Three-quarters of a year is gone
For
(snap your fingers), just like that!
September
will, by morrow’s dawn,
Roll
up and store the welcome mat.
October’s
waiting in the wings,
Her
pumpkins all prepared to go,
As
autumn strides, with all it brings,
To
set the foliage aglow.
Since
Nature’s rules we must obey,
We’ll
flip the calendar once more
And
fill those boxes on display
With
all the plans we have in store.
In bright red paint, beneath my feet,
Was
a declaration, short and sweet:
Nina
Loves Lefty! but with a heart
Instead
of “Loves,” so, urban art.
That’s
how graffiti used to be,
Touting
one’s identity
Or
that of someone much adored
Without
a message untoward.
An email came from our hotel –
We’ve
scratched your reservation.
We
weren’t that surprised and took
The
news with resignation.
The
hurricane wreaked havoc there
And
with the loss of power,
The
chance of new accommodations
Worsened
by the hour.
The
canceling of flights came next,
A
challenge while you’re driving,
But
after much frustration,
Credits
soon will be arriving.
We’ll
unreserve the rental car
And
once we get that cracking,
The
only thing remaining is
Unfolding
and unpacking.
I sat upon couches and couches
To search for a new one to buy,
Yet each had a negative aspect,
Though my husband gave each one a try.
Some had shapes that I didn’t approve of,
Others colors that had no appeal.
Quite a few were so deep, my legs dangled
And I hated how that made me feel.
We saw fabrics and leathers and pillows,
Most of which I rejected on sight,
But we finally found one, not perfect,
Though much better than merely all right.
Did we buy it? Not yet, but I’m thinking,
For I need time to sit and decide
And my good-natured husband is waiting,
For with what I conclude, he’ll abide.
The mayor’s been indicted
And
they’re searching through his things
To
uncover proof that he deserves
The
boot this often brings.
I
live near Gracie Mansion;
The
surrounding streets are lined
With
police cars and the vans of press,
Arrest
on every mind.
I
don’t know if he’s guilty,
Though
his circle’s shrinking fast,
But
I’m pretty sure our time as neighbors
Isn’t
gonna last.
The pow-wow at the U.N. has
Affected
many roads,
With
inconvenienced travel
By
both car and other modes.
I
tried to take the ferry down
To
meet some friends for lunch.
A
police boat in the river, though,
Confirmed
my ticked-off hunch –
My
ferry route suspended,
But
no answer to how long.
Security
is vital, though
To
me it just felt wrong.
I
hoofed it to the subway
Where
I waited for a train,
Which
was crowded and unpleasant
And
deserving of disdain.
Yet
I got where I was going
And
when I was headed back,
The
suspension had been lifted,
With
the ferry back on track.
In the mornings, building staff,
Equipped
with long green hoses,
Wash
sidewalks down, attentive to
What
lurks beneath their noses.
Most
often, it’s what’s left behind
By
dogs which poo or piddle,
With
owners who, despite the law,
Obey
it very little.
Though
yesterday, a homeless man
Sprawled
on the sidewalk, sleeping.
Though
he was dry, surrounding him,
Was
proof of clean-up keeping.
Aside
from where he lay, the street
Was
wet from recent hosing,
A
kindness from the worker,
Or
at least what I’m supposing.
I’ve
sometimes gotten spritzed a bit,
An
accidental spraying,
But
I was touched to see this dose
Of
empathy displaying.
My watch required a battery;
My
husband took it to
A
brand-new shoe repair, whose sign
Said
that’s one thing they do.
He
called me on the phone, upset,
To
ask me if I knew
That
the watch’s crystal had a crack;
I
said it wasn’t true.
It
seems the owner, clumsily,
Committed
this snafu
But
claimed that’s how he found it
And
twelve dollars now was due.
My
husband took the watch and scrammed
Before
some punches flew.
He
didn’t pay a cent
And
left the owner there to stew.
The
lesson to be learned is this –
We
never have a clue
If
we can trust a stranger,
Who
may sometimes turn the screw.
Two helicopters in the sky
Are
flying overhead
And
on the ground are many
Spotted
lanternflies, all dead.
The
river’s flowing quickly
And
a tire just floated by.
The
air is crisp and clean
And
in the air, some seagulls fly.
A
ferry parts the water
As
I sit and write my poem,
Feeling
grateful to be out here,
Just
two minutes from my home.
Go to a Broadway show; take a look
At
the people who fill up the seating,
A
mixture of tourists from thither and yon,
All
together, with few of them meeting.
The
old and the young, the fat and the thin,
The
foreigners from varied places,
The
blonds and the bald, the braids and the curls,
The
smiles or the frowns on the faces.
No
matter the crowd, when the theater goes dark,
They’re
united in their expectation
That
the show they’ll be seeing is worth it and will
Earn
a well-deserved standing ovation.
You cannot win an argument
When someone’s views are set,
For aggravated or bewildered
Is what you will get.
For most of us do not possess
A truly open mind,
So just as others dig their heels in,
You’ll respond in kind.
It’s rare to hear, “You might be right,”
Or “I see what you mean.”
