Bicycle Playing Cards

Around since 1885,

These playing cards contain

A fascinating history

That Google helped obtain.

My favorite fact’s from World War II.

(It’s more than rumored lore.)

Some special decks were sent as gifts

To prisoners of war.

These U.S. soldiers, held in camps

In Germany, did learn

That moistening the cards would yield

A map for their return.

Escape routes cleverly concealed

Within the layered cards

Would likely not be noticed by

The German soldier guards.

In Vietnam, as well, some decks

With only Ace of Spades,

Were sent to the Americans

To use in jungle raids.

The Viet Cong were so afraid

Of how this Ace appeared,

Just seeing one would make them flee

So villages were cleared.

While we are playing Solitaire,

Casino, War or Spit,

We should remember how those cards

Helped troops, if just a whit.

The Funeral on TV

The congregants were distanced,

Wearing masks, as well they should,

While hearing of the man who always

Knew just where he stood.

Three Presidents paid tribute,

Quite an honor to receive

And the Speaker of the House as well,

So many there to grieve.

Though thousands lined the streets and went

To see him lie in state,

To most, the TV coverage

Was what they did await.

John Lewis spent his life in battle,

All for civil rights,

Obama’s speech reminding us

To not give up those fights.

Defiance

Defiantly showing his face,

He wouldn’t be put in his place.

“You’ve no right to ask

Me to put on a mask

And my contacts I won’t let you trace!”

He stormed past the guards at the store

Who were stationed right next to the door

While the onlookers shrugged

Thinking they might get slugged

If they gave him a needed what-for.

It’s too bad that the virus can’t land

On those doubters so we can demand

That they loudly retract

What their stubbornness lacked

While they followed the chain of command.

Open-Shut

A little shamrock plant I own,

With purple leaves, has nicely grown

And though my thumb is far from green,

It clings to staying on the scene.

New shoots sprout up when old ones die,

A never-ending stem supply

Of trefoil leaves that nod and dance

When breezes give them half a chance.

At night, they close themselves up tight,

A sight that brings me much delight.

I’ve never caught them in the act;

Perhaps we’ve made a silent pact.

Yet once the daylight’s lit the sky,

With sunbeams glowing from on high,

The leaves pop open in their way

To greet another brand-new day.

Check In

My Kindle is confusing.

When I’m finished with a book,

I have to check it in; to me,

That needs a second look.

For “check in” every other place

Has quite a different drift.

In restaurants, hotels or flights,

Admission will be swift.

Of course, you check out books

When at a library or store,

But if you must return them,

“Checking in” is not your chore.

What I’d suggest to Kindle

If they’d care for my concern

Would be “check out” books to read them

And, when finished, hit “return!”

East River Sighting

The river is notorious

For filth and trash and slime,

With rumors of dead bodies floating

Once upon a time.

I’ve witnessed homeless people

Dumping urine (maybe worse)

Into water which you’d think

No normal person would immerse.

Yet yesterday I spotted both

A kayak and a boat

Which were following a swimmer

Stroking hard to stay afloat.

Baring skin as white as chalk

(No wetsuit acting as a shield),

She proceeded through the current,

Her emotions well-concealed.

For if she felt some revulsion

Or exuberance or fear

Maybe all her concentration

Helped to make them disappear.

As we watchers on the promenade

Did marvel in our masks

I reflected on how people are

So varied in their tasks.

Person, Woman, Man, Camera, T.V.

Identify an elephant

And I will shout, “Hooray!”

For you’re so smart you could be

Leader of the U.S.A.

Another test to prove your worth?

Repeat this after me –

Five words: they’re “Person, Woman, Man”

Then “Camera” and “T.V.”

It’s comforting to know we’re led

By one with an I.Q.

That helps him to distinguish

All the red states from the blue.

Well, I am just a Person,

Yes, a Woman, but, oh Man,

On Camera, for T.V., I’d say,

“I hope he gets the can!”

Day Camp

My grandkids are lucky; they’re going to camp.

To them, it’s the summertime norm.

The owners have naturally had to revamp

So to Covid rules they can conform.

Each camp group’s a “pod” with ten kids who’ve been sent

And they keep to themselves all day long.

