Watching Halloween

Walking through the streets I see

The families all decked out.

It’s Halloween and that is what

The fuss is all about.

 

The kids, of course, in costumes,

But the grown-ups are, as well

And later there’s a dog parade;

This date sure casts a spell.

 

At this point in my life, I watch,

Enjoying all the style,

Remembering my costume days,

Which brings a wistful smile.

My Name

My tap teacher calls me Irene.

She knows me from up on the screen.

When she gets my name wrong

It’s like I don’t belong;

Maybe some of you know what I mean.

 

For if you are possessed of a name

Which, to others, sounds somewhat the same

As your own, but it’s not

Then what choice have you got

But keep quiet or put them to shame.

 

What I do will depend on my mood –

Suck it up and continue to brood

Or point out the mistake,

Which is good for my sake,

But may come off to others as rude.

 

Still, a name tells the world who you are

And excuses go only so far.

If it’s me that you mean

To address, it’s ILENE

And to call me Irene is bizarre.

The Halloween Parade

The classes came out, grade by grade,

In costumes for the grand parade,

A hand-held sign announcing each,

In lock-step with the ones who teach.

A motor-scootered cop came first

To make sure traffic was dispersed

While friends and families lined the streets 

To photograph or send out Tweets.

We saw the first grade classes pass

And there was Hadley with her class.

As Ariel, she marched and grinned 

(In human form, not scaled or finned).

The third grade group came up so fast

We almost missed when Henry passed.

He gave a glance but didn’t smile,

As serious is more his style.

A sweet event for Halloween

For all the students to be seen

Parading in the neighborhood

As, on this holiday, they should.

The Doorknobs

Dangling from the doorknobs

Of my neighbors, lots of days,

Are little bags with handles,

Which is one of many ways

 

Of connecting in the city.

Have a message or a gift?

Drape it over someone’s doorknob

And provide a welcome lift.

 

When I travel, there’s a bag I hang

For papers to be left.

If I miss my daily New York Times,

I’m sure to be bereft.

 

Our packages get left downstairs –

The lobby’s like our stoop –

But the small things fit on doorknobs

Just as long as there’s a loop.

Living Up to One's Name

I looked at the obituary,

Read the words inside

And did a double take about

The person who had died.

 

He was a famous chief of what

They call the Blackfeet Nation

And most revered for fighting for

His tribal preservation.

 

What caught my eye, though, was his name –

Earl Old Person. Who knew

When he was just a baby

That he’d live to 92?

 

It must have been confusing

And a trifle weird and wild

To be saddled with that name

When he was just a little child.

 

At least he did fulfill his quest

Of honor and acclaim,

Especially because he really

Lived up to his name.

Rated R

The movie sounds intriguing;

R’s the letter it’s been rated.

The reasons for the rating

On the ads are clearly stated.

 

The first one that is mentioned,

Not surprisingly, is sex,

Which, in cinema for grown-ups

Is what everyone expects.

 

The second reason’s murder.

Certain viewers seem to mind

Any violence on screen; this one

They’d likely have declined.

 

The final rating rationale

Surprised me – place your bets!

If sex and murder didn’t scare you,

There are cigarettes!

Understaffed

Every place is understaffed

So managers are trying

To hire more workers, but it seems

That no one is applying.

 

Economists are mystified

For this is something new

And experts all have theories

But there’s not much they can do.

 

It sounds like many laborers

Were miserable at work

And being forced to stay at home

Turned out to be a perk.

 

Without a job to get to

Transit costs just disappeared

And with government assistance

Life was not what most had feared.

 

They made do without the hassles

Of tough jobs with little pay,

So when openings resumed, so many

Shrugged and just said, “Hey!

 

Why return to all the stresses?”

Which is why no one can fill

All those jobs which people hated

And I doubt they ever will.

So Tired

If I climbed the Himalayas,

Ran a marathon or more,

I’d be so exhausted I could not

Stand upright on the floor.

