Please!

A car was parked illegally;

The hydrant wasn’t cleared,

Plus it was by a nursing home

And might have interfered.

 

I never would have noticed it,

But signage did impart

That a tow truck would be coming

‘Cause the engine wouldn’t start.

 

Thee note said “Please!” perhaps to cops

Who rarely have the choice

About issuing a ticket to

A reprobate Rolls Royce!

That Comfort Zone

Age does not define us,

But our choices surely do.

How I live my life may not

At all appeal to you.

 

We have to find that comfort zone

Between our younger verve

And, in our later years, that well

Of vigor in reserve.

 

Some people choose to stay at home,

Quite happy to embrace

The extra time to just relax,

Not going anyplace.

 

While others, with the end in sight,

Have trips they rush to plan,

Locations where they’ve never been,

To travel while they can.

 

There is no right or wrong in this;

All people must decide

If they’re ready to step off the train

Or stay on for the ride.

Toss a Smidgen

Toss a smidgen

To a pigeon

And you know he’ll eat it,

Though once fed

A crumb of bread,

You can’t get him to beat it.

 

Still, what’s worse

And worth a curse

Are seagulls if you’re snacking,

For I’ve found

When food’s around,

They sometimes try attacking.

 

My advice –

You’ll pay the price

By tempting those with feathers,

For they know

Where humans go,

There’s food in any weathers.

P is for Pangolin

In an alphabet book that my grandson once liked,

One page unfamiliar to me

Which, in turn, got my curiosity spiked,

Was the animal listed for P.

 

For a pangolin isn’t your average beast,

But an anteater covered in scales,

Looking quite prehistoric from head to, not least

Of its features, those long spiky nails.

 

It waddles in search of its main source of food,

For which it employs every sense,

Yet if threatened, it is very quickly subdued;

Curling up is its only defense.