The Brink

 Some people say we’re on the brink

Of pre-pandemic life; I think

It might be true, but swim or sink,

It’s not that way for me.

For all the fears that I can link,

From ones that simply make me blink

To others leading to a shrink,

Still weigh so heavily.

Some day our glasses we will clink

In restaurants, indoors, and drink

To future days, all rosy pink,

But when? Let’s wait and see...

Aches and Pains

Everyone has aches and pains

When getting older; who complains

Depends, at times, on who refrains

From doing all the kvetching.*

 

For any sympathy one gains

May dwindle if attention wanes

With every detail one explains,

The story always stretching.

 

Each bemoaning thus unchains

Annoyance as one’s patience drains

Although what hopefully remains

Is empathy worth fetching.

 

*Yiddish word for complaining

To Harvey, for his Birthday

A stranger turned into a friend,

You brighten my mornings no end.

It’s great to say hi

To a really nice guy

On whose greeting I’ve come to depend.

 

This pandemic has seemed to erase

Interactions we used to embrace

But at least we can chat

And I’m grateful for that,

Though one day, maybe I’ll see your face!

*I see Harvey on my early morning walks in the city.

We met during the pandemic and are both masked, of course...

When Writing a Verse

A poet, when writing a verse

Should into her feelings immerse

For she won’t survive

If she tries to deprive

What she writes of what might be adverse.

 

Though, of course, she just might intersperse

Words to soften a blow or reverse

Certain thoughts that contrive

To cause damage to thrive

But to out and out lie would be worse.

Why Do

Why do people disregard

The people all around them?

Doing things to spoil the day

For strangers who surround them?

 

Riding motor bikes in parks

Where doing so’s not lawful?

Blasting music I don’t like

At volumes simply awful?

 

Littering when garbage pails

Are plentiful and waiting?

Sitting too close on a bench

(Not rule accommodating)?

 

I wonder if their rudeness

Comes from some infernal plan

Or simply that they do these things

Because they know they can.

TV Back Then

To change the channels, long ago,

We got up off the couch

And turned the dial by leaning down

Or bending in a crouch.

 

The same applied to On and Off

Or Volume – the controls

Required that we move to fill

Our viewing pleasure goals.

 

Of course, we watched in black and white

On channels 2 and 4,

5, 7, 9, 11

Or 13 – there weren’t more.

 

At midnight all the screens went off

Except for static fuzz.

We didn’t think to be annoyed

For that was all there was.

 

Today, so many do not watch

Or have their own TV.

They stream on their devices

And there’s so much there to see.

 

At times I miss the old days, though –

The family gathered ‘round,

Demanding that the youngest move

To switch the show or sound.

 

That said, if you’re not old enough

To know of what I speak,

You’ll think you’re lucky that you missed

A TV so antique.

A Visit Outdoors

A visit outdoors with some friends

On some factors most likely depends –

Like a place you can meet

Be it backyard or street

And some space to which distancing lends.

 

After months when you’ve all been apart

It might take a big push just to start

But by taking the leap

So much joy you will reap

In your mind, on your face, in your heart.

Shakespeare’s Birthday

 I asked my grandson if he knew

Which writer, long ago, 

Had a birthday on this date 

But Henry didn’t seem to know.

He’s the world’s most famous author, 

People everywhere agree.

You ever hear the line that goes,

“To be or not to be?”

In second grade, they haven’t learned

What Shakespeare did produce,

So Henry thought real hard and said,

“Could it be Dr. Seuss?”

I smiled at such a thoughtful guess

(And Dr. Seuss would, too!)

But I was happy Shakespeare

Was a name at least he knew.

Earth Day 2021

For what it’s worth, this day’s for earth

And ways we can protect it,

For all the harm we humans do

Is proof we don’t respect it.

 

The litter that we fritter

Often ends up in the ocean

Killing those who live below to set

Diminishment in motion.

 

And global warming is transforming

Habitats with features

That melt or disappear, thus harming

All the native creatures.

 

It’s time to act because, in fact,

The future’s looking frightful.

The world for our descendants

May be, sadly, less delightful.

Astray

The weathermen led me astray;

I canceled my plans for today.

Expecting some rain

I thought I’d refrain

From an outing an hour away.

 

Instead, there is sun in the sky

So the question I have to ask’s why

When they make their report

They may come up so short

Or, much worse, they might out and out lie.

 

We are fools if we always believe

What we hear, for the “facts” may deceive

And when Nature’s involved

Truth is rarely resolved

For she always has tricks up her sleeve.

My Philosophy

In life, here’s my philosophy:

To be the best that you can be

Just find something you like to do

And see if it works out for you.

 

You also need at least one friend

Or kin on whom you can depend

To lift your spirits or rejoice,

Who’s happy just to hear your voice.

 

The rest is icing on the cake,

For all the choices that you make

Revolve around what’s waiting there

For you to tackle and to share.

Seagulls Swoop

The seagulls swoop, the pigeons strut,

The sparrows flutter in the trees.