 

If I hiked into the desert

Or worked shifts around the clock,

I’d be thoroughly depleted,

All my synapses in shock.

 

All I did was spend the weekend

With my grandkids, six and eight,

Which I loved, but I’m so tired,

I’m no longer seeing straight.

Hanging With the Grands

Eleven years ago tonight,

Our son and his new bride

Exchanged their vows to start their life

Together, side by side.

Today, they’re off to celebrate,

A mini-trip away,

So with our grandkids (8 & 6)

We have the chance to stay.

It isn’t like the days gone by,

When nanas merely cooked.

In modern times we Uber them

To every place they’re booked.

Today was soccer, tennis and

A trip to pick up glasses.

Tomorrow will be Hebrew school

And thus, the weekend passes.

This time is like a yummy cake -

The grands, of course, the frosting.

It’s totally delicious, but

It’s totally exhausting.

There are Those

There are those who choose to hide

The feelings they have locked inside

And whether anger, fear or pride, 

You’d never know by looking.

While others on their faces show

Their moods - despondent or a’glow.

One glance is all you need to know

Exactly what is cooking.

Most likely, we know both of those

For that’s how human nature goes

And how we are, I would suppose,

Won’t tolerate rebooking.

The Ladybugs and I

A ladybug is crawling

As the autumn leaves drift down.

Then suddenly two more appear;

I thought that they’d left town.

But Google told me otherwise

For ladybugs, it said,

Enjoy a sunny day in fall

Since winter lies ahead.

They love to come soak up the rays

As I do, when I’m chilled.

Today, the ladybugs and I

Are equally fulfilled.

Cops Unmasked

There are policemen in the subways

Who refuse to wear their masks.

Ironic, since enforcement 

Of that rule’s among their tasks.

When a patron on the platform

Asked some cops if they’d obey,

They at first pretended that because

His mask was in the way…

They couldn’t hear him, but, of course,

Somebody filmed the scene,

So everyone could see the cop

Was simply being mean.

What followed was much worse; that cop

And partner pushed the guy

Right through the exit, with no

Legal explanation why. 

With half the force unvaccinated,

Masks should be required

And those who don’t obey should be

Suspended, fined or fired.

A Special Treat

When I was old enough, my mom

Would send me to the store,

Specifically, the bakery,

For treats I did adore.

 

But first, I had to ask them for

A rye bread they would slice,

With seeds, of course, or else

A pumpernickel would suffice.

 

And then some Linzer tarts for her,

Those filled with berry jam;

Then finally, the cakes

That made me happy as a clam.

 

Their name was Charlotte Russe,

A sponge cake in a cardboard sleeve,

With whipped cream and a cherry –

Just too perfect to believe!

 

They put them in a cardboard box

For me and my two bros

And tied it with a red-striped string,

As all of Brooklyn knows.

 

Today I wouldn’t like them –

Linzer tarts have more appeal –

But with a Charlotte Russe, back then,

How happy I would feel!

A Women's Center Waiting Room

The chairs have flowered backs

And all the sofas’ seats have stripes.

The carpet has a beige design

To match all styles and types.

 

The walls are painted in a shade

That’s neutral, like a balm.

The lighting’s soft and subtle

To keep those who’re waiting calm.

 

There is no music, no TV’s

To fill the space with sound,

Though cell phone reading’s in full swing,

I note as I look ‘round.

 

A women’s center waiting room,

So beautifully designed,

Was obviously chosen

With a female’s taste in mind.

Walkers

Some people walk with purpose,

Their confidence on view,

While others shuffle by as if

They haven’t got a clue.

 

New Yorkers, as a rule, are fast

And so their normal pace

May look, to others, like they are

Competing in a race.

 

But as with any rule, there are

Exceptions, so I know

Some walkers take forever to

Get where they need to go.

Lawn Games

All you need’s a swath of grass

Or any type of field

And simple lawn games to find out 

The kind of fun they’ll yield.

Today the weather was ideal

So we played Ladderball,*

A game I’d never heard of

Which was so much fun for all.

