Spirit

My shirt is orange, pants are black.

It isn’t spirit that I lack,

But every year on Halloween,

I’m more surprised by things I’ve seen.

The stores and houses, all decked out

With spooky creatures all about - 

The spiders, skeletons and bats,

The zombies, witches and black cats…

The Halloween parades at school,

The pumpkin carvings - oh, so cool!

The costumes and the money spent

All make it seem quite evident

That Halloween’s a great escape

And most of us would rather gape

At made-up monsters than to face 

Our real-life fears, so commonplace.

In a New Place

When you’re in a new place

And the setting is strange,

All your customs and habits

You must rearrange.

From the car that you drive

To the bed where you sleep,

There’s a learning curve; sometimes

To climb it is steep.

When you’re older, to acclimate

May take a while,

Especially if

Tried and true is your style.

So you do what you must

To accept and get by

For your younger-day outlooks

No longer apply.

On Board

Masks are rare but not so coughs,

Yet here we are on board.

Hope that for our travels 

Sickness isn’t the reward.

Made it to the airport early -

5 a.m., a blur,

Our grandson coming for the ride.

(His dad was our chauffeur.)

Heading south to visit kin;

It’s nearly been a year,

But masked and boostered, here we go

‘Fore chances disappear.

A Little Feather

A poem I wrote was published 

In a children’s magazine,

Which definitely isn’t, 

In my life, something routine.

Accompanied by illustrations 

Covering the page,

The hope is that it’s something

With which readers will engage.

To see my name in print like that

Both thrills and satisfies,

A little feather in my cap 

Acknowledgement supplies.

Autumn Afternoon

The sky is blue, the river’s gray

And autumn leaves are on display.

The buildings ‘cross the river hide

Whatever’s going on inside.

 

The flags all flutter, strung up high

And bicycles go rolling by.

The dogs, on leashes, bark or yip,

Their owners tightening their grip.

 

A mighty tugboat pulls a barge;

A nanny strolls by with her charge.

The joggers, dressed for summer, pass

As couples sprawl out on the grass.

 

A lovely autumn afternoon –

This weather will be gone real soon,

So I’ll enjoy it while I can,

For who knows Mother Nature’s plan?

Just Half the Story

A poem is just a bunch of words.

A flock is just a bunch of birds

And Mensa’s just a bunch of nerds,

Yet that’s just half the story.

 

For writing them so they will flow

Or watching as they skyward go

Or marveling at all they know

Is what provides the glory.

 

The rhyme and rhythm worth the read,

The soaring high with steady speed,

Eureka moments that we need

And all is hunky-dory!

Proof

The powers-that-be wanted proof

That I am alive – not a spoof!

In the mail came a form,

Which I guess is the norm;

To ignore it, my checks would go poof!

 

I submitted a photo I.D.

With my signature plain as can be

But they also required

Proof I haven’t expired,

So I sent a new picture of me.

 

In the image, I’m holding, for views,

Today’s Times, but it’s not for the news.

Since the date can be read,

There’s the proof I’m not dead,

Though my wrinkles they’ll have to excuse.

Crotchety

I am feeling crotchety.

It doesn’t make me proud

But, even though I’m female,

At my age it is allowed.

 

So many things get on my nerves –

Today, alone, a lot.

Enough to get, as sayings go,

My knickers in a knot.

 

We’re all entitled to a mood

That’s grouchy, grumpy, cross,

Yet some folks never get that way,

And why? I’m at a loss.

The Polar Bear

When visiting some family

Who live several hours away,

We know we’re very close

When there’s a welcoming display.

A more-than life-sized  polar bear

Is waving from his spot 

On Route 290, giving all

The biggest smile he’s got.

I love to see him from the road,

His friendliness implied,

But also since I know

We’re at the tail-end of our ride.

Busy Lives

Kids today have hectic lives

With weekends super busy.

It’s certainly enough to get

A nana in a tizzy!

