Not Quite What I Meant

My favorite sheets are cotton;

One set’s yellow, one is blue.

They feel as cool and crisp as they

First did when they were new.

 

They’re covered in fish swimming.

(They are skipjack, I was told,

Or at least what was described online

From where the sheets were sold.)

 

It recently occurred to me

That when I go to sleep,

Although I wish I’d stay that way

And slumber long and deep,

 

I also should be careful for

It sounds like what my wish is

Could be slightly misinterpreted

As sleeping with the fishes!

Cruelly Changed

They knock the little buildings down,

Replacing them with towers,

For giant corporations hold

Those taking-over powers.

 

The neighborhood has much less sun

And character and charm,

Plus traffic and more people cause

A reason for alarm.

 

The restaurants and shops we knew

And had for years embraced

Are empty or with unfamiliar

Stores have been replaced.

 

We grow to love the place we live

But when it’s cruelly changed,

It’s natural to start to feel

A little bit estranged.

A Snack Before Dinner

A snack before dinner

Just doesn’t seem right,

For it could diminish

A good appetite.

 

At least that’s the message

My mother would spout,

Which I took to heart when

No more than a sprout.

 

Those adages somehow

Don’t work anymore

Yet still, in my head

They are hard to ignore.

 

When I’m feeling hungry

And mealtime’s not yet

I’ll pop a few olives

So I don’t regret

 

Ignoring advice

That’s been etched into place.

Then at dinner, I won’t feel bad

Stuffing my face!

Indian Giver

Years ago, in Budapest,

I bought ceramic mugs

As presents for my son and wife;

They thanked me and gave hugs.

 

The pottery was quite unique;

I bought some for myself,

Which sits there in my kitchen

On a front-and-center shelf.

 

I couldn’t carry too much home

But always did regret

I didn’t buy myself a mug

(Or two, to make a set).

 

Yet since that time, my son has bought

Ceramics of his own.

His coffee cup collection

Has considerably grown.

 

The gift mugs are no longer used;

They’re stored way out of sight.

I knew if they were on display,

They’d bring me great delight.

 

Could I possibly reclaim them?

It’s a practice that’s taboo

(Which I’m well-aware my title,

Very not P.C., is, too).

 

But my son was very gracious –

Wrapped them so they wouldn’t break

And they’re hanging in my kitchen now,

Correcting my mistake.

 

I won’t do this again

Though I am glad I had the nerve

To speak up, for these two mugs

Bring out my smiles on reserve.

Stretched in Two

Sometimes you get stretched in two

And, though you do what you must do,

You know there might be someone who

You’ve made a bit depressed.

 

Your reasons might be clear to you

But possible to misconstrue,

For everybody’s point of view

Won’t always be expressed.

 

And even if you had a clue

And agonized and thought it through,

You had to go with what you knew

Would pass the right-thing test.

 

So afterwards, a quick review

Might all your worried thoughts subdue,

For other chances will debut

To put your mind at rest.

Feathers and Foam

(to the tune of “Home on the Range”)

Oh, give me a poem filled with feathers and foam

From a couch that remains on display,

Where, although it was new, it had feathers that flew 

And that shouldn’t have happened that way.

Foam, foam made the change 

From the pillows where feathers flew free

To a place you can sit for much more than a bit

Without fluff on your tush or your knee.

Oh, how often we try when a purchase we buy

To make sure that it’s just what we need,

But we never can tell from the places that sell

If our comfort will be guaranteed.

Foam, foam made the change

From the pillows where feathers flew free

To a place to relax, good for butts and for backs

And I’m sure the poor goose would agree.

Embroidery Thread

Embroidery thread comes in hundreds of hues

And searching the shelves it’s not easy to choose.

One purple’s too dark but the next one’s too light;

It’s hard to find one that is perfectly right.

Yet buying some extras just makes lots of sense

Since the thread isn’t close to a major expense;

So when I get some fabric to work on a quilt, 

I purchase a bunch of new threads with no guilt.