From 6 year-old to nana,

We competed for each toss 

And since we all scored points 

No one was bothered by a loss.

So many games are out there,

All just waiting to be tried.

What a wonderful enticement 

To get everyone outside!

*also called Ladder Golf

A Little Scar

Inside my elbow, where it bends, 

There is a little scar,

Now hidden by some veins and

Much less prominent, by far.

The day a monkey bit me,

Though some decades in my past,

Is tattooed upon my brain, the kind

Of mem’ry meant to last.

So I was quite surprised to note

The fading of a mark

Which is spot-lit in my mind

Where much of childhood has gone dark.

Though pain and trauma might not show

To others on our skin, 

We each retain those recollections

For all time, within.

Health Plan

I have to choose a health plan;

It’s driving me insane.

The varying opinions

Do so little to explain.

 

If I do nothing, then it seems

The new plan I did choose.

If I “opt out” I keep the old

And either way, I lose.

 

Both plans have pros and cons, of course;

My friends are torn and split.

I rarely like decisions

And in this case, not one bit.

 

I have two weeks to ponder

Then I have to make my pick,

But all this back and forth about it’s

Making me feel sick.

Dilation

I went to the doctor

To check out my eyes.

Dilation was needed;

‘Twas not a surprise.

But now, hours later,

With pupils gigantic,

My vision’s all fuzzy,

Which should make me frantic,

Though wearing my glasses,

At least I can see.

Still, reading and writing

Aren’t easy for me,

Tomorrow I’ll wake 

And my sight should be fine 

So the world and my vision,

I hope, will align.

How We Heal

How we heal is something

That we cannot quite control.

We each have different paths to take

To help to make us whole.

 

Our bodies or our minds may hurt

But what a huge mistake

To think that our experience

Will match another’s ache.

 

And therefore our recovery

Will strictly be our own.

The way our healing happens

Will be ours and ours alone.

 

It’s tempting to compare ourselves

To some and come up short,

But we all can heal as long as we

Have courage and support.

Good Intentions

A baby salamander 

In the middle of the road

Seemed in danger of a horrifying end,

So I thought I would transport him

To the grasses on the berm

Or a car would squish him coming ‘round the bend.

When I placed a leaf before him 

He resisted crawling on

So I prodded just a bit ‘til he came ‘round,

But he wasn’t quite secure

Because when I picked up the leaf

That little creature fell right off and hit the ground.

After several more attempts

He’d made it safely to the side

And I left him where the traffic wouldn’t go,

Yet I wondered if perhaps

He wished I hadn’t interfered

Though, of course, there isn’t any way to know.

Sorry Mom

Most graffiti I have seen 

Consists of tags or pictures.

Messages are therefore not

The commonest of fixtures.

Yet today, upon a wall

Not used to spray-paint inking,

Was “Sorry Mom” in boldest red, 

Which really got me thinking.

Was it sarcastic or sincere?

Was guilt the motivation?

And would that mother ever see

Her child’s capitulation?

We can’t know what was in the mind

Of who scrawled out each letter,

But I am sure a phone call

Would convey that thought much better.

Indigenous People's Day

My calendar’s old-fashioned

So for Monday, what’s in store

Is Columbus Day, a holiday

Observed each year before.

 

At one time it was October 12^th

But somehow it got changed

To create a 3-day weekend,

Which the government arranged.

 

To many, though, Columbus

Wasn’t all that nice a guy

And his reputation’s one that some

Don’t want to glorify.

 

So instead of Chris Columbus,

What new calendars will say

On October’s 2^nd Monday is

Indigenous People’s Day.

 

Celebrating Native peoples

Here before C.C. set sail,

It’s a day, despite its syllables,

That somehow will prevail.

Scary-Funny

Many homes are getting ready

With a Halloween display 

For the trick-or-treaters shortly

Will be venturing their way.