From chess and soccer to a fair

For autumn, at the school,

The hours are filled with much more

Than I’m used to, as a rule.

A birthday party follows

At a studio for art;

Each child will paint a canvas.

(How Picasso got his start?)

Then pizza and a birthday cake

(I’m sure with lots of frosting).

The kids seem happy, but to me,

This day is just exhausting!

There’s one more thing to do - 

A P.J. party, 6 - 9.

The first bed occupied tonight, though,

Surely will be mine!

Youth and Age

The difference between youth and age

To me (one surely not a sage!)

Is not the wrinkles that you see

But what boils down to energy.

For when you’re young, you go-go-go,

No need to pause or take it slow.

Each day unfurls and you proceed,

Your body helping you succeed.

Yet as you age. your bones protest 

And may demand a little rest.

You close your eyes for just a sec -

An hour later - what the heck?!

Once there were ads for Geritol,

For “tired blood,” as I recall,

But nothing can prevent the time 

Of knowing you have passed your  prime.

Our Limits

Some people never get beyond

The basics with a skill

Although, with years of practice

You would think they’d learn the drill.

 

No matter what it is – the arts

Or sport or crafts or food

Or dance or music – we don’t all

Possess the aptitude.

 

Some either quit or get resigned

To mediocrity,

While others just deny the truth

That all but them can see.

 

We can’t all reach the level

Of the ones who are the best,

But we must accept our limits

Though they’re painful to digest.

Community Reaction

I read about a person

Who, within a city park,

Attacked a woman and her dog

At 6 a.m. (still dark).

 

He was rooting through the garbage,

Yelling crazily, before

Tossing urine in a bottle,

Then proceeded to do more…

 

With a stick he hit the woman,

Next her dog across the snout,

Which a witness heard and ran to see

What it was all about.

 

When the police came, the attacker

Had already up and fled

But the injuries the dog sustained

Caused him to wind up dead.

 

The assailant was familiar –

He was known and clearly ill,

Yet community reaction

Is divided, voices shrill.

 

Some say find him and arrest him!

He’s a danger – he needs jail!

Others think he won’t get help

With the police hot on his trail.

 

Though it’s sad when mental illness

Can’t keep violence at bay,

This man’s demons should require

He gets treatment – far away!

A Bicycle Bell

A bicycle bell very clearly does say,

Melodiously, “Please get out of my way!”

It isn’t as jarring as honking we’d hear

From taxis or cars warning us to steer clear.

 

It doesn’t disturb like a grating alarm

And the decibel level won’t cause any harm.

Its sound isn’t shrill like a whistle that’s blown,

To summon a cab, which most doormen do own.

 

It’s so much preferred to a growl or a bark

Which a dog will employ as a threat or a hark!

But for humans, out walking, instead of a yell

When you’re blocked, just consider a bicycle bell.

A Middle Name

Do you have a middle name?

If so, how do you use it?

Our name is given when we’re born;

We do not get to choose it.

My middle name was only used

In anger by my mother,

Who didn’t saddle one upon

My sis or either brother.

In Judaism, names are picked 

To honor those not living.

The first initial thus decides

Which moniker you’re giving.

So Ilene Gail was chosen 

At my birth for the tradition

And Ida Goldie got her

Long-awaited recognition.

My middle name just sits there,

An appendage I’m not using,

Which never would have been among

The ones of my own choosing.

Universal

A family from India had a request

On a hiking trail as we passed by,

“Could you please take our picture?” and held out a phone

So my husband, of course, did comply.

As they settled themselves in a pose, my spouse asked,

Since he often calls out 1- 2 - 3, 

How to say that in language that they’d understand

And their answer cracked up him and me.

“Just say Cheese!” so he did and they all gave a smile 

At this word, universally known.

Then my husband proceeded to snap a few shots,

Which they crowded to see on their phone.

Glorious

It’s orange and yellow and russet and green

And every fall color there is in-between.

The leaves are all rustling high in the trees,

With some of them drifting down, caught on the breeze.

