Extra Space

Folding chairs and blow-up beds 

Are mostly used by guests,

Providing extra space for bodies’

Temporary rests.

If company is coming,

It’s a plus if you can stash 

Accommodations for some friends

Who need a place to crash.

There’s always room for others 

Who are willing, truth be told,

To plop their bones on seats or beds 

That will inflate or fold.

Manatee Lagoon

We went to Manatee Lagoon

But it was not quite opportune 

For if there was a manatee,

It wasn’t there for us to see.

To make the best of getting there,

An hour’s drive to who-knows-where,

We took some pictures (smile, please!)

Beside some sculptured manatees.

So looking back, those photos will 

Remind me that we can fulfill 

Some journeys that we undertake 

With memories and proof that’s fake.

Flying Home Day

No matter when my flight is

On the day I’m flying home,

I am early to the airport,

Where I sit and write my poem…

And read my book or magazine 

And grab a bite to eat

And work a crossword puzzle

‘Til it’s finally complete.

It’s not worth the anxiety 

To do last-minute things,

For any slight delay (like traffic),

Oh, the grief it brings!

For someone prone to panic,

Having hours to unwind

Leads to not one drop of boredom,

But a calmer frame of mind.

Wakodahatchee Wetlands

The trees were filled with herons 

On a branch or in a nest.

To see the babies being fed

And squawking was the best.

Some other birds were sitting

On a batch of eggs, bright blue,

While alligators poked their heads

From water, like they do.

Assorted ducks and feathered friends

I couldn’t really name

Were flying yon and thither

To the birders’ great acclaim.

My visit to the wetlands 

I was sorry had to end,

But mostly ‘cause I toured it with

A dear and much-missed friend.

Old Married Couple

When viewing a painting I liked by Paul Klee,

A docent-in-training came over to me.

Can I ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,

About “Old Married Couple,” as she’d been assigned.

I told her the woman appeared to berate

Her husband, who seemed to accept this as fate.

His eyes, closed or downcast, displayed on his face

Resignation, as if he’d accepted his place.

The trainee, amused, didn’t say I was wrong

But her script sang a very much different song.

The husband was sleeping, the wife, sitting near,

Gazed with tenderness - how it was meant to appear.

I called to my husband to see what he thought

And he gave me the answer that I would have sought.

He agreed with my take, all the proof that we’d need

That we sure are an “old-married couple” indeed.

The 4th Grade Circus

They walked on stilts, used hula hoops,

Did devil sticks and juggled balls,

Raised spinning plates and in their groups

They followed all the leader’s calls.

The 4th grade students who performed

Had practiced just for 3 quick days,

Yet when into the gym they stormed,

Their new-found knowledge did amaze.

All dressed alike, in black and white,

They confidently showed their skills 

And to their kith and kin’s delight,

Their acts produced both cheers and thrills.

They weren’t perfect, but for sure,

No matter if they made a goof,

Their joy was obvious and pure,

Their beaming faces perfect proof.

Who would have thought a circus crew

Could do such magic in a week,

As kids found talents no one knew,

All unexpected and unique.

Florida's Fig Leaves

A principal had to resign

For an art teacher chose to assign

What a parent called porn

And she needed to warn

Those in charge it was way out of line.

 

Thought the students, eleven and twelve,

Into classical works were to delve,

Michelangelo’s art

Showed a male body part

That the protester wanted to shelve.

 

Now the David is known far and wide

And most viewers can take it in stride,

But in Florida’s schools

They play by different rules

So some crazy taboos are applied.

 

To that mother who thinks she protects

Her near-teen, maybe what she expects

Is that viewing a nude

Will make someone unglued,

Certain books having likewise effects.

The Castle House

In the middle of a street

In a nice suburban town

Sits a house unlike the others 

And deserving of renown.

With some unexpected turrets

In the way it was designed,

Just one glance brings times medieval

To the forefront of the mind.