No joining with others for any event,

Not a swim or a ball game or song.

The counselors are masked, social distance observed

And for every day since camp’s begun,

My grands come home psyched, with their joy unreserved

And describe all their hours of fun.

Not all children have access to places like this

And I feel for the ones who lose out,

But I’m happy my grandkids do not have to miss

What the summertime should be about.

First Pitch

Tonight I’ll watch the Yankees

On TV and I can’t wait,

Though the stands will sit there empty;

Loyal fans can’t congregate.

For me, the highlight’s sure to be

The first pitch, always tossed

By a person on whom such an honor

Won’t be seen as lost.

I’ve heard that POTUS* turned it down,

A movement many viewed

As self-preserving, since he would

Be obviously booed.

The final choice is quite a treat

For it is Dr. Fauci,

Who’ll make millions cheer while also

Making POTUS extra grouchy!

*President of the United States

What Makes a Home

My normal route diverted,

I walked north instead of south

And passed a man who looked like he

Existed hand to mouth.

He’d made a small encampment

Underneath a walking bridge,

Though of course he lacked a bathroom

Or a closet or a fridge.

But I had to give him credit

For I couldn’t help but look

As he knelt before a bookshelf

Picking out the perfect book.

There were maybe twenty volumes,

Neatly standing side by side,

Clearly adding to the ambiance

Of where he does reside.

We can make our living quarters

Cozy, if we are in luck,

But to do so when you’re homeless

Takes a little bit of pluck.

A Poet's Demise

I got word a fellow poet died,

A cohort from the “Soup.”

I’d wondered where he’d gone to,

Maybe time off to regroup.

Though we’d had some things in common,

We’d not moved to being friends,

Yet his writing still provided

Some poetic dividends.

Still, on learning his “hiatus”

Will be permanent, I feel

Much more sad than I’d expect

For death, right now, seems so surreal.

He bequeaths to us impressions

In the words he chose to write

As I guess I will when going “gentle

Into that good night.”

written in memory of Matthew Anish

Birdbrains

I passed an iron gate with birds

On either side, a’strut.

There was a space to squeeze through,

Though the gate was mostly shut.

The sparrows on the far side

Pecked for food along the ground

With a pigeon as protector

Guarding all the crumbs they’d found.

Yet the near side had 2 pigeons

Trying hard to breach the gap

But for every move they made, the guard

Unleashed a little zap.

As I watched the scene, I wondered

Just how dumb those birds were; why,

If they wanted to cross over,

All they had to do was fly!

As Hot As

It isn’t a coincidence

That hell’s perceived as hot

For as for being in a boiling place,

I’d rather not.

The limits to my comfort zone

Where summer is concerned

Do not require that my skin

Turn red or crisp and burned.

It’s also not dependent on

The pouring out of sweat,

Although that’s as uncomfortable

As I am like to get.

No, all it takes ‘til I become

Dante in his Inferno

Is 90’s plus humidity –

From outside, I adjourn-o!

Flashes

I think of the little café in Berlin

Where we breakfasted sitting outside

And the strolls that we took from our Danish hotel

With the icy canal as our guide.

Gelato in Italy, pea soup in Prague

And hot cocoa on cold Swedish streets,

The memories cropping unbidden and yet

Sweet and lovely, like welcoming treats.

My travel’s on hold but these flashes are proof

That experiences while you’re away

Make a lasting impression to savor and mull

When you’re stuck in a pandemic day.

Stickers

The teacher store sold stickers

Which I often did employ

On students’ compositions

To add just a little joy.

A smiley face, a yellow star

Or glowing words of praise

Were the tools I used to soften

All the errors of their ways.

But now that I’m retired

I’m still stickering, although

It is now done with my grandchild

And she loves her stickers so!

She has quite a huge collection

So she’s free to use her mind

To create artistic scenes

With all the stickers she can find.

Her grandpa and her nana (me!)

Join her, but please don’t mock

For we stick with her for hours

Never feeling sticker shock!

An Optimist and Pessimist

An optimist and pessimist were sitting in the park,

Their outlooks as divergent as the light is to the dark.

