The Princess of Procrastination

I’m the Princess of Procrastination –

Bow down at my feet!

For I’m the best example

Of delaying you could meet.

 

Go through closets? Get a haircut?

Start to organize my book?

Work on projects that are waiting

For a first or second look?

 

Days go by and I get lost in

Following my set routines.

If I contemplate diverging,

Somehow something intervenes.

 

So to you, my loyal subjects,

If your stalling’s got you down,

Glance my way and you’ll feel better,

For I proudly wear the crown.

Charity

Calendars and note cards,

Labels by the score,

Memo pads and bookmarks,

Wrapping paper, sometimes more.

 

Every single charity

Reaches out to see

If any of their offers

Unlocks generosity.

 

For some I get the checkbook

(Yes, old-fashioned, but it works)

And send in a donation

To offset those little perks.

 

But after I am dead and gone,

My family, bereft,

Will be shocked at just how many

Address labels I have left.

Bah!

With gifts to buy and then to wrap

And cookies needing baking,

The holidays become a trap

Of joy we’re sometimes faking.

 

We have to follow set routines

To honor our traditions,

But often what that really means

Is life with impositions.

 

Many love this time of year

And find it fun and merry

But, Scrooge-like as I may appear,

Does it annoy me? Very!

My Wedding Dress

Today’s the date I married,

Many, many moons ago.

My wedding dress was long and white;

In back, there was a bow.

 

It wasn’t from a bridal shop;

I’d purchased it alone.

There was one I’d liked much better

So I’d searched to find a phone.

 

I called my mom, describing both;

The other one was green,

To match my boyfriend’s 3 piece suit.

Though I was torn between,

 

My mother’s voice had not one doubt.

In fact, she almost hissed,

“You have to get the white one,”

All my arguments dismissed.

 

In pictures, we are smiling

And the white dress that I wore

Looked more bridal, but not better

Than the one left at the store.

A Swath of Gold

A gleaming swath of gold appears

When I look down below.

From here, not one thing interferes

With Nature’s autumn show.

 

For down 9 stories, there are trees

With dazzling yellow leaves,

Though there are never guarantees,

Despite what one believes,

 

That year to year that lovely view

Will be exactly thus,

Since sometimes when a storm’s a‘brew,

There’s nothing to discuss.

 

When wind and rain join forces, they

May strip those branches bare

And we don’t have the slightest say

To keep that yellow there.

 

Yet this time, we’ve been sent a gift,

For every window glance

Gives me a cause to smile, a lift

That Nature sometimes grants.

The Hand We're Dealt

We all must play the hand we’re dealt

And many folks’ve surely felt

That most unfairly they’ve been whacked

By cards that somehow have been stacked.

 

Still, there are those that rise above

And focus on the things they love,

While others flounder first, then sink.

(There must be more of those, I think.)

 

Yet as the game of life plays out,

The future always filled with doubt,

Some winners lose and losers win,

For that’s the way it’s always been.

Underneath the Bed

I needed some storage space so I checked out

The floor underneath the kids’ bed.

It’s a very old bunk but instead of some room,

This is what I encountered instead:

A bag filled with newspapers, all from the date

That announced Mickey Mantle had died;

A plastic container too heavy to lift,

With baseball cards (hundreds!) inside.

From Sesame Street, a stuffed Grover and Bert,

Miss Piggy and Oscar the Grouch,

A Madeline doll and a Raggedy Ann.

(But I swear nothing’s under the couch!)

Several board games and one more big box which contained

Baseballs, batting gloves and souvenirs;

Magazines, ID cards and some photos on which

Someone’s autograph somehow appears.

I moved everything out, tossed some stuff in the trash 

But my kids are now in for a treat,

For I’m taking it all to their houses to make

The space under their beds more complete!

Thanksgiving is Here

The Christmas tree salesmen

Are back on the street

And “Happy Thanksgiving!”

Shout all that you meet.

 

TV’s are tuned in

To the Macy’s parade

And tables are set

For the feast that’s been made.

 

Pies and baked goodies

Are packed in the car

As people prepare

For their trips, near or far.

 

The sun’s shining brightly,

The wheels are in gear

For both traffic and family –

Thanksgiving is here!

If Jury Duty Calls

The day before Thanksgiving

Everybody takes it slow,

Except the ones preparing meals,

As many of us know.

 

So it’s the perfect day to serve

If Jury Duty calls.

I doubt if there’s a judge or lawyer

Strolling through the halls.

 

We would-be jurors sit for hours,

Staring at the clock,

Or read or do a puzzle

Since there’s no one in the dock.

 

My hope is that we’ll be dismissed,

Our civic duty done

And other folks will fill the seats

When trials will have begun.

If I Can Be So Bold

Thinking of Thanksgiving Day

And its required feast

Makes me think it’s time to say

Which things I like the least.

 

For giving thanks for what we’ve got

Is kind of getting old,

Since there is much we hate a lot,

If I can be so bold.

 

Like a certain politician

Calling his opponents “vermin,”

Reminiscent of the disposition         

Of a certain German.

 

Or protests lately in the news

With hostages forgotten

And blame set only on the Jews,

In speeches misbegotten.