Instead, whichever way we face,
That’s how much more we’ll lean.
A plane may crash,
A
shark could bite
And
Covid might be lurking.
A
knife could slash
When
out at night;
A
subway could stop working.
A
boat could sink,
A
river flood,
An
elevator trap you;
The
booze you drink
May
cause your blood
(If
it’s been spiked) to zap you.
Yet
if you live
Expecting
these
And
stay home as protection,
The
vibes you give
Won’t
ever please
And
you will face rejection.
At the museum, the portraits are hung
Of presidents, staring ahead,
A few of them still drawing breath, but by now,
Most have been, for a lot of years, dead.
Some I studied in school, some I knew not at all,
Others served while I have been alive
And the artists’ depictions were varied in style,
Though to capture the truth, they did strive.
In the midst of all men, just one woman appeared -
It was Eleanor Roosevelt, but why?
Not a president, true, though my fingers are crossed
She’ll have company yet, by and by.
On the highway, there’s a sign
That’s flashing as we pass -
“It’s Harvest Season,” meaning we
Should ease up on the gas.
“Look out for farm machines,” it says,
Though driving on the road,
We’ve yet to see a tractor
Or a vehicle that’s slowed.
Since I live in Manhattan,
There is one thing that’s for sure -
Like the saying goes, I know
I’m not in Kansas anymore.
A link to my past, going all the way back;
A solid support, one that never would crack.
A driver who loved going out for a ride.
Politically, one who kept feelings inside.
A soft-hearted viewer of Hallmark TV;
As loyal as Team USA fans could be.
A shopper of bargains and two-for-one sales.
A mixer of drinks and provider of ales.
An eater of snack foods, especially cheese.
A lover of laughter and shooting the breeze.
A bowler and one who played bingo and cards,
Who kept up with Facebook to send his regards.
A happy retiree down in the sun,
Enjoying the life leaving work had begun,
A life which was, much too soon, suddenly taken,
Leaving his people despondent and shaken.
Dear Cuz, you’ve been part of my life since your birth
And it’s hard to believe you’re no longer on earth.
Your unforeseen passing’s been tearful and tough,
But to say that I’ll miss you just isn’t enough.
For Bruce Jacobs (Aug. 19, 1950 - Sept. 15, 2024)
My cousin never showed up
At
a place he should have been.
His
phone goes straight to voice mail;
No
one knows where to begin.
He’s
always been reliable
So
this is not the norm.
My
sister called the police to file
A
missing person form.
We
live in times where contact
Can
be made in seconds flat.
When
it isn’t, there’s not much
That
we can do to alter that.
Thus
we sit and wait and worry,
Just
imagining the worst,
Hoping
to be lifted from the thoughts
In
which we’ve been immersed.
The sun is strong, the day is long
And
as I sit here, thinking,
I
wonder why, as time goes by,
My
world just keeps on shrinking.
For
as we age, at every stage,
We
lose what keeps us going
Because
our brain just can’t retain
New
things we might be knowing.
Our
skills may fade and friends we’ve made
May
disappear completely,
Though
some pretend we can transcend
And
hide their fears discreetly.
Yet
still we live and must forgive
Ourselves
for what we’re lacking
And
face each day in such a way
To
send the doldrums packing.
If the thirteenth’s on Friday,
As it is today,
Don’t allow a black cat
To walk into your way.
Keep umbrellas shut tight
Until you are outside
And if ladders are near,
Caution must be applied.
Toss some salt past your shoulder,
But only the left
And if you break a mirror,
You should be bereft.
For this date is unlucky
To those who believe
In these strange superstitions
And the hype they receive.
Certain U.S. politicians,
In
particular, one man,
Make
me angry, but at least
I
don’t live in Afghanistan.
Women
there are banned from schooling
And
whenever they’re outside,
They
must wear a full-length burqa
So
their bodies they can hide.
In
a new and worse restriction,
They
are not allowed to speak,
For
their voices heard in public
Would
arouse their leader’s pique.
Under
Taliban control, all females
Barely
have a life,
With
their only purpose being
As
a mother or a wife.
Our
Election Day is coming,
With
a woman on the slate,
Yet
for even basic freedoms,
Afghan
women have to wait.
I stayed up to watch the debate,
Though
for me it was on kinda late.
What
I felt I did see,
Just
between you and me,
Was
a richly-deserved chief of state.
She
was confident, cool and so smart
That
she ripped her opponent apart.
As
he blathered and sank
To
his name-calling plank,
She
made staying unruffled an art.
If
the blowhard were still back in school,
He’d
be forced to obey every rule,
But
his bullying ways
Which,
for some, is a phase,
Have
instead turned him into a fool.
Today I had a jelly apple –
What
a special treat!
My
husband bought it just for me
‘Cause
he is very sweet.
Atop
the jelly, coconut
Was
sprinkled, extra nice,
Although
the jelly by itself
Would
certainly suffice.
The
coating on these store-bought types
Is
gooey and real soft.
As
kids, we would have tasted them
And
laughed or even scoffed.
For
in my youth, the jelly apple,
Sold
in outdoor stands,
Would
crackle when you took a bite
(To
dentists’ reprimands).