Today my collection increased by a few,

Including a bold and bright turquoise-type blue.

I know that wherever my project has led,

I’ll never get stuck, hanging there by a thread.

Slap-Dash

I’m a slap-dash person;

That is just the way I roll,

For when I start a project,

Ending quickly is my goal.

 

I rarely measure things; instead

I look and take a guess,

So underneath each picture hung,

The wall’s a hole-filled mess.

 

Today I fixed a cabinet

Which needed to be spruced.

I’d ordered paint and liners

For the shelves to give a boost.

 

I emptied all the contents,

Wiped things down and dipped the brush.

I didn’t sand, just slapped that paint

Like always, in a rush.

 

I waited half an hour,

‘Til the cabinet felt dry,

Then lined the shelves, replaced the food

And I’m not gonna lie…

 

It’s far from perfect, but it’s clean

And though it’s not quite new,

To assemble one fresh from a box

I really hate to do.

 

So in my slap-dash fashion

I’ve fulfilled my latest task.

If you wonder if I’m feeling proud,

You shouldn’t have to ask.

The Clock

I spent two hours plus today

At MOMA with “The Clock,”*

A cinema montage composed

Of film and TV stock.

 

With collected clips of time shown,

(There are thousands spanning years)

It is brilliantly presented

As each clock or watch appears.

 

So if an actor checks his watch

And it says 2:15,

Your phone will correspond with

What the time is on the screen.

 

The film is on a constant loop,

The hours twenty-four

And people watch for varied times,

Most wanting to see more.

 

Yet when museum hours end,

The film keeps playing on,

Despite the fact the audience

Reluctantly has gone.

 

At times, a special screening runs,

When viewers are allowed

To stay all day and night; I’ve heard

That it attracts a crowd.

 

I couldn’t really do that, but

If I can snag a seat,

I’d love to catch a few more hours;

It really was a treat.

 

*by Christian Marclay, currently on view

at New York City’s Museum of Modern Art

Beyond Bereft

If you go to my neighborhood thrift shop,

You just might come across

Five ice cream sundae dishes

And two mugs; if not, your loss.

 

See, I’m very slowly sweeping

Things that I don’t use away,

Though I often must remind myself

Why items needn’t stay.

 

In L.A.’s recent fires,

People found out in a flash

That they had to leave; their homes

And all their stuff reduced to ash.

 

I think of them as I decide

What I should keep or ditch,

Knowing that so many there

Were left without a stitch.

 

And as I agonize about

The trove I still have left,

I’m sure that those who’ve lost it all

Must be beyond bereft.

Subjective

I know that art’s subjective;

Everyone has different taste,

So one exhibit that I love

Might be, to you, a waste.

 

The same applies to music –

Some like opera, jazz or blues,

Country, rock and roll or show tunes –

What some pick, I’d never choose.

 

And what about vacations?

Many opt for beach or isle,

While a city with museums

Is a trip to make me smile.

 

Disagreements are expected

Where the government’s concerned,

But to me, what’s most upsetting

Is the lesson I have learned…

 

That no longer can we argue

With civility and poise.

Respect has been replaced with

Lowlife nastiness and noise.

 

This has come to be accepted –

Points of view can’t be discussed

And the bullies bloviate and leave us

Trampled in the dust.

Outrage

There’s no decorum or respect

Within the White House walls

And cameras let us witness

Some behavior that appalls.

 

Invite a foreign dignitary

Then berate, insult, accuse –

That’s the playbook for a bully

Desperate to be in the news.

 

Why would any other country,

After seeing that display,

Send a leader, knowing he or she’d

Be treated in that way?

 

Every day brings more examples

Of outrageousness and shock

Which, at one time, simply seemed like

Acts of bluster we would mock.

 

But the stakes have gotten higher

And if all the guardrails fail,

Someday writing such a poem just might

Have me end up in jail.