For it looks just like a castle

So all passersby will stare,

Wond’ring maybe if some royalty 

Somehow’s residing there.

I would love to see if inside

It retains that cool allure,

But from visiting some real ones 

There’s one thing of which I’m sure.

If you don’t have many servants 

And you’re living in a castle, 

Cleaning towers topped with turrets

Must be quite a major hassle!

Self-Service

My father lent his car to me,

My driving skills brand-new,

To take a weekend trip with friends,

Which I was shocked he’d do.

We went upstate and stopped for gas

Where we were most surprised 

To find the pumps for serve-yourself

Were cleverly devised.

We laughed and posed for pictures

At this novel fill-up way.

Though that was fifty years ago,

I thought of it today.

At Michael’s crafting store with not

A cashier to be found,

I used the self-check kiosks,

Noting how things come around.

What once was such a novelty’s

Become the way things are.

In future years there also won’t be

Gas for any car.

Wrong Decision

When you make a wrong decision

And you’re feeling not too bright,

Don’t bog down with self-derision;

Try, instead, to set things right.

 

Though it’s tricky to untangle

Strings you’ve tied into a knot,

Dig down deep and find an angle,

Using everything you’ve got.

 

Place a phone call, write a letter

Or make contact with a text

And you might feel somewhat better

With whatever happens next.

 

I’m no expert, though, believe me.

I oft wallow in despair,

But unless my years deceive me,

There’s not much beyond repair.

Different Tastes

We all have very different tastes

In books and art and food,

In where we live and what we do

To lift a sagging mood.

 

The way we dress, our travel plans

And when we sleep and wake,

Our politics, religion

And the purchases we make.

 

What’s right for me most likely

Wouldn’t work as well for you,

So each of us must choose our path

And do what we must do.

 

A million options wait in life

But most we will reject,

Though somehow some might overlap

And we will then connect.

Not a Whit

The sun is warm;

The air is cold.

I didn’t care

‘Til I got old.

And now, although

Today it’s spring,

I miss the scarf 

I didn’t bring.

Yet I’ll stay out 

And soak some rays,

Remembering

My younger days

When cold concerned me

Not a whit

‘Cause on a bench 

I’d never sit.

Proactive

By being proactive, you’ll find

That you leave many problems behind.

Grab the bull by the horns

And avoid all the thorns

That might prick you when you’re flying blind.

 

Just some Googling and reaching out

May eliminate stressing from doubt

Or you might find you’re stuck

And be plumb out of luck

Which, to most, is what life is about.

Longer Days

People love the longer days

For soaking up those sunshine rays

But I, for one, prefer the phase

Of darkened afternoons.

 

Since when the sun is all ablaze,

The time one spends indoors betrays

The natural urge to fresh-air graze

Near flowers and balloons.

 

Of course, the spring deserves its praise,

With gardens flaunting their displays

And I’ll conform to normal ways

Of Aprils, Mays and Junes.

 

But really, I like best to laze

Inside when tiredness outweighs

The late-day sun; my eyes just glaze

(Though most would say too soon).

The Passover Section

With springtime now upon us,

If your town has lots of Jews,

The supermarket has some foods

You might have need to use.

For Passover’s approaching

And the holiday demands

No bread or pasta be consumed;

Thus, stores have made their plans.  

A special section’s filled with

All the substitutes we need

To serve at Seder time, just like

The ancient texts decreed.

There’s matzoh meal, gefilte fish

And macaroons and cakes

And all of the ingredients 

For anyone who bakes.

This Passover array depends

On neighborhood and store,

So often pickings might be slim 

While other shops have more.

For Jewish folk with markets

With no matzoh, I’d behoove

You to tell the owners how you feel

Or do what I’d do - move!

Talk of Leprechauns

My grandkids talk of leprechauns 

As if they are alive 

And finding one is something

For which both of them do strive.