 

Or keeping guns but banning books

And spreading lies much faster

Than it can take to stop the crooks

From causing more disaster.

 

Or watching as our planet aches,

Despite each expert’s warning,

Repeating all those past mistakes,

Preparing us for mourning.

 

I could go on but I will not,

Yet gathered ‘round the table,

I’ll ban these thoughts and find a spot

For thanks, if I am able.

Tired While Retired

When younger, I would stay up late

And drink a lot of wine,

But nowadays, with half a beer,

I hit the hay at nine.

 

My teaching days, once filled with work,

Plus quite a long commute,

Would wipe me out for reasons that

Nobody would dispute.

 

Yet, now retired, I walk three miles

And pass the extra time

With reading, crosswords, phone calls

And, of course, my daily rhyme.

 

Though in the afternoon, I feel

Exhausted, truth be told,

Except that now, my main excuse

Is that I’ve gotten old.

A Chance Encounter

A chance encounter turned into

The highlight of our day.

It’s funny how occasionally

Things turn out that way.

 

A museum exhibition spawned

A comment overheard

And soon a conversation followed,

Stranger/friend lines blurred.

 

A pair of old-time hippies,

Here from Denver for the show,

Shared so many common interests

They were people we should know.

 

So we chatted, trading stories

In that gallery of art

And we laughed for half an hour

But before we had to part…

 

They invited us to visit;

Said their guest room was the best.

Then we smiled and said goodbye,

While understanding their request…

 

Wouldn’t happen, though it would be just

As nice as all their claims,

For our sudden strong connection

Somehow missed exchanging names.

Bette's Wall Street Journal

Bette’s Wall Street Journal’s sitting

Right outside her door,

Like every other Saturday

That’s come this way before.

 

Today, however, Bette’s paper

Likely won’t get read,

At least by her, because we learned

That, sadly, Bette’s dead.

 

We don’t need much reminding

That routines of life go on,

Despite the fact that someone

That we’ve known is newly gone.

 

Yet to see that paper waiting there

Just brings that message home,

Though some of us may stick around,

The subject of a poem.

Showing the Way

A text I received with emojis

Exploding all over the screen

Was, to me, something new

But I had not a clue

How to replicate what I had seen.

My granddaughter sent me the message.

I asked her then just what to do.

She’s a pro at this stuff 

(Her eight years is enough)

So she showed me the tips that she knew.

When a friend later texted some info -

Good news she’d been hoping to hear -

I chose faces with grins

So my answer begins 

With them floating and sending some cheer.

Soon she called me and asked me to teach her

How to do such a magical thing.

I explained what to press

And voila! with success 

On her phone, smiles and hearts she can fling.

Though it’s true that age brings with it wisdom,

Technology favors the young.

So to grandkids I say,

Thanks for showing the way

And your praises deserve to be sung.

Patient Denies

The doctor was one I’d not met.

Her thoughts about treatments were set.

I didn’t agree

So her questions to me

Were the kind I would rather forget.

 

But the one thing that I did surmise

Was that she was convinced I told lies

For when I answered “No”

To some queries she’d throw

Her report stated, “Patient denies.”

 

What most bothered me, reading her notes

Was the comment (I’ll put it in quotes):

She “appears stated age”

Maybe so, but I’d wage

Her demeanor won’t get many votes.

A Welcome Quiet

The waiting room is quiet;

The wall TV is off,

The only noise a conversation

Or a random cough.

 

Oh yes, the elevator beeps

When opening its door,

But otherwise, it’s peaceful,

Rarely noticed anymore.

 

I’m used to TV’s blaring

With a talk show or the news,

Which no one ever watches

As celebrities enthuse.

 

Yet today, I’m being treated

To civility and calm

Which, when visiting a doctor,

Is a lovely, welcome balm.

I Didn't Want to Write This

I didn’t want to write this poem,

But how could I refuse

When every day I read or hear

More horror in the news?

 

The Mideast situation’s

Always had opposing views

And sadly, when there’s fighting,

Everybody feels the screws.

 

Yet after World War II, survivors

Thought they’d paid their dues,

But here we are again with hatred

Aiming at the Jews.

 

At colleges, behavior

That nobody should excuse

Has caused fear among the students

They have chosen to accuse.

 

Some had relatives the Nazis

Forced in camps to wear tattoos,

So they’re shocked to learn that loathing

Hasn’t managed to defuse.

 

It’s a horrible reminder

That so many can confuse

Outright evil with the right to have

A homeland one can’t lose.

Not Quite Fully-Formed

Last night, a not quite fully-formed

Poem peeked out from my brain.

I wanted to get out of bed

But sleep controlled the rein.

 

I struggled to repeat the lines,

Committing them to where

They’d lodge inside my mem’ry bank

And safely settle there.

 

Of course, I knew I should get up

And jot them in a note,

So in the morning I could look

And find the words I wrote.

 

Alas, I couldn’t follow through

And thus fell back to sleep,

The poem, all cozy, tucked back in

And nestled way down deep.

How Quickly

How quickly things can change 

And go from good to bad to worse 

Or, just as likely, do the same 

But only in reverse.

