On a Bike

Among the many things that sit

Forgotten in our shed,

My son’s old bicycle called out,

Just messing with my head.

I finally decided that

The time had come to see

If it could be restored enough

To get some use from me.

I dusted off the cobwebs,

Scrubbed the frame but after that,

I noticed that the tires were

Unfortunately flat.

We tossed the bike into the car

And drove to get some air.

Back home, I hopped on for a ride,

Not thinking, do I dare?

With just one gear I pedaled on;

It made a clunky noise 

And even though I fell (just once!)

It brought back childhood joys.

I doubt I’ll use it very much

But when I can, I will,

As long as I don’t leave my street

And have to face a hill!

One Less Thing

When my son was learning how to walk,

He had a riding toy

To scoot along on with his feet, 

Just perfect for a boy.

It had a steering wheel and horn

That he would press and toot,

Two little squeeze construction men,

A spade and rake to boot.

A plastic handle on the back

Helped balance as he moved. 

I see him pushing it along

As walking skills improved.

That boy is 41 years old

And in my throat’s a lump,

Because today that riding toy

Got taken to the dump.

I took a picture just before

I finally let it go.

The memories remain but now

There’s one less thing to stow.

A Monarch Butterfly

A monarch butterfly flew past.

I wondered if it was the last

‘Cause they are disappearing fast;

Our world will be much grimmer.

For climate change and pesticides,

Plus loss of habitats besides 

Means we are taking giant strides

To make our days much dimmer.

These orange beauties did appear

Like clockwork every single year.

Their loss should make us shed a tear,

With hope a measly glimmer.

In the Mall

I used to love to shop in malls,

Alone or with a friend,

To stroll or browse, not thinking

Such an outing might soon end.

The food court always beckoned 

For a pick-me-up or snack 

And then the shopping would resume,

Perusing every rack.

When Amazon became a thing,

With ordering a breeze, 

The customers dried up, which brought

The mall shops to their knees.

I visited a mall today,

First time in many moons,

And it was not the same as where

I once spent afternoons.

The stores were there (well, most of them),

But in that vast bright space,

The emptiness made all of us

Inside look out of place.

What online started, Covid then

Made sure was good and dead.

What’s left is just the memory

Remaining in its stead.

River View

A police boat zips past

Followed hard by a tug.

So what, you may ask

With a sneer or a shrug.

But it’s always a thrill

When the river’s in view 

And each time that I sit here

I see something new.

The flow of the water,

The light of the sky,

The nautical traffic

That chugs or sails by 

All paint me a picture

That changes with time,

Which I try to capture

In words and with rhyme.

A Visit to the Met

With temps and the humidity

No longer off the chart,

We made a visit to the Met*

Since we’ve been starved for art.

 

A Winslow Homer show would soon

Be packing up and so,

It seemed to be the perfect time

For us to up and go.

 

The hordes had not arrived yet,

Thus the galleries allowed

Us time for a relaxing look

Without a pushy crowd.

 

Before we left, we stopped to see

Our faves – Cezanne, Monet,

Van Gogh and several others,

Making it a lovely day.

 

Although the Covid variant

Is here and on the move,

It’s time for us, museum-wide,

To get back in the groove.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

Timing

Timing is the key to whether

Many things pan out.

We wait too long, we’ve missed the boat;

We know what that’s about.

 

Procrastination may cause

Opportunities to fade

And then regret kicks in

For the decisions we’ve not made.

 

The timing of a venture

May determine its success.

Too soon or late may wreck it,

Thereby adding lots of stress.

 

Comedians are criticized

If they can’t nail their timing,

Like rhythmless musicians

(Or a poet bad at rhyming).

Ninety-Eight Point Six

Ninety-eight point six is normal

In a human being,

Not though, on thermometers

Outdoors, which we’ve been seeing.

 

In people, anything above

Is fever, meaning sick,

But weather-wise, such numbers

Translate into one word – ick!

 

I much prefer the days in fall

Or wintertime instead,

When if my body matched

The temps outside, I would be dead.

Blocked

Two notifications by mail 

Just informed us our payments did fail.

With no idea why,

They seemed to imply

We’d been hacked on a frightening scale.

My spouse placed a call to the bank;

Put on hold, we knew where we did rank.

For an hour I paced

Thinking someone erased

All our savings, the numbers all blank.

When an agent responded, he knocked

All our fears to the ground; we were shocked 

To discover the fact

Our account was intact

But the bank had it purposely blocked.

Seems an update, at times, is required

And on my side, it somehow expired.

The problem was fixed

With several clicks

But a shot of tequila’s desired!

Lacking a Muse

Those writers inspired by a muse

Have a bevy of topics to choose

So when faced with a time

For composing a rhyme 

There are mountains of thoughts to peruse.