They know that unicorns aren’t real,

So telling them the truth

Seems easy, but they still believe

A fairy takes their tooth.

Of course, because St. Patrick’s Day

Is right around the bend,

I think I’ll just keep quiet

And let both of them pretend 

Since I’m convinced they know deep down

(They’re fourth and second grade)

That their belief in leprechauns

Will soon begin to fade.

Black Tie

I’ll never understand it

When an invitation states

“Black tie.” Who cares what’s worn

When everybody celebrates?

 

If guests must follow certain rules

About the way to dress,

It’s taking out excitement

And replacing it with stress.

 

Of course, a bride and groom must have

Their vision for their day

And over certain choices

Their decisions should hold sway.

 

But there should be some trust

In what their friends and families wear.

For a perfect wedding, no one needs

A “black tie” type affair.

The Weatherman Said

The weatherman said it might snow,

A rarity now, you should know,

So I put on my boots

And set off on my routes,

For I had a few places to go.

 

Well, some flakes did fall down from the sky,

So the forecast was not quite a lie,

But it never did stick

And it ended real quick

Since the winter rules cease to apply.

 

In a week it’s officially spring

And who knows what the weather will bring,

Though there’s always a chance

That to water the plants

There’ll be snowflakes, which Nature can swing.

Winners' Speeches

When Oscar winners make a speech,

They often thank their mothers,

As well as castmates, agents

And a host of many others.

 

It’s good to know the sacrifice

Of moms, and their support,

In words of winners on the stage

Don’t often come up short.

 

I’ve noticed on some other shows,

When claiming an award

For music or athletics,

Winners’ mothers are ignored.

 

Instead, the first place finishers

Look up and thank their god.

I always think their moms are more

Deserving of the nod.

Springing Forward

By springing forward, we might find

The hour that we’ve left behind

Could leave us in a state of mind

Unsettled and askew.

 

For even if the stars aligned

With what the ones in charge designed,

Our brains may give the time assigned

A negative review.

 

I guess we have to be resigned

To knowing that the clocks we wind

Will, with technology combined,

Help keep our lives on cue.

Scattered

Siblings scatter here and yon,

All that one-time nearness gone,

Though many did feel put-upon;

Still, closeness might endure.

 

They choose to live in different states

With different life styles on their plates

Which sometimes lead to strange debates,

Their reasons quite obscure.

 

In childhood, though, with parents ‘round,

They shared a home on common ground

And hopefully, they often found

Some ways to get along.

 

Yet as they grew, they made their way

And often knew they couldn’t stay,

No longer in the family sway,

The urge for parting strong.

 

The bond, for some, despite the miles

And lives that follow different styles

Stays strong enough for sharing smiles

And sorrows they’ve amassed  

 

Because the homes they once had shared,

If lucky, left them well-prepared

To keep their ties to those who cared

From way back in the past.

A Certain Age

If you live to a certain age 

And reach that special “senior” stage,

You very likely will engage 

In noting your decline.

The aching knees that slow your pace,

The need for cane or splint or brace,

The things you’ve lost and must replace,

The hour at which you dine.

The constant visits to M.D.’s,

The nodding off to catch some Z’s,

The words you know but can’t quite seize,

The fast-asleep by nine.

The list goes on, but what’s the use?

For just the young or most obtuse

Believe the years will not reduce

Their lives to one like mine.

If Life

If life were always caviar

And chocolate and champagne,

We wouldn’t have the luxury

Of getting to complain.

 

And wouldn’t that be awful!

Every human needs to kvetch.

Come to think of it, both caviar

And bubbly make me bletch!

Women's Day

It’s sad we need a Women’s Day,

For having one implies

That women are inferior

In many people’s eyes.

 

Of course, that’s true, but saying

“Hey – let’s honor those today

Who’ve made the world a better place

Despite their DNA”

 

Just makes the point that mostly

It’s so easy to forget

That women are as skilled as men,

Or more so, I would bet.

