtains made it dark.
The bed was comfy and the pillows
Soft and on the mark.

Tonight we’re back at home, though;
Nine stories up, but still,
The city makes its presence known
As cities always will.

Our bedroom won’t be silent
And the blinds let in some light.
The sheets won’t be as crisp as those
We slept in just last night.

But there’s a certain comfort
When you travel or you roam
To return to the familiar
(Though imperfect) place called home.

Selma

Got to meet my aunt's good friend
I've heard so much about.
She helped to make the birthday bash 
More special, there's no doubt.

She's got that spark that never fades 
With certain genes and luck,
Creating a delightful soul
With smarts and lots of pluck.

How lovely for my Aunt Sydelle 
To have somebody who,
Like Selma, has it all together,
Still, at 92.

Back to Back Birthdays

Yesterday the birthday girl,
Her rainbow tutu swishing,
Blew out (with brother's help) the candles 
Lit for birthday wishing.

From playground, train and parachute,
The 4 year olds were romping
Until the time for pizza came,
With juice and lots of chomping.

Today the celebration was
Just slightly more subdued,
Though with stories told and mem'ries shared
With fun it was imbued.

The birthday girl, at 91,
Enjoyed a home-cooked meal,
Drank gin and tonics then blew out
Her candles with some zeal.

Two birthday bashes back to back
On both ends of life's arc,
Let me have a double helping 
Of what such a day can spark.

Feelings

They're never wrong and always right
Though others may dispute this
For subjectivity prevents 
Naysayers to refute this.

The way you feel is how you feel;
The trick is how you handle 
The downers so their flames
Remain like those upon a candle.

For otherwise you'll lose control
And soon a conflagration
May spiral to a point where others 
Feel some consternation.

So get a grip and take a breath
Although you might be reeling.
You may choose not to share the way
You are (correctly!) feeling.

Too Many Cooks

If a broth can be spoiled 
By too many cooks
That advice can, as well, be applied
To a patient consulting 
With too many docs
To determine what problem's inside.

Each one hopes he can help 
But conflicting reports 
Put the questioner into a tizzy
And the tests and the labs 
And the visits combine
To add one more new symptom - that's dizzy.

Frustration and pain, though,
In tandem, demand
A solution that might not be easy.
Still, stepping on somebody's
Toes may result
In discomfort that borders on queasy.

Leos

Lots of Leos in my life –
Astrologers believe
That certain signs with others
Symbiosis do achieve.

My husband is a Leo
And his birthday is today.
We’d celebrate regardless of
The Zodiac’s okay.

But the stars are in alignment
For this Leo and this Aries
Have shared many celebrations,
Never once as adversaries!

Flash Flood Alert

On our phones, a piercing screech
Is sending an alert,
To keep us all protected
So nobody will get hurt.

A flash flood may be coming!
In addition to some showers,
Streams may overflow their banks
Within the coming hours.

The thunder rumbles, skies grow dark
Yet calm’s the way I seem
For my apartment’s nowhere near
What I would call a stream.

The river’s just a block away
But mostly it refrains
From spilling over onto land
Despite some heavy rains.

For some that jarring warning
Is as welcome as can be
Though I think it’s pretty obvious
That group includes – not me!

Greeting Cards

I love receiving greeting cards
On birthdays or occasions
And sending them, as well,
Which kind of evens the equations.

Yet lately they are hard to find –
So many stores are closing
And people turn to e-cards,
Or that’s what I am supposing.

Some local drug stores carry cards,
Selections not extensive,
But though they’re nice, the problem is
That they are quite expensive.

Such prices just discourage those
Who’d like to send a greeting
And losing customers, to me,
Seems very self-defeating.

Waiting for the Ferry

The water laps the ferry dock;
I keep my eyes upon the clock
For soon my chariot will arrive.
(We city people hate to drive!)

The schedule is accurate
And rarely strays the slightest bit.
I know that at 3:46
It will be here, so time for tix.

I open up the trusty app;
A few clicks later, it's a wrap.
I'll flash my phone and strut onboard;
A peaceful ride is my reward.

Pain Scale

They ask about your pain within
A scale of 1 – 10.
The answer, though depends upon
Exactly where and when.

For pain can vary, changing by
The hour or the minute
And sometimes you can’t pinpoint pain
Despite the fact you’re in it.

Unless you suffer, why on earth
Would you consent to go
To a doctor’s office, where you hope
That someone in the know…

Could help you feel much better
And what difference should it make
Where your pain is on the scale?
Find a cure, for goodness’ sake!

The Shed

We purchased a shed for our yard.
To fill it was not very hard -
The sleds and the bikes
And the things no one likes
With a flimsy old lock standing guard.

To mice, it's a winter retreat 
And last summer, we thought it was neat
When a fox made her bed 
For her kits there instead
Of the groundhog, who left in defeat.

All the shed holds is useless old junk
And this fact gets my spouse in a funk
But it gives us a peek
Of some wildlife unique
And at least we've encountered no skunk!

Bird Party

The birds are having a party;
They're gathering out back,
Although balloons and streamers
They most certainly do lack.

They line up on the patio
Then swoop from tree to tree,
Alighting on the branches
Where the leaves won't let me see.

There's such freedom in their flying
They look joyous in the air 
But for all I know, it's just a way
To get from here to there.

Marilyn's Birthday

It’s Marilyn’s birthday; in previous years
We’d go out to dinner, at least.
We’d each have an entrée and share a dessert,
The closest, for us, to a feast.

We didn’t trade gifts, but on “big ones” we would –
Maybe bracelets, ceramics, or bags
And we’d talk of the turns of our different lives –
The triumphs and also the snags.

But Marilyn’s gone now; just four years ago
I saw her on that hospital bed,
With her arms wrapped around a stuffed monkey, a pose
She would never have made if not dead.

I miss my dear friend and am sad she’s not here.
For her birthday, I’ll offer a toast
To the memory of all the time that we had
Before, sadly, she gave up the ghost.