It’s autumn and glorious here in the sun.

I’m wrapped in a scarf though I’m jumping the gun

For it isn’t officially what I’d call “cold.”

(Still, the chill in my bones is more proof that I’m old.)

But this weather, to me, is my favorite, the best!

Keep your tropics and deserts - to all, I’d suggest,

Grab a jacket and join me - October is here;

Time for foliage, hiking and pumpkin-laced beer!

Wrong Target

Two protesters , breaking some laws

To convince folks to notice their cause,

Threw two cans of red soup 

And stood by as the goop

Trickled down a Van Gogh without pause.

It was “Sunflowers,” and, worst of all,

They then glued themselves fast to the wall.

The tomato soup’s aim

Only damaged the frame,

Though the act in itself did appall.

Still, I wonder, did nobody see

What was obvious, clearly, to me?

Flinging soup at Van Gogh

Makes no sense, since we know

How appropriate Warhol would be!

The Perfect Match

A little story caught my eye

About a very fussy guy

Who, though he really seemed to try,

Just couldn’t find his match.

 

His friends and family liked to tease

About how hard he seemed to please

But everyone at least agrees

He’d make a decent catch.

 

But, tired of waiting for a date

With qualities to captivate,

He chose himself to be his mate

And so a plan did hatch.

 

He bought a ring that he would wear

And very proudly did declare

No better partner could be there

For Cupid to dispatch.

Brang It On

Today I might just sing a song;

A day ago, I sang it.

I bring this info now, but

Yesterday, I didn’t brang it.

 

Though if I hang a picture,

In the past, I likely hung it,

But if I want you seeing it,

I never would have brung it.

 

When grammar rules confuse, it’s best

To make things much more pleasant

And speak as if you’re foreign,

Sticking to one tense – the present.

 

I try this when I travel

And it helps me, even though

The locals likely wonder

If I’m just a little slow.

Our Insides

Our insides are inside of us

So we don’t have to see

That maybe something isn’t quite

The way it ought to be.

 

A lump or an obstruction

May be lurking out of sight,

So doctors order tests just to

Make sure that we’re all right.

 

Results can offer comfort

If the test results are good,

Then those insides can go back

To being hidden, like they should.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time I thought

I’d never see the day

When age would bring me wrinkles,

Creaky knees and hair of gray.

 

Once upon a time the years

Stretched out, without an end,

Without the need to know what waited

Right around the bend.

 

Once upon a time the world

Seemed welcoming and kind,

But that’s a different picture

From what most today would find.

 

Once upon a time is how

A fairy tale might start,

But after that, reality

And fiction drift apart.

A Sunny Sunday

The air is cold, the sun is warm;

In autumn, sometimes that’s the norm.

The river’s choppy; white caps break

As speed boats trail a frothy wake.

 

The sky is clear, just wisps of cloud,

The promenade devoid of crowd.

A spotted lanternfly alights,

A stomp preventing future flights.

 

The leaves, still green, sway in the breeze,

Not ready to abandon trees,

As dogs on leashes stop and sniff

Then circle back for one more whiff.

 

A sunny Sunday’s what I’ve got

To rest up from my Covid shot

And as I watch the ferries glide,

I’m grateful for a seat outside.

Playing the Trombone

My grandson’s in the band this year;

He’s playing the trombone.

We wondered how he’d handle it

Or get those deep notes blown.

 

The instrument within its case

Seems hard for him to schlep,

But we watched as he assembled it

To practice, step by step.

 

He played the notes of “Hot Cross Buns”

(We couldn’t really tell)

With sounds that he produced emerging

From the trombone’s bell.

 

He recognized mistakes, but then

He’d have another go,

Remaining calm and focused

‘Til the notes began to flow.

 

How wonderful to witness

The beginnings of a skill

Which may grow or not, but currently

Gives all of us a thrill.

 

The calendar’s already marked –

There is a concert date

To hear the 4^th grade band perform

And we can hardly wait!