All creatures move around me, but

I sit and watch and rest my knees.

 

My second outing’s just for air,

A change of scene to pass the time

And often, by the river’s where

I sit and write my daily rhyme.

 

I’ve often ached for outside space –

A balcony or terrace so

I’d have the perfect private place

Where, maskless, I could always go.

 

But I don’t mind my little hike,

A block or two to snag a bench

And, with a view I really like,

My thirst for nature I can quench.

 

The morning’s time for exercise –

A quick-paced walk, my standard loop,

But afternoons I watch the skies

As clouds float by and seagulls swoop.

Backyard Birds

My son put up a feeder

In his yard, right near a tree.

He added seed, not knowing

Whether any birds we’d see.

 

Yet half an hour later,

There appeared the leading guest

And soon the word, by twitter,

Traveled nest to nest to nest:

 

Some cardinals and chickadees,

Two brightly-yellow hued,

Plus half a dozen other types

All vying for the food.

 

Of course, a squirrel joined the crowd

To scarf the scattered seed,

Which hopefully, he would conclude,

Would satisfy his need.

 

I wonder how that first bird knew

That seed was even there

But I was so thrilled they all came

That I don’t even care.

Special Characters

Don’t use special characters!

In writing I was told,

Next to the title of my poem.

(The letters black and bold.)

 

“Poems Don’t Have to Rhyme,” is what

I chose to name my piece,

But with this title, what I wrote

The site would not release.

 

For only letters, numbers, dashes,

Commas are allowed;

Apostrophes and colons, too,

Are welcomed in that crowd.

 

I looked back at my heading

And I didn’t understand

Exactly how it merited

That tyrant-like command.

 

I had to change my title –

It’s called “Poems” now on my list,

But someone messing with my words

Makes me feel awfully pissed.

(This refers to a different poetry site, not this blog)

Poems Don’t Have to Rhyme

 We celebrate in April

Poets and the words they say

And that is why my grandson

(Second grade) told me today:

“In school we're making poems

Whenever we have writing time 

And guess what, Nana? Did you know

That poems don’t have to rhyme?”

Yes, I said, but then explained

That rhyming is a choice.

Without it, I’d feel like I’d speak

With someone else’s voice.

Of course, in poetry the rhyme

Is not the major goal,

Unless the rhyming gene pervades

Your heart and mind and soul.

Normal

We all have different “normals” –

What we eat or wear or read

Or when we sleep or watch TV

To like the lives we lead.

 

The jobs we do, the trips we take,

The purchases we’re buying –

Our choices all are factors

In our living and our dying.

 

But “normal’s” been upended

In this crisis-laden year,

With many things on hold because

Of circumstance or fear.

 

My normal may not be like yours

Though maybe my resistance

To getting back to what once was

Will keep us at a distance.

People on Parade

My bench provides a perfect view

Of people on parade.

I love to watch each passing person

Artfully displayed.

 

Some taxi yellow hi-top sneakers,

Jeans with ripped-up knees,

Tie-dye sweatshirts, neon caps

And college-boasting tees…

 

A toddler on a scooter

With a helmet rosy pink,

A couple on a nearby bench

With wine in cups to clink…

 

The dog folk pulling leashes

And the bikers blasting rap,

The nannies wheeling babies

Holding toys or in a nap.

 

A New York stew of humans

Makes the afternoon so nice,

The flavors so appealing

With variety the spice.

Pet Peeves

A dog took a dump near the bench where I’m sitting.

The owner stood by ‘til his dog was done shitting,

Then lazily did a poor job with his scooping,

Thus leaving the smelly remains of the pooping.

 

A breeze came along and the odor came drifting.

I tried with my body to block it by shifting,

Without any luck, so I’m stuck here with smelling

A scent that my senses find rather repelling.

 

Oh, walkers of canines, please note your surroundings

And give it your best picking up your pet’s moundings.

You should be aware that the remnants you’re leaving

Are causing your neighbors a little pet peeving.

In Six Small Squares

We meet on screen in six small squares

To stay in touch, as each one shares

What’s going on, the latest news;

To do so, Zoom is what we use.

 

We’re scattered now, so our routine

Of monthly dates where we’d convene

Has modified to just the talk –

No lunch, museum, shop or walk.

 

In six small squares, we can assess

Who’s doing well or who’s a mess.

We trade advice and give support

And somehow help to hold the fort.

 

We’ve met for almost forty years

And our connection perseveres.

Though age has caught us unawares,

We stay the same in six small squares.

Watching Figure Skating

They glide across the ice like silk,

Then leap and twirl and spin,

Their bodies molded to the perfect

Shape that they are in.

 

Their costumes sparkle in the lights,

The music sets the tone

As every skater claims the ice

As his or hers alone.

 

The years of training culminate

In one routine, one chance

To prove to all the judges

They’re the ones who should advance.

 

I always feel so bad when

On the road to reach the top,

Someone’s nerves kick in and suddenly,

We witness a ker-plop.