“I think this will be over soon,” the optimist declared.

The pessimist just looked at her as if she were impaired.

“Our lives will never ever be the ones we used to lead,”

The pessimist asserted, but her buddy disagreed.

“You’ll see, before you know it, all will be just like before,”

The optimist responded, a believer to the core.

Their argument continued, each convinced that she was right,

Not seeing any grays at all between the black and white.

Yet time will tell whose thoughts pan out, for now the world’s a mess

And I don’t see it going back. (My side? Well, take a guess!)

What We Do

A rooster struts, an eagle soars,

A caterpillar inches;

A dolphin leaps, a panther slinks,

A crab, if bothered, pinches.

A farmer reaps, a tailor sews,

A chef sautés and seasons;

A dentist drills, an artist paints,

All with their private reasons.

My husband vacuums and he cooks

To keep his psyche going,

While I write rhymes so I’ll recall

Which way the wind was blowing.

Life is Just a Bowl of...

Cherries are the perfect snack

When they are deep dark red.

If you’ve a sweet-tooth craving,

With these fruits it will be fed.

They should be firm when purchased

And, if possible, a’stem.

Just rinse and fill a little bowl

With quite a bunch of them.

Remember to provide a cup

For those annoying pits,

Then pluck them from your mouth

(Unless you’re one of those who spits).

A handful is enough for me

But vigilant remain

‘Cause if you aren’t careful,

Man, that cherry juice does stain!

To Be a Bird on 83rd

To be a bird on 83^rd

Would really be a treat

For you could have your choice of homes

And wouldn’t that be neat!

Since on the block that sits between

East End and (westward) York,

Are homemade folksy houses

Meant for little birds. (No stork!)

Hand-painted in bright blues, they have

A decorated touch,

Each one unique with trimmings

Any bird would like so much.

Well, maybe not, for I’ve seen

Not a single bird in sight,

But to humans who take notice,

They’re an absolute delight!

Little Things

The bigger things are obvious

And are to be expected,

Like sickness, job loss and the fear

Of what’s not disinfected.

But little things I haven’t seen

In ages have affected

The way I feel and I don’t see

How they will be corrected.

Graffiti’s back and littering

And parks they’ve not inspected

For drinking (beer cans everywhere)

And dog poo not collected.

Some car alarms have sounded

(Most ‘round here are disconnected)

And garbage in the streets means rats

Have lately been detected.

The little things add up, of course,

So people have defected,

But those of us who choose to stay

Can’t help but feel dejected.

Chiclets

On subway platforms, long ago,

Were 2 cent gum machines

And splurging on some Chiclets

Was just one of my routines.

I didn’t chew gum often

But I couldn’t quite resist

Those tiny boxes, 2 squares each,

Which now do not exist.

In peppermint or spearmint,

One pack yellow, one pack green,

Those little Chiclet pillows

Made your mouth feel fresh and clean.

Though candy stores had Chiclets

Sold in packets holding 10,

I wouldn’t waste my money

And was only tempted when…

I had to take the subway

And the gum machine was full;

2 pennies in my pocket

Let me give in to the pull.

Chalk It Up

We drew a sun, a cloud, a heart,

Umbrellas and two girls

To dress and decorate with jewels

And hats atop their curls.

Last week our art had fireworks

And flags to celebrate

July the 4^th, with flowers, too

To thus commemorate.

Those chalk designs aren’t meant to last;

The old ones disappeared.

Just one good downpour wipes them out,

I thought, as dark clouds neared.

Our lives are as ephemeral

As chalk-drawn pictures seem.

We make our mark upon the earth

And vanish, like a dream.

10,000 Dwellings

10,000 vacant dwellings

In Manhattan are for rent

Which even a vaccine would prove

Too late to quite prevent.

For people left in droves, their reasons

Obvious and sad –

No jobs or money to sustain

The lifestyle that they had.

The city, minus all the buzz,

Is lacking in appeal

So all those bare apartments

Don’t seem like the greatest deal.

If even I, a city gal,

With New York blood and mind,

Is questioning the urban life,

Will any lease be signed?

Master Class

Buy a house in Houston

And be in for a surprise.