The Empty Feeder

The backyard feeder for the birds 

Brought squirrels who, for sure,

Believed that with some cast-off seeds

They certainly would score.

For months that worked for everyone

Until that fateful day

I looked outside to see

That squirrels can be local prey.

For right below the feeder,

A coyote stood his ground,

Then grabbed a fresh-killed squirrel 

‘Fore he vanished with a bound.

I haven’t filled the feeder since 

Nor ventured out to sit,

But it’s so lovely weather-wise,

I’m outside for a bit.

As soon as I sat down, three birds 

Came swooping in for seed,

But with some squirrels realized

I had not fulfilled their need.

It’s sad that one coyote

Stole the pleasure we have missed,

Yet both predators and prey, I guess,

Both need to coexist.

Losing Things

Today I thought I lost my keys

And knowing what’s at stake,

I searched like crazy, but my husband

Took them by mistake.

 

An hour later, for a class

Of quilting, I was stopped

When my ruler disappeared

Until I noticed it had dropped.

 

The class complete, I headed

For a shady bench outside

To write my poem, but where’s

My favorite pencil gone to hide?

 

It isn’t in my bag

And always has a sharpened point.

I looked in each compartment;

Now I’m really out of joint.

 

A day like this with many things

I cannot seem to find

Makes me hope it’s not a warning

I’m about to lose my mind.

Noodle Kugel

Everybody’s noodle kugel

Varies in a way

And some taste just as different

As the night is to the day.

 

Most recipes were handed down,

A bit of family lore,

Or found in temple cookbooks,

Which have recipes galore.

 

I tried a few when searching

For the one I’d call my own,

Since the kugels of my grandmas

From my memory have flown.

 

But I hit upon the perfect one

And make it every year.

Not everybody loves it

But each piece will disappear

 

Since whatever’s left, I’ll wrap and freeze

So it won’t go to waste

And then, bit by bit, I’ll eat it

‘Cause it’s made to just my taste.

Tonight I'll Light Some Candles

Tonight I’ll light some candles

For some people who have died,

A custom on the holiday

To which I will abide.

 

I’m not religious, but, to me,

A ritual like this

Acknowledges the fact that there

Are those we truly miss.

 

Of course, besides my parents

There are others who have passed

Who were special in so many ways

Their memories hold fast.

 

Though they all don’t get a candle,

For the ones who’ve had to part,

There’s a little flame I’ll keep alive

Forever in my heart.

In Place

I’m not the type to lose things

And I hope that doesn’t change,

Although sometimes as we age

What’s in our minds may rearrange.

If everything gets put in place

Right after we have used it,

It should be there when needed next 

(Unless our brains confused it).

For those who toss possessions

Every time in different spots,

Finding items might be like 

A much less fun connect-the-dots.

But for neatniks or obsessives,

It becomes a little game.

Every shelf or drawer or closet 

Day by day remains the same.

Not a Fan

As much as I love music,

I’m not sorry to admit

That opera’s the exception,

For I like it not one bit.

It’s not that I don’t understand 

The words (although that’s true),

But rather it’s the voices

All the critics ballyhoo.

Sopranos, tenors, baritones - 

They all get on my nerves,

Then you toss in some vibrato 

(Which no audience deserves),

Add some overdone emoting,

Make-up way beyond the top

And the flashiest of costumes - 

I’d go on, but here I’ll stop.

Opera fans the whole world over

Are both cultured and refined,

But, though classical I covet,

Opera leaves me disinclined.

So Many People

So many people do things

That they don’t do very well.

The strangest part, to me, is that

They often cannot tell.

 

You know the type – the artists, cooks

And entertainers, too,

Who proudly peddle or perform

But haven’t got a clue.

 

They’re lucky to be unaware

That talent they do lack

And if they face rejection, well,

They’ll give it one more crack.

 

Yet if they get enjoyment

From their hobby or their work,

Perhaps that self-indulgence

Is sufficient as a perk.