It’s a “scary-funny” holiday,

My grandkids have been told 

And, along those lines, en route to school,

This sight we did behold -

A giant spider on a swing 

Suspended from a tree,

With 2 legs wrapped around the ropes,

Hilarious to me.

And also to my granddaughter,

Who’d scream if it were real,

But being “scary-funny,”

It had Halloween appeal.

Some decorations frighten

But I much prefer the kind

With some humor and some whimsy

And some younger kids in mind.

Where You Live

If you live in a small town, I’m guessing

That you know everyone that you meet,

Plus their families as well

As the stories they’d tell;

From such knowledge you cannot retreat.

 

In the city, the opposite happens.

Most strangers you never will know.

Those you see for a while

May engender a smile

But there’s rarely much more than hello.

 

As an urbanite, I can defend this.

To call us unfriendly’s not fair.

We keep to ourselves

And if somebody delves

‘Neath the surface, we’d rather not share.

The Biggest Bumblebee

I saw the biggest bumblebee

That I have ever seen

And so I guessed, quite naturally,

It must have been the queen.

She hovered, with some smaller bees,

Above some garden blooms,

Demanding some obeisance

From the workers, one assumes.

But since I’m not an expert,

Maybe she was not in charge

And they were all acquaintances,

With one just extra large.

A Day That’s Gray

Today is gray, the kind of gray

That translates into gloom.

Though some may like this weather,

Many don’t, I would assume.

It isn’t hot and isn’t cold;

No rain is slicing down.

Yet it’s the type of day

That turns a smile into a frown.

The sky is filled with dusty clouds;

My jacket’s buttoned tight.

The river’s kinda choppy

And few seagulls are in flight.

Yet I should not complain at all;

A tugboat’s chugging by.

It’s doing what it’s meant to do

And really, so am I.

Doodles

My notebooks were once filled with doodles

Adorning the margins; in class

I doodled when bored at a lecture,

When minutes took hours to pass.

 

My squiggles and boxes repeated;

They weren’t worth even a glance

But, along with my painstaking scribble,

They filled up the paper’s expanse.

 

Years later, at times when I’m Zooming,

My thoughts from the topic removed,

I find myself doodling idly,

Those squiggles and such not improved.

Lingering Lane

Let’s stroll along Lingering Lane,*

Our footsteps the sweetest refrain.

No reason to hurry

For stresses and worry

Are never allowed, nor is pain.

 

The birds are a’chirp in the trees.

There’s always the gentlest breeze.

The flowers are blooming,

Their petals perfuming

The air, but not causing a sneeze.

 

It’s tempting to not want to leave

For to linger helps one to believe

That the paths that we choose

Will our lifetimes suffuse

With whatever we want to achieve.

 

*My 8-year-old grandson draws maps

for a hobby and Lingering Lane was one

of the streets on his latest map.

MetFest

Saw a blurb on MetFest

Held today, at the museum.*

Musical performances

Outdoors – I had to see ‘em.

 

A former stomping ground

Pre-Covid, but it’s been a while.

Once there, ‘twas like I never left;

I couldn’t help but smile.

 

The melting pot that is New York

Was fully there on view,

A pleasure to observe and yes,

Some upbeat music, too.

 

A group of female drummers

Followed by a cool brass band,

Then a bunch of Double Dutchers

With their jump rope skills on hand.

 

The locals and the tourists

All applauded, laughed and danced,

Toddlers, teens to wheelchair seniors,

Every passerby entranced.

 

Vendors set up on the sidewalks,

Food carts had their treats to hawk;

What a lovely day in sunshine

At the MetFest in New Yawk.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

National Hair Day

It’s National Hair Day - raise a comb!

Shake your tresses - write a poem!

Whether blonde, brunette or red,

Let’s celebrate what’s on your head:

Curly, wavy, frizzy, straight,

Pigtails or a single plait,

Buzz cut, Mohawk, updo, ‘fro,

Messy or arranged just so.

How we look, what gives us flair

Depends, in part, upon our hair.

No matter what your style is called,

It’s yours to flaunt - unless you’re bald!