But the rest of us sit there and stare,

Pencils poised, although barely aware

Of the air that surrounds;

Meanwhile just out of bounds

Are ideas others’ muses won’t share.

Still, at last, the mere germ of a thought

Will pass by and, if lucky, be caught

And that’s all that I need

For the poem to proceed

So my worries all add up to naught.

Some People Write

Some people write and find delight

In setting on the page

Their words that might, at times, invite

Some readers to engage.

 

Yet others pen their feelings when

They need to get them out

And even then, they’d say amen

To not a single shout.

 

But most compose, I would suppose,

In hopes they will be read,

Though no one knows if some of those

Must wait until they’re dead.

Stagnation

I like when things remain the same;

Stagnation is my favorite game.

I play so well I never lose;

What’s set in stone makes me enthuse.

While others might redecorate 

Or even move, I can’t relate.

New furniture does not entice;

My stuff is old, but still, it’s nice.

It isn’t normal, I’ve been told,

Becoming worse as I grow old.

I wish I knew why I eschew

The new to stick with tried and true.

Table for One

Table for one?

Oh, no, please seat us 

With room for both me

And, of course, my fetus.

The HOV troopers

Tried hard to cheat us

But I drove with two of us -

Me and my fetus.

Life is sure sweet 

Now that justice must treat us

Like equals, although

One of us is a fetus.

Out of Sorts

I feel out of sorts and don’t lie

When I say that I can’t explain why,

Or rather I could

But nobody would 

Make sense if it, though they might try.

I have some decisions to make,

Though nothing important’s at stake.

Yet, still I am stuck

And not having much luck;

Fear of change is a trait I can’t shake.

Such an anxiousness often conceals

Other issues, although it reveals

Things I cannot express

That are causing me stress;

Lots of people know just how that feels.

Magical and Sweet

The lake was quite refreshing 

And my grandson loves to swim, 

But I don’t like the water

So my husband went with him.

The deep part was enticing;

I watched nervously from shore,

Prepared to leave at any time

But Henry wanted more.

Their hour in the water

Looked like both were having fun,

A lovely way to spend

A summer day out in the sun.

The time we have with grandkids

Is both magical and sweet,

Although I must admit

That I am absolutely beat!

Inheritance

My grandson asked my husband

For a wish he could fulfill -

“Grandpa, can you leave your house

To me inside your will?”

He’s visited our weekend place

Not often, but he could

Envision coming back for years

As we sure hope he would.

Although we hate to think of when

We will not be around,

It’s nice to know our house provides

A haven Henry’s found.

Protection

In life, we must protect ourselves 

From harm, disease and pain,

With seat belts, sunblock, bug spray 

And umbrellas for the rain.

Alarms give peace of mind in case

Some burglars are about 

And wearing masks convinces us

The virus is kept out.

In many sports a helmet

Is required to be worn

And knee or elbow pads make sure

No ligaments are torn.

We pay insurance premiums 

To head off a disaster 

And save up for the future,

Which, these days, keeps coming faster.

We plan and try to be prepared

For all we can expect,

But life may toss a curve ball

Against which we can’t protect.

Bookmarks

Charities in search of cash

Send envelopes with pleas

And sometimes little gifts in hopes

My giving gene they’ll squeeze.

Most often it’s a sheet or two

Of labels with my name

And street address, but in addition,

Bookmarks sometimes came.

I use the labels less and less

As bills are paid online

And bookmarks to the pile

Of things passé I must consign.

Enticements might encourage 

A donation, that is true

But what once worked no longer is

Appealing to accrue.

Human Error

A medical claim was denied;

Insurance could not be applied.

So I got a bill

But won’t pay until

All research has been satisfied.

 

An hour of phone calls ensues;

My patience I’m starting to lose

But finally – yes!

Someone cleans up the mess

And my anger begins to defuse.

 

It seems that an error was made,

Attention to detail not paid.

My insurance I.D.

Has a 6, not a 3

So the claim, first denied’s now delayed.

 

But at least a solution was found

After getting a slight run-around.

If you have to get sick

Here’s a good little trick –

Check to see if the paperwork’s sound.

In July

In July mosquitoes fly

And hummingbirds are humming.

Bees will buzz and all because 

They don’t know fall is coming.

Weeks remain so none complain 

That summer zips by quickly.

School is out and kids, no doubt,

Don’t mind when skin gets prickly.

Folks will schmooze at barbecues 

And drink like no tomorrow.

Through their sweat, they all forget

These days are just to borrow.

The Magic of the Wind

My brand-new garden spinner twirls

When breezes start to blow.

It joins my dancing windsock,

Strips a’flying to and fro.

The wind provides the magic

For the whirligigs and trees,

From little puffs of air to gusts

Of varying degrees.