You cannot try the master bath

Or bedroom on for size.

For “master” in descriptions

Hints of slavery and so

The bed and bath are “primary,”

A helpful thing to know.

So many words are changing

It could be a real disaster

If we can’t keep up because of all

The rules to (uh-oh!) master.

Moving Away

Change is not within my range

Of comfort zones and so,

When someone moves away, it’s hard

For me to let her go.

My dear dear friend is getting set

To move some hours away

And though the time is right for her,

I wish that she could stay.

Before the virus, we would meet

Once monthly, give or take,

With phone calls keeping up with

Every joy and every ache.

We talk more now and that won’t change

When she has made her move

So she will still be in my life,

Which distance won’t disprove.

We’ll visit, too; the drive’s not bad

But still, it will seem strange.

That’s how things go, but what I know is

I’m no fan of change.

Shell Game

Early morning, Central Park

And captured on his phone,

My husband saw a turtle,

On the pathway, all alone.

Its shell had lovely markings

But what made the scene unique

Was a bunch of sparrows, following

And chirping, beak to beak.

It seemed the birds were curious

About this moving shell,

An unfamiliar presence

Which just didn’t ring a bell.

The turtle crawled, the sparrows chirped,

A little morning spark

To start another summer day

In New York’s Central Park.

By Any Other Name

The river’s not really a river

‘Cause water can flow either way.

Right now it is tumbling downtown.

Tomorrow? I simply can’t say.

The jet skiers seem not to mind much;

The same for each tugboat or ferry.

I wonder if they’re all aware that

They’re riding a brisk estuary.

When mapmakers draw up their pictures,

Simplicity’s what they deliver.

It’s hard to say East Estuary,

So that’s why it’s called the East River.

Hamilton on the 4th

“Hamilton’s” the show to watch

On Independence Day.

If you’ve not seen it, find out if

You can concoct a way.

On Broadway, it was magical –

No one would disagree –

But what appealed to me the most

Was, oh, the poetry!

The acting, music, costumes, sets

Were all top-notch, indeed,

Yet all those rhyming lyrics must be

Brilliant to succeed.

And that they are! Rewatching, I

Remembered the advice –

Have by your side the written words,

On paper or device.

Or memorize them, like my son,

So you’ll appreciate

The fact that they are super-mega-

Ultra flat-out great!

July the 4^th ‘s for barbecue

And fireworks and such.

Still, if you can, catch “Hamilton” –

You’ll like it oh, so much!

Tomorrow's Poem Tonight

To write tomorrow’s poem tonight

Will put me on my way

So when I’m with my grandkids

I’ll have extra time to play.

I will not have to squeeze it in

Between the meals and snacks

And all the fun activities –

We’re busy to the max.

Of course, I can carve out a block

Of minutes I can spare

Since of my writing both my grands

Are very much aware.

But once it’s written, I can rest

And will not have to fret

Because my poem’s not finished

Or perhaps not started yet.

So if you read these words, please note

That they’re from yesterday

Which, though accurate tomorrow,

Aren’t really true today.

Out of the Bottle

When states start to follow the model

Of moving ahead at full throttle

Their cases will spike

And to stop them is like

Getting genies back into a bottle.

For to follow a long quarantine,

Seeing people just up on a screen,

Being out and about

Plants the seed of a doubt

We’re at risk ‘til they find a vaccine.

So to many, it’s too much to ask

That they distance and keep on a mask.

Oh, the future looks bleak

When we hear Fauci speak

Of the fools whom we should take to task.

My Passport

In my dream, I lost my passport;

I was searching high and low

Though it wasn’t clear exactly where

I was supposed to go.

I was frantic as I rooted

Through my bag with all its stuff

As the line was inching forward

And I knew I couldn’t bluff.

But at last, I seemed to find it,

Zip-lock baggied, buried deep,

So I stuck it in a pocket

Knowing it would safely keep.

The analysis is easy;

There’s no need for Dr. Freud.

With my passport gone I couldn’t travel,

Which I’ve so enjoyed.

It’s ironic, though, that in the dream

There was a happy end.

In reality, my travel now’s

No better than pretend.