Rain or Shine

The walking tour said “Rain or Shine;”

We booked it nonetheless,

Although in pouring rain, I won’t 

Be happy, I confess.

The sky looks quite foreboding,

Plus there’s thunder and we heard

On TV, tornado warnings,

Not the weather I’d preferred.

Right now the rain’s still falling,

But it’s lessening a bit.

In my younger days, I’d head on out,

Not caring but a whit.

But my spouse and I both feel the same -

If it’s more than a drizzle,

We’ll catch the tour group later

Or we’ll let the plans just fizzle.

The World War II Museum

At the World War II Museum,

There were crowds in every hall

And so much to see and read

You couldn’t quite absorb it all.

Yet the visitors, so varied,

Were attentive and polite,

Everybody so intrigued with

Every battle plan and fight.

There were artifacts and movies,

Interviews with those who fought,

Which enhanced the schoolbook knowledge 

That each one of us was taught.

Hours went by until the closing 

And we saw all that we could.

Most Americans won’t get there,

But I think all people should.

A Film on a Plane

Watching a film on a plane

Is the perfect distraction for me,

For aside from the pleasure I gain,

From anxiety I am set free.

If I’m lucky, the movie is one

That I’ve wanted to see but had missed,

So as soon as the picture’s begun,

It gets crossed off my need-to-see list.

When it’s over and time has flown past,

I won’t think about what lies ahead 

But reflect on the excellent cast 

And director and story instead.

The Onion

Satire is a tricky thing

And won’t appeal to half

Of its potential readers, 

But the other half will laugh.

The Onion is satirical

And I’m, for sure, a fan,

For it pokes fun of politics 

(At least, while it still can).

Like other periodicals,

It focuses on news,

With weddings, deaths and real estate

Attracting many views.

There also is a horoscope

And lots of ads as well,

But none of it is serious,

Which anyone can tell.

It always cracks me up; at times

It makes me laugh out loud,

The humor, though, intended

For a real specific crowd.

I recommend a reading

But I would advise you that

You may not be so enamored 

If you sport a MAGA hat.

An Eagle and a Goose

As metaphors go, this one is a gem,

A tale of an eagle and goose

Engaged in behavior we cannot condemn;

Their nature allows no excuse.

 

It happened in Canada, witnesses say;

The eagle (a bald one) attacked

And those who observed this amazing display

Were so shocked they could barely react.

 

For the Canada goose, who was feisty and brave,

Fought for twenty long minutes and won,

Since the eagle decided he might as well cave

When he realized that he’d been outdone.

 

The political world must have chuckled a bit

(Well, I’m sure all Canadians did),

Though Republicans, lacking in virtue and wit,

Will, retweeting this story, forbid.

Good Fortune

When good fortune rains down

On some family or friend,

We can share in their joy

And best wishes extend.

 

It’s a wonderful thing

To be in on the news

And be able to smile

And to proudly enthuse.

 

For we know they would be

In a similar vein

If good fortune on us would,

Instead of them, rain.

Tap!

Picture a room with a mirror-type wall

And two dozen women, with tap shoes on all.

In front is the teacher, who’s showing the moves

As all of the dancers get into their grooves.

 

Listen as taps rat-a-tat on the floor,

Increasing in tempo and hard to ignore.

In back are the newbies or those a bit shy,

All doing their best to keep up and get by.

 

Feel the good spirits, the joy and delight

Of all kinds of women who chose to unite

To indulge in a one hour tap-dancing spree

And if you couldn’t guess, one such tapper was me!

A Day Indoors

I don’t mind a day indoors

When windshield wipers show

That rain is pouring from the sky

To puddle down below.

 

As long as I squeeze in my walk,

Which I did early on,

I’ll find enough to do at home

Until the gloom is gone.

 

Of course, I’ll still ignore those chores

Which really are a pain.

To force me to declutter

It will take much more than rain.

Codes and Passwords

The combination lock I had

In high school, for the gym,

Would open with a special code;

Though memory’s grown dim…

 

I still remember: 2 – 8 – 2

Turn right, then left, then right,

Those numbers etched into my brain,

Which I can still recite.

 

Those were the only numbers that

I had to memorize

To access something locked away

(My sneakers, I’d surmise).

 

Yet nowadays, we have to learn

Numeric codes, as well

As passwords to protect us

From where hackers hide and dwell.

 

And each one should be different,

With 8 characters or more,

Some upper case, plus numbers

Or some symbols, por favor.

 

It also is expected that

Your brain will, on command,

Be able to cough up those codes

When apps make that demand.

 

Those years in school so long ago

Did not provide a clue

That some day my stuff would not be safe

With simply 2 – 8 – 2.

At the Apple Store

I couldn’t keep on putting off

An update to my phone;

With apps no longer working,

I was in a retro zone.

 

But when I tried to update

I was rapidly deterred,

For the message I kept getting was

“An error has occurred.”

 

So I made a quick appointment

At the nearest Apple store –

Walking distance, early morning,

Not a real unpleasant chore.

 

Though they didn’t see my name

(Despite my confirmation text),

Since the store was very empty,

I became a happy “Next!”

 

The technician was delightful –

She compared me to her gran,

Who, like me, of any changes

To her phone was not a fan.

 

Up to this point I was smiling

‘Til the update was complete,

Then things fell apart and suddenly

I had to face defeat.

 

For my cellular went haywire

And my phone could only work

Within distance of a WiFi,

Not a universal perk.