On days when all is still I hope

The weather will improve 

So I will once again enjoy

All things the wind does move.

Two Eight Year-Olds

Prince George is there at Wimbledon,

Between his folks, first row. 

They’re sitting in the Royal Box

With hours left to go.

In suit and tie, though 8 years old,

He’s very well behaved,

Remaining quite expressionless

While both his parents waved.

I’m watching from the living room,

My grandson, 8, close by.

He paid attention for a while,

In shorts and tee (no tie).

He’s playing chess with Grandpa now

But asks me for the score.

Unlike Prince George, he can admit

The game (to him’s) a bore.

Privilege

We walked around an upscale town

To pass the time of day.

Our grandson’s learning chess and he’d

An hour left to play.

The stores all catered to the rich,

With home goods, clothes and jewels,

While everybody passing by

Played by those privileged rules.

Designer shoes and t-shirts,

Brand-new weekend-wear attire,

All purchased, when compared to mine,

At prices vastly higher.

Instead of envy, what I felt

Was borderline disgust

At lifestyles that I saw embodied

By the upper crust.

The lesson ended and we took

A destination ride 

For ice cream, still in town, but on

The much less ritzy side.

Disappointed

I should be watching Rafa

In my Rafa hat and shirt,

But Wimbledon is at a loss

Because Nadal is hurt.

He won the quarterfinals 

With an injury to cause

Some pain when he was serving

And it seems that gave him pause.

So he withdrew and all his fans, 

Of course including me,

Are disappointed knowing

In the finals he won’t be.

Schmutz

My husband said my pants had schmutz,

Perhaps from where I sat

Upon a bench with residue

From when a pigeon shat.

For anyone who doesn’t know

The word or else its meaning,

It’s Yiddish and it translates to

Some dirt requiring cleaning.

You can have schmutz on clothes

Or even schmutz upon your face.

A floor with lots of schmutz might be

Considered a disgrace.

Just listen to the sound of “schmutz” -

It’s plain its definition

Reflects a negativity 

In some nearby condition.

Improving Your Lot

Improving your lot

Is a commonplace goal.

Whatever you’ve got,

It is in your control.

 

To take charge and to change

Clothing, looks, or décor

You can just rearrange

Or can do a lot more.

 

Once you make the first move

There’s no limit to what

You might do to improve,

So just give it a shot.

Listening to Advice

Advice may entice

But be sure to think twice

For by following it, you surrender

Your instinct, a vice

For which you'll pay a price –

Disappointment might be what you render.

 

They mean well, those who sell

You a thought parallel

To the one that your brain seems to favor;

Still, that shouldn’t compel

You to therefore expel

From your mind any choice you may savor.

 

Even though you say no

To advice that’s gung-ho,

You stay true to your gut and its feeling,

For by not yelling "Whoa!"

You'll get caught in the flow

With results that might be unappealing.

A Sunny 4th of July

Sadly, I have been forsaken;

Every shady bench is taken.

Sunny spots are up for grabs.

I sit down while keeping tabs

On nearby seats which are in shade,

With odds against me, I’m afraid.

 

Still, there is a little breeze

Provided by surrounding trees.

Boats upon the river glide;

I am glad to be outside.

Fireworks tonight I’ll see

Indoors, on screen, with cool a/c.

Ditch the Past

Clean your house out – ditch the past!

Get rid of all that you’ve amassed.

VHS tapes and cassettes,

Toys and trophies – no regrets!

 

Old TVs with bulging backs,

Books you’ve read (piled up in stacks);

Souvenirs from every tour,

Blinds and shades (passe décor).

 

Piggy banks and pocketbooks,

Earrings meant for younger looks,

Even bunkbeds not in use

Must be gone – there’s no excuse!

 

Go through closets, clear each shelf

Of former versions of yourself.

Time to bid these things goodbye;

Make it easy when you die.

Antics on the Court

When players take part in a sport,

At times they may prance and cavort

But it spoils the game

(Though the crowds are aflame)

When deportment comes up a bit short.

 

Like in tennis, one player’s disdain

For decorum had some folks complain.

His opponent was peeved

Since a win was achieved

While his goal seemed to just entertain.

 

I’d mixed feeling while watching the match.

The excitement was easy to catch.

Still, attention was paid

Not to shots that were made

But to antics the winner’d unlatch.

Bring Your Gun!

Coming to the city? Bring your gun

So you can shoot at anyone!

Target practice is such fun;

No laws will you be bending.

All those rules you used to shun 

Have been rescinded; they are done!

Lawsuits have been filed and won

To honor those amending.

Bearing arms makes bad guys run.

You’ll protect your wife and son. 

Don’t believe what some have spun;

You’ll mostly be defending. 

In New York, now everyone

Beneath the moon or in the sun 

Can carry through the streets a gun

Since sanity is ending.