 

But still, we’ll celebrate this date

Next year and yet again

Until there’s opportunity

For women, like for men.

What Can You Save

What can you save when you go the grave?

The answer, my friend’s, not a thing,

Yet the way we behave (and so few of us cave)

Is to add to mementos and cling.

 

The clothes out of style we’ve not worn in a while,

The souvenirs bought on a trip;

The bills that we’ve paid and the copies we’ve made

Of each document once in our grip…

 

The books we once read (not much use when we’re dead),

Aging kitchenware, no longer used;

Old cd’s and cassettes – there should be no regrets

If they’re tossed. (Even thrift-stores refused!)

 

Once-bright towels and sheets, piles of stubs and receipts,

All the playthings of children now grown

Should be given away, so what’s left on display

Are just sparking-joy things that you own.

 

All this sounds very nice but to heed this advice

You’re much better than I seem to be,

But just take it to heart and at least try to start

(Or procrastinate – that works for me!)

Questionnaire

Got a jury questionnaire –

They really have some nerve!

I’ve paid my dues; I’m not so young

And I don’t wanna serve!

 

There must be people willing

Or who haven’t once been called.

Perhaps it’s time the system

Was completely overhauled.

 

Let all of us who’ve served before

Be evermore exempt,

Or else they’ll have to deal with

Someone totally verklempt!*

 

*flustered, nervous, overwhelmed (Yiddish)

Planning

Making plans is not for fans

Of spontaneity

Though there’s relief in the belief

You’re set, to some degree.

 

Of course, there might be some remorse

If what you’ve planned won’t work.

Then you must change or rearrange

And hidden fees might lurk.

 

But planners know that most things go

The way you did intend

And when they don’t you hope they won’t

Cause darkness to descend.

 

I envy those who go with flows

And make a last-sec score,

Though having dates that one awaits

Brings joy for weeks before.

Dungaree Blues

Once we called them dungarees;

Now they’re known as jeans.

To me, they’ve been a staple

Since first worn when in my teens.

 

Back then, they hugged my hips on top

And flared into a bell,

The bottoms often fraying

After they’d been washed a spell.

 

I’ve gone through many phases –

Skin tight, baggy, dark and light,

But in recent years it’s hard to find

A pair that fits just right.

 

So I order and return them

‘Til I’ll find some that will please,

Like the ones I bought so easily

When they were dungarees.

Renovation

Drills are buzzing, hammers banging;

Men on ladders, tool kits hanging.

Renovation’s going on and

Waiting is the key.

Dumpster’s filling, scraps are flying;

Things look messy, no denying.

Renovation’s taking place 

For an eternity.

Lights are dangling, tarps are blowing;

Lists to finish just keep growing.

Renovation’s in the works and

Not the place to be.

Quite a job the crew is facing;

So much that requires replacing.

Renovation’s at my son’s house -

Glad it’s not for me!

The Challenge

I write a poem and post it

Hoping someone else will read it,

Although, as far as feedback goes,

I do not really need it.

 

Ideas are flitting ‘round my brain

And, if I can, I catch ‘em,

Committing them to paper, where,

With any luck, I’ll match ‘em.

 

The challenge keeps me on my toes,

Requiring no persuasion

And mostly, I am proud to say,

I rise to the occasion.

 

While others paint or swim or cook

Or knit to keep them grounded,

Each day I set to rhyme the thoughts

By which I am surrounded.

Seven Sheep

Seven sheep escaped their fate

En route to getting killed.

Perhaps they sensed their hopes and dreams

Would never be fulfilled.

 

So off the truck they bolted

And through neighborhoods they tore,

Where several of them ended up

Outside a mattress store.

 

It’s possible the customers,

In search of cozy sleep,

Might have thought it was a gimmick –

Being able to count sheep.

 

The police arrived, the sheep were caught

And no one suffered harm,

But best of all, those seven sheep

Will now live on a farm.