Wrapping Up September

We wrap up September,

All tied with a chill,

And wait for October,

With baskets to fill

Of apples and pumpkins

And bright orange leaves,

Plus all those aromas

Each person perceives.

The calendar waits

For the page to get turned 

As we welcome the weather,

From summer, we’ve earned.

In Walking Distance

In walking distance from my house

Are restaurants a’plenty.

In just a 5 block radius,

There must be more than 20.

 

There also are a lot of stores –

For food or drugs or liquor

And also several hospitals

(Though cabs get you there quicker).

 

In walking distance, there is art –

Just choose a cool museum

And Google the exhibits now

Then stroll on by to see ‘em.

 

You need an outfit, socks or shoes?

A book of stamps? Some flowers?

No matter what, it can be bought –

Just double-check the hours.

 

A city life has lots of noise

But anyone you talk to

Will tell you that it’s wonderful

To have so much to walk to.

Return of the Crowds

The downtown streets are crowded;

The ferry lines are long.

New York’s no longer shrouded

In despair, but looking strong.

 

I kinda miss the quiet

And can do without the hordes.

I guess I should deny it;

Swarms are Covid-free rewards.

 

But everyone’s not ready

To pick up where we left off.

For many, slow and steady,

Still get spooked by sneeze or cough.

 

So I ventured to surroundings

I once traveled to a lot,

Yet instead of leaps and boundings,

Hesitation’s what I got.

Every Day

Every day I make my bed

And, with my texts and emails read,

I take my walk, which terminates

At home, where breakfast time awaits.

Every day I read The Times

And, once I’ve passed the news and crimes,

I do the crossword, then prepare

To face what comes, no matter where.

 

Every day, as music plays,

I clean or at a screen I gaze.

By phone or Zoom I chat with friends

Or relatives – it all depends.

 

Every day I watch a show

Or maybe two, you never know,

And have a meal my husband’s made,

His culinary skills displayed.

 

There are some days with added fun

Or obligations to be done,

But every day, away or home,

I always get to write a poem.

Tossing Sins

Before the new year can begin,

You have to throw out every sin;

So with a rock or piece of bread,

You toss them quickly overhead

Into a river or a lake,

Where they’ll be gone, for symbol’s sake.

The brand-new year will start and then

Your sinning can begin again!

*a tradition on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year

Football on TV

Unless it’s Super Bowl, I don’t

Like football on TV

When there’s a gathering involving

Friends and family.

 

When someone else is in control

There’s nothing you can do

But listen to commercials

And the game when it breaks through.

 

Any conversation ceases

And whoever’s in the room

Gets bombarded by the nonsense

Some enjoy, I would assume.

 

If the purpose of the party

Is to watch, I will not scoff

And I’ll join the viewing; otherwise,

The TV should be OFF!

Time to Judge

When a record might be broken,

All the fans are on their toes.

Will it happen now or later?

Well, nobody really knows.

 

So the Yankees are expecting

Aaron Judge to do to the deed

If he hits just 2 more homers,

Which is never guaranteed.

 

Roger Maris holds that record;

Back in 1961

He surpassed Babe Ruth’s achievement,

Sixty homers, by just one.

 

Judge has 60 at the moment

And each time he’s up at bat,

There’s a buzz throughout the stadium,

Just waiting for that stat.

 

But the pressure is enormous;

So far Judge has not come through,

Yet all baseball fans are hoping

He will do what he must do.

 

Though the Yankees won, most watching

Would have sacrificed that win

To see Judge tie up the record

So the breaking can begin.

Autumn’s Appeal

There’s a chill in the air,

Such a welcoming feel,

Just the first of the reasons 

For autumn’s appeal.

Though the leaves haven’t changed,

Soon they’ll be rust and gold,

Making various trees

A delight to behold.

Halloween’s ‘round the bend;

Decorating‘s begun,

As both children and grown-ups

Get in on the fun.

The orchards and fruit stands

Have apples galore

And pumpkins and cider

And donuts and more.

The summer’s been hot

And before it gets cold,

There is autumn, in which

All these good things unfold.

So, zip up your jacket 

And head out the door 

To sample the joys

Autumn’s holding in store.

It's Fall, Y'all

It’s fall, y’all

And as the leaves

Change color, we

Put on long sleeves.

 

It’s time for socks

And sweatshirts zipped

So when temps drop

We’re well-equipped.

 

The air is filled

With pumpkin spice

And mums in baskets

Look real nice.

 

Go apple picking –

Heed the call

Of autumn’s treats –

It’s fall, y’all!

Finding the Stash

Before the painters came, I pulled

Each picture from the wall

And stashed them every place I could,

Most anywhere at all.

 

And now the painting’s finished

So I’m searching high and low

For where I put some things away -

I honestly don’t know.

 

Exhaustion’s gotten in the way –

I’m calling it a night.

Tomorrow when I fish around,

I hope to get a bite.