Very little stays in place

And thus, the way we feel

Reflects the ups and downs of life

With which we daily deal.

The trick is to enjoy the good

And disregard the rest.

To anyone who works this out,

I would be most impressed.

Honoring a Tradition

The grandkids came to visit

So, in tribute to the past,

We honored a tradition 

That I never knew would last.

For when our kids were younger,

We would play our favorite tapes 

And we’d dance around the living room, 

The greatest of escapes.

We’d bust out all our fancy moves 

And slide across the floor,

The joy so precious, who could ever

Ask for something more?

Yet now, one grown-up kid is back

With children of his own,

So all of us kicked up our feet, 

With music from the phone.

The thrill was back as we let loose,

Our smiles both bright and wide,

As, young and old, we danced in tune

With how we felt inside.

Packing for Children

To pack for a weekend 

With children requires

Much more than a tankful

Of gas and good tires.

You have to remember 

Their PJ’s and clothes,

Their brushes for teeth

And for hair, I suppose.

Shampoo, soap and toothpaste

And lotion for itches,

The books they are reading,

The iPads and Switches.

Perhaps a stuffed creature 

Or doll that’s a fave

And surely some snacks 

Of the type they would crave.

When all is assembled

(And yes, it’s a lot!),

You climb in the car, wond’ring

What you forgot.

The Circuits First Connected

At birth our brains are wired

For some ways that we will be,

Including certain aspects of

Our personality.

 

Will we be shy or unreserved?

Risk-averse or bold?

Quick to act or cautious?

Independent or controlled?

 

Will changes be exciting

Or will we like things the same?

Will we admit when we are wrong

Or find someone to blame?

 

Of course, our family plays a part

As well as how we’re raised

And we may make adjustments

When we’re chastised or we’re praised.

 

But the circuits first connected

Form the base, to some extent,

Of the way we interact and how

Our lifetime will be spent.

Waiting for my Mammogram

While waiting for my mammogram,

A most annoying test,

I had a thought no poetry

Has up to now addressed.

 

About the ones whose job is

Squeezing every woman’s breast

And manipulating angles

‘Til it’s properly finessed.

 

With each mammary maneuver,

Getting patients more distressed,

She keeps kneading and adjusting,

Like a potter who’s possessed.

 

What a way to make a living!

Though it’s time that I confessed

That I feel much better getting

These reproaches off my chest.

Who'da Thunk?

We can find out anything

By clicking on our phone

And possibilities exist

More than the world has known.

 

Deliveries come to our door

With anything we need

And plenty that we don’t,

With satisfaction guaranteed.

 

The opportunities abound

To travel and to learn

As chances keep expanding

To reach goals for which we yearn.

 

With all of these accomplishments

We’ve never had before,

Well, who’da thunk that there would

Still be poverty and war?

 

That there would still be hatred

And stupidity and greed,

Small-mindedness, brutality

And bullies to mislead?

 

Technology’s advances

Might have given us a boost,

But you woulda thunk such problems

Woulda somehow been reduced.

The Robyn Schall Experience

It’s wonderful and rare to laugh

Or smile for two hours straight.

It happens when you get to see

A comic who’s first-rate.

 

Last night we joined the audience

At New York’s famed Town Hall,

Amid the crowd of fervent fans

Who follow Robyn Schall.

 

Her comedy is special

And to everyone appeals,

As the funny stories of her life

She jokingly reveals.

 

By interacting with the crowd,

All thrilled to thus engage,

She extends the warmest welcome,

Calling some up to the stage.

 

With a few well-chosen videos

Security* provides,

We are treated to an inner self

That Robyn never hides.

 

For full disclosure, Robyn is

The daughter of dear friends,

Yet seeing her perform

My fair and square self recommends.

 

We all need laughter as the world

Gets grimmer every day.

“The Robyn Schall Experience”

Makes all that go away.

 

*Security is what Robyn calls her brother

Richie, who helps with her shows.

The Best Day in New York

The best day in New York is when

The Marathon takes place,

For people from all walks of life

Come out to see the race.

 

If the weather gods cooperate

And it is crisp and clear,

Then the multitudes plus music makes

A party atmosphere.

 

The runners, from all countries,

From the fittest to the kind

That look out of shape, all jog,

Including several who are blind…

 

While the spectators ignore the tape

To barricade them back,

Cheering everyone from those elite

To those with gaits gone slack.

 

Many hold up signs for kith and kin

And what I love the best

Is when they make the connection,

Joy on both sides manifest.

 

Every borough joins together

On this festive racing day.

What a wonder it would be if things

Could always be this way!

Now and Then

With the help of new technology,

We’re privileged again

To have a brand-new Beatles song

Entitled “Now and Then.”

 

Though, sadly, John and George are gone,

Their vocals are alive

And tapes of their guitar finesse

Have managed to survive.

 

Combining those with Paul and Ringo

Singing and on drums,

A song has been created

Which, with video, becomes

 

A wistful and nostalgic visit

To those magic years

When the Beatles made their music

As we followed their careers.

 

Not five minutes is required

To relive an era when

We were young and found the Beatles,

Unaware that now was then.