Yet
nowadays, I am content
To
take what I can get
And my teeth are probably relieved;
My dentist need not fret!
A seagull and anhinga sit
On
logs next to the pier,
Perhaps
preparing for a meal,
For
fish are likely here.
They
do a little grooming, but
They
mostly seem to sit,
Though
the anhinga opens up
His
mouth a little bit.
As
far as the anhinga goes,
I
think that’s what it is.
My
Google research said so;
I
am not a birding whiz.
The
seagull just flapped up and flew
And
left his friend behind,
Although
it doesn’t seem that the
Anhinga
seems to mind.
It’s
lovely sitting by the water,
Which
a barge just churned
And,
by the way, that seagull,
Just
this minute, has returned.
My water bottle holder
Has
a pocket meant for keys
Or
a tissue or some money
Or
whatever else you please.
When
I went out walking yesterday,
I
thought I’d beat the rain,
But
the sky grew dark and so my hopes
Went
swirling down the drain.
My
shirt and shorts and hat were soaked,
My
sneakers still not dry,
Plus
this morning I discovered
Something
that had passed me by.
For
within that little pocket
Were
six singles, dampish still,
And
a soggy pad for writing,
Which
no pencil point could fill.
So
I spread them out for drying,
Whey
they did, in not much time,
Then
replaced them for tomorrow,
Setting
all of this in rhyme.
At a rock climbing party,
It’s
cool to observe
Both
the kids who are cautious
And
those who have nerve.
The
daredevils clamber
To
get to the top;
Neither
ziplines nor tightropes
Will
cause them to stop.
They
tackle each challenge
With
joy and with pluck
And
they rarely require
Assistance
when stuck.
The
wary are watchful,
Proceeding
with care
And
feel better in knowing
A
grown-up is there.
They’ll
ascend partway up,
Harness
keeping them bound
And
then gently let go
‘Til
their feet touch the ground.
As
a kid, I was prudent
And
nowadays I’m,
With
a harness or not,
Still
unlikely to climb.
An orchestra in Melbourne
Is embroiled in a dispute
With a concert pianist who had
A horn he had to toot.
He told the audience he’d play,
Not Mozart, as was planned,
But new music as a tribute
And he hoped they’d understand.
His friend composed the piece to honor
Journalists who’d died
In Gaza and his thoughts about
The war he could not hide,
Putting all the blame on Israel.
He can feel that way, of course,
But a concert’s not the venue
To trap listeners by force.
There were repercussions, naturally,
And lawyers are involved,
But no matter what the outcome,
What should clearly be resolved
Is that concerts are for music
And, with classics in demand,
All political discussion
Should be absolutely banned.
Relationships with doctors
Can
be awkward, even though
You
discuss the same old problems
Every
time that you may go.
Yet if you have a physician
You
have seen for many years,
All
self-consciousness and tension
Somehow
quickly disappears.
He’ll
remember all your symptoms –
Be
they serious or not –
And
will take his time explaining
What
you have or haven’t got.
There
might even be some jokes about
Appointments
in the past
And
you realize that you’re lucky,
For
such bonds so rarely last.
As
my other docs retired
Or
switched practices on me,
I
feel grateful I’m connected, still,
To my same old G.P.
Whitecaps on the water,
Gentle
cooling breeze.
Circle
Line with tourists
And
a lack of jetting skis.
Babies
in their strollers,
Joggers
on the run.
“Ice
cold water!” seller,
Thinking
summer’s not quite done.
Trucks
on nearby bridges,
Pigeons
pecking ‘round;
Such
a lovely afternoon,
Where
New York vibes resound.
On the Garden State Parkway
In
New Jersey state,
There
are places to stop
To
put food on your plate
Or
put gas in your tank
Or
prevent further grief
With
a stop to the restrooms
To
get some relief.
Certain
rest stops are named
After
locals of fame,
Since
their monikers give them
A
touch of acclaim.
One
such area called
“Jon
Bon Jovi” salutes
The
adored well-known singer
With
New Jersey roots.
I’m
not sure if Bon Jovi’s
Possessed
of a clue
That
his namesake’s the place
People
pee or they poo.
On Labor Day, some stores are closed
And
many catch a break
By
getting paid for staying home,
No
penalty at stake.
I
guess it’s kind of strange
That
this time off’s a welcome perk
For
a day that honors workers –
That
is irony at work.
But
there always are some laborers
Who
never get to stop,
Which
includes those gals in labor
Who
are just about to pop.
Early morning, someone screamed
By
Gracie Mansion* and it seemed
A
big white dog had found its prey
And
grabbed a squirrel, lithe and gray.
The
owner, frazzled, yelled and cried;
Her
pleas for help were not denied,
For
suddenly a man appeared
And
found the proof of what I’d feared.
He
lifted, by its fuzzy tail,
The
squirrel, which did not prevail,
Despite
its expertise and speed,
With
running from a hunting breed.
The
hero let a moment pass
Then
tossed the body in the grass,
An
ending many did observe
But
even squirrels don’t deserve.
*the
residence of the mayor of New York City