The Spotted Lanternfly

My husband noticed, near my bench,

A spotted lanternfly.

I didn’t have to kill it;

Something else caused it to die.

 

I’m looking at it, upside down

And really, it’s a pity

That something so destructive

Can look cool and downright pretty.

 

This species, most invasive,

Has the city on alert.

We’ve been told, on sight, to stomp them,

Though the thought might disconcert.

 

Like roaches and mosquitoes,

I will add this newfound pest

To the list of critters I might send

To their eternal rest.

Proselytizing

I’m minding my business

While out for a walk

When a man looks my way

Like he’s wanting to talk.

 

I notice some cards

He has clutched in his hand,

But I don’t know exactly

The speech he has planned.

 

As I pass, he calls out;

I catch only one word,

Which is “Jesus,” but though

That is all that I heard

 

I am certain he’d hoped,

With that one little blurt,

That I might be a person

Who’d like to convert.

 

I replied, with restraint,

(Not a semblance of cursin’)

“Oh man, you are reaching out

To the wrong person!”

 

Religious beliefs

(Or the lack of, as well)

Should be private, without

Any need to compel

 

Someone else to accept

Other faiths than their own;

So proselytizers –

Please leave me alone!

Young and Not-So-Young

The young imagine life ahead

With lots of paths for choosing

And many opportunities

They rarely think of losing.

 

They needn’t rush because they have

The promise of tomorrows

And focus on the joys to come,

Not thinking of the sorrows.

 

The not-so-young make plans but maybe

Question their endurance

And possibly, when booking flights,

Consider some insurance.

 

The old, with wisdom gained through much

Experience of troubles

Defend themselves against the world

In self-protective bubbles.

 

The young cannot imagine

Such a shield to stave off worry

But the not-so-young might realize

Aging causes time to hurry.

Nice but Inept

If a salesperson’s nice but inept,

His promises rarely are kept.

Though true skills he may lack,

He says, “I’ve got your back”

So you think at his job he’s adept.

 

But whatever he told you was fake,

For he lied or just made a mistake.

Thus your needs won’t be met

Though you thought all was set;

New arrangements you might have to make.

 

When I think of it, maybe it’s best

As experience seems to suggest,

To complete any deal

With one lacking appeal

But whose help doesn’t make you feel stressed.

Paying Respects

The casket’s draped in purple,

Which is what the crowd expects

As they inch up in the queue at last

To pay their last respects.

They’ve waited there for hours

For a minute with the Queen,

To bow or curtsy or salute,

A touching, tender scene.

Each somber guard stands by

With no expression on his face

And silence fills Westminster Hall

For mourners to embrace.

Across the pond, we watch in awe

For who knows if or when 

We’ll ever see the likes

Of such a tribute come again.

Roger, Over and Out

Federer’s retiring,

He finally announced.

He hasn’t played in ages, but

The newshounds, they all pounced.

 

A classy player, through and through,

He ranks up with the best,

To which his many titles

And his sponsors will attest.

 

It wasn’t a surprise for fans

And yet the message sent

Is that, in tennis circles,

There is something to lament.

Paint Job Prep

All the items on the walls

Must go, before the painter calls

And when they’re down, I’ll see the dust

So cleaning everything’s a must.

 

Then where to put them? There’s no room.

If closets are what you’d assume,

You’ve never really had to face

A New York home with not much space.

 

My sister says, your digs are small.

It’s easy to prepare it all,

But when confronting all my stuff,

I know my prep time’s not enough.

 

Still, I will do what I can do

And though my place won’t look like new,

It will be fresh and clean and then

I’ll hang each item up again.

A Strange Machine

The body is a strange machine

With lots of moving parts

And once we’re born, like products purchased,

All the action starts.

 

The heart pumps blood, the lungs expand

And brain cells do abound.

The muscles grow, the eyes and ears

Take note of what’s around.

 

As years go by, from overuse

Or injuries we’ve faced,

The cogs and gears inside break down

And sometimes they’re replaced.

 

We plug along, though, even when

We’re aching and we’re tired,

For as we age, we also know

Our warranty’s expired.

A Not-So-Fine Line

There’s a not-so-fine line

Between antiques and junk.

Some objects of “value”

A pro may debunk.

While others, so old

They are covered in rust,

Seem worthless, so passing

Them over’s a must.

Still, it can be fun

Checking out all the wares

At various flea markets,

Shops, booths and fairs.

It takes a keen eye

To uncover some treasure,

But poking around

Brings a “Look at this!” pleasure.

Of All the Dates

Of all the dates in history,

Today’s, to me, the worst.

Whenever it rolls ‘round, through time

I’ve instantly traversed.

The bright blue sky, the tiny planes,

The crash, with smoky thrust;

The bodies falling, buildings down

And everywhere, the dust.

The panicked people running

To escape the wild debris;

The stunned and silent city

Showing non-stop on TV.

Each generation flashes back,

With memory’s precision,

To one or two horrific dates

We perfectly envision.