Kin and Kith

We choose our kith but not our kin

And for the world we’re living in,

Such choices, sometimes helped by luck,

Are great, for with our kin we’re stuck.

 

Of course, we sometimes do desert

Relationships that cause us hurt

So kin may end up in a break-up

But, with friends, we kith and make up.

Prince Philip

 He didn’t make 100

So there’ll be no birthday fest

But the Windsor Castle Chapel

Is where he will lie at rest.

Prince Philip died at 99;

The flags will fly half-mast,

With ceremonies more subdued

Than in pre-Covid past

The Queen and all her subjects

Will join in to mourn the Duke,

The public told to stay away,

Though not with much rebuke.

The question that’s on all our minds,

The answer far from clear,

Is whether Harry and his wife 

Will buck up and appear.

My Limited Perfection

In rhyme, I’m a perfectionist;

In other things, I’m not.

You’d think I’d treat all things the same

But rhyme is what I’ve got.

 

For patience is a virtue which

I really don’t possess.

I’ll rush though projects though results

Will surely not impress.

 

My sewing comes out crooked

And my seams don’t seem to match.

My baking skill are mediocre,

Though I bake from scratch.

 

You’d never want me as your chef;

I clean, but things don’t shine

And wrapping gifts has never been

A special skill of mine.

 

My ironing leaves creases

And technology’s a bane.

My plants all droop and getting rid

Of clutter is a pain.

 

But when I write, I’ll work each line

Until the rhyme’s in sync.

My pencil and eraser let me

Change things as I think.

 

Some people are obsessive

‘Bout so much, and all the time

While as for me, that just applies

To writing poems in rhyme.

In the Trash

It lay atop a garbage can,

A pillow, brightly red,

Which showed a beat who held a heart

And this is what it said:

 

“I love you,” stitched in bold white print.

It stopped me in my tracks;

For in someone’s relationship,

There must have been some cracks.

 

Who tosses out a gift of love

Unless affection’s gone?

A fling upon a trash heap means

It’s time now to move on.

 

That pillow, looking so forlorn,

Once graced a couch or bed

But now it calls attention

To the what-once-was instead.

The Bird Seed Lady

She pushes a shopping cart, loaded with seed,

On paths by the river and park

And tosses out handfuls, believing she’ll feed

Every pigeon and sparrow and lark.

 

The pigeons swoop down, crowding railing and bench

As they jostle to get their fair share

And if anyone wants to sit down, well, the stench

Of the droppings says they shouldn’t dare.

 

Yet the lady with bird seed, she cares not a whit

For the humans, but does she know that

All the seed she distributes gives squirrels a hit

In addition to each local rat?

 

The creatures of cities don’t need to be fed;

They’re industrious, savvy and slick.

So I look at the seeds that this lady has spread

And I wonder just what makes her tick.

Appointment Lady

Had to get some blood work

As my doctor did demand

So I walked up to the lab

With my appointment in my hand.

 

A few were there before me

As we checked in one by one.

They would text when they were ready;

I could wait out in the sun.

 

My cell phone beeped; I went inside

Where others sat in chairs.

“Appointment lady!” I was called,

Eliciting some stares.

 

I guess most folks were walk-ins;

My appointment really paid.

With some clicks on the computer,

They, too, might have made the grade.

The Course of a Poem

A pencil, a notebook,

A random reflection

Determine the course

Of a poem, its direction.

 

The words hop on board

Heading hither and yonder

While thoughts make decisions

To settle or wander.

 

Ideas tumble down

Joining rhythm in moving

As verses flesh out,

Sometimes dancing and grooving.

 

The final result, whether

Failed or successful,

Is like an elixir

For soothing the stressful.

Second Covid Birthday

For my second Covid birthday

Nature surely did its duty

For providing me (and others)

With a day of perfect beauty.

 

Did my early morning walking

As the sun began to rise,

Hearing birds belt out their greetings

Under glowing orange skies.

 

Spent the afternoon just strolling

Through the paths of Central Park,

Where the trees are all a’blossom

After months of being dark.

 

There were bicycles and children

And musicians on the sax,

Also joggers, dogs and picnics;

It was time to just relax.

 

I could see the city waking

From its sad pandemic dream.

There’s a long way left to go

But slowly, hope is gaining steam.

 

Now I’m back beside the river,

On a bench beneath the sun,

Feeling happy on my birthday

And the day is still not done!

A Poke

 The calendar says April

But it’s winter once again,

Although the bulbs are up and bears

Have likely left the den.

I bundled up to take my walk

With scarf and gloves and hood,

Not attired for the season

As I would have thought I should.

It’s a poke by Mother Nature,

A reminder we should not

Get complacent for what we expect

Might not be what we’ve got.

A Modicum of Power

 A modicum of power

Is important for esteem

For everyone, at times, should be

The captain of the team.

When someone always grabs the reins 

And claims to be in charge,

The space between that someone

And those left behind looms large.

Just being in control

Of even something rather small

Can make one feel that he or she

Is in nobody’s thrall.