 

Which is when they sent in Edward,

Who was helpful, patient, kind

And prevented me from losing

What’s remaining of my mind.

 

Still, of course, I had to upgrade,

Purchasing a brand-new phone

Which, to me, is overwhelming

(Though I’m sure I’m not alone).

 

I won’t bore you with the details,

But I left the store at last,

As I struggle with the future,

Me – a creature of the past.

The Real Feel

We used to hear of “wind chill factors”

From the weatherman,

Which meant that it felt colder out

When windy times began.

So if the temp was 35,

But gusty breezes blew,

The wind chill factor might have made

It feel like 22.

Today that phrase has been replaced 

And here’s the latest deal -

Despite the temperature displayed,

We hear of the “real feel.”

You’d think that would appeal to me,

That catchy little rhyme,

But since I’m change-resistant,

I prefer the prior time

When I took into account the way 

The wind would add its chill,

So I’d know if extra layers

Or a scarf would fit the bill.

By the Side of the Road

Drive down a highway and look left or right

And I can, for sure, guarantee

By the side of the road, resting there in plain sight

Will be plenty of garbage to see.

 

Plastic bags strewn around or entangled in trees,

Cans and bottles and wrappers and such,

Plus so many containers and papers – oh jeez!

It is more than a little too much.

 

Though it’s rare to see somebody tossing it out

It quite naturally had to be pitched,

So the question is really, what kind of a lout

Can’t just wait for his trash to be ditched?

Before the Trees

Before the trees have leaves, their branches,

Brown with bark, but bare,

Sway gently in the breeze, just waiting

For their springtime flair.

In days to come, when buds appear,

Encouraged by the sun

And helped out by some rain, we’ll know

Their dressing has begun.

Then soon enough, in varied hues 

Of deep or lighter green,

Those trees will turn the landscape

Into quite a lovely scene.

Plus, add to that the blossoms

That are hiding ‘til it’s time

To burst forth with all their color -

Now you’ve got a springtime rhyme!

Salad

We always ate salad when I was a kid,

With lettuce and carrots and cukes

And also tomatoes and olives at times

But today, that would bring some rebukes.

For the lettuce was iceberg, which I never buy,

Though we didn’t have choices back then

Or perhaps that’s the kind that my mother preferred,

So she bought it again and again.

I now buy arugula, sometimes romaine 

Or a mixture of various kinds

Of colorful lettuces, common today,

Just like spinach, as grocery finds.

I still add tomatoes and carrots and, too,

Things like peppers and sugar snap peas,

But the lettuce will never be iceberg because 

My mother’s not here to appease.

A St. Patrick’s Limerick

A leprechaun who was afraid

To take part in today’s big parade

Found a good place to hide

But once he was inside

Quickly saw the mistake he had made.

For instead of a pub to appease,

With some corned beef and Guinness to please,

It became very plain

He’d be eating lo mein 

Since the place he was in was Chinese.

Still, the waiters went out of their way

To make sure that this unplanned delay 

Was as good as could be

So, along with his tea

Was a cookie to brighten his day.

When he opened the fortune, he read,

“Though you’re Irish, we’re glad you were led 

To try out our cuisine;

Now it’s back to the green

For great riches for you lie ahead!”

Privileged

When you see a performance

That’s live, on a stage,

If you’re lucky, the show

With your mind will engage.

 

When the dialogue’s snappy,

The scenery great,

With costumes and dancing

And music first-rate…

 

You’ll tell all your friends

To buy tickets real fast,

Before there’s a change

In this prominent cast.

 

Since when there’s a performer

Who brings down the house,

You feel privileged to see her

(And so does your spouse).

 

Just witnessing that

Will remain in your mind

Long after you’ve left

Other viewings behind.

 

So to Audra McDonald,

In “Gypsy” right now,

Your Rose will live on

Well beyond your last bow.

Marching On

Yesterday was Pi Day;

Today it is the Ides.

Monday is St. Patrick’s Day,

Where Irish pride resides.

 

The rest of March is nondescript

But as the month unspools,

We’re heading toward the date

To celebrate those April fools!

Home Goods

The Home Goods store is packed with stuff 

That no one really needs.

It’s kind of like a garden filled

With bright and cheerful weeds.

You stroll the aisles and start to pluck

Some items from a shelf,

Each one designed to make you buy

A present for yourself.

A fish-shaped plate, a speckled bowl,

Some baskets of bamboo,

Plus pillows, frames and placemats -

All just waiting there for you.

A separate section carries food,

Like chocolates and snacks,

While cards and wrapping paper fill,

With toys, adjoining racks.

Some furniture is worth a look -

A cabinet or chair,

But better snatch it up because 

Next week it won’t be there.

It’s fun to spend an hour 

In this store, without a doubt,

Though guaranteed you’ll leave with things

You sure could do without.

Changing Conversations

Conversation’s bound to change 

As aging takes its toll,

For when you meet with friends,

Exchanging stories is the goal.

So politics may be discussed

Or movies, books or shows

Or travel or the grandkids;

That’s the way it always goes.

Except that something else now comes

To take up center stage -

The ailments that we deal with

And those battles that we wage:

The brittle bones that lead to falls,

With MRI’s and slings;

The joint replacements, followed by

PT with all that brings.

The medications, bloodwork,

The procedures and the fears

That this is just the start of 

Never-ending “golden” years.

No longer do we talk of

Wilder days of smoke and wine.

I guess that’s what’s expected 

When you go to bed by nine!

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.