Waterfall

There’s nothing like a waterfall

To make you stop and stare

And give yourself some credit 

For the fact that you are there.

To come upon one naturally

Would be a great surprise,

But mostly people seek out

What’s been seen by prior eyes.

Still, to watch the water gushing 

As it tumbles down its course

Is to realize those who miss it

Should be flooded with remorse.

Turtle

A friend described her husband

As a turtle, for his lack

Of taking things to heart; they all

Just roll right off his back.

I’d like to have that quality

But that’s not how I’m made.

If something hurts my feelings,

It goes deep and doesn’t fade.

To shrug it off or let it go

Is what I don’t do well.

In turtle form, I’d likely have

A crack within my shell.

The Queen

The Queen is dead; a kingdom mourns

And all through her domain

There will be countless tributes

To her long amazing reign.

 

Ascending to the throne so young,

She ruled with style and grace

And no one (certainly not Charles!)

Will ever take her place.

 

To us, across the pond, she seemed

So decorous and prim,

Requiring a curtsy (from a her)

Or bow (from him).

 

Her matching suits and hats defined

Her monarchy and yet,

Beneath that stiff demeanor

Lurked the Queen most never met.

 

I once read that her handbag,

Always draped across her arm,

Was moved quite subtly to

Her other elbow, an alarm.

 

She did this when she’d had enough

And wanted to take leave,

A signal that her handlers

Were on lookout to receive.

 

That story showed her human side;

Will wonders never cease?

We’ll miss you, Queen Elizabeth,

And may you rest in peace.

Old Cookbooks

I’m tossing out most of my cookbooks;

Makes sense since I don’t really cook.

The pages are marked

From the times I embarked

On a challenge which I undertook.

 

Those recipes once brought me pleasure,

But now seem like much more of a pain.

I’ve got quite a good deal

Since my spouse makes each meal

So from kitchen work I can refrain.

 

Still, from reading the notes I once entered

On those pages all covered with stains,

I can wistfully say

Things are better this way

For at dinner now, no one complains.

In the Muck

When indecision drops on by,

No matter how I want to try

To move ahead, I find that I

Am absolutely stuck.

 

Though getting out is my desire,

Circumstances will conspire,

Trapping me within the mire,

To wallow in the muck.

 

Plans and changes don’t get made;

Forward motion is delayed,

All because I’m too afraid

And lack the needed pluck.

 

Better, then, to just remain

With things in place and thus refrain

From choices that will make it plain

Why critics choose to cluck.

Different People in Your LIfe

When different people in your life

Occasionally connect,

It’s wonderful to see what happens

As they intersect.

 

For oftentimes, they’ve heard the names

Of loved ones you might mention,

Though joining separate lifelines

Wasn’t really your intention.

 

Still, it can make you smile to see

The varied ties that tether

Your kith and kin pulled close enough

To gather them together.

Lobster

Lobster is a goldfish,

Living in a tank.

Instead of swimming, though, it seems

That Lobster somehow sank.

 

His fish companion, Wendy,

Acts as perky as can be,

Which makes the fate of Lobster

So much sadder, then, to see.

 

It’s possible that Lobster

Will improve and start to swim.

It’s something that I wouldn’t count on,

By the looks of him.

 

Every pet will hit its limits

And, despite the life it’s had,

Even something such as goldfish

Passing on’s a little sad.

Opponents of the Favorites

Opponents of the favorites

Have a handicap, for sure,

Since every error that they make

Just sets the crowd a’roar.

 

In tennis, fans are loyal,

Cheering those they love the best,

Which makes players ‘cross the net

Feel kind of down and even stressed.

 

As I watched the U.S.Open,

When Serena took the court,

I felt bad for those who faced her,

Getting zero crowd support.

Sharing My Home

In walking distance, dinner waits,

The outdoor tables beckon;

The food delish, the breeze delightful –

Perfect, I would reckon.

 

An after supper stroll to where

The benches by the river

Provide the backdrop for a night

The city can deliver.

 

I have no private room en suite

For guests who choose to visit,

But when the weather’s on my side,

My neighborhood’s exquisite.

City Swap

My New York Times was missing,

The Journal there instead,

A paper which I do not get

And never ever read.

 

It had the normal label

With a name that wasn’t mine

And Apt. 3L listed –

Different floor and different line.

 

Going down 6 floors I noticed

Lots of papers by the door,

So the tenant wasn’t home, but then

I realized something more.

 

The number on the label

Was a building ‘cross the street,

So I headed there, expecting that

I’d end up in defeat.

 

But I scanned the building’s roster

And I buzzed up to 3L,

Where the Wall Street Journal orderer

Apparently did dwell.

 

He came downstairs and, in the lobby,

Waiting for a claim,

Were copies of The New York Times,

One labeled with my name.

 

We traded papers and I left

While smiling in delight,

My city swap providing me

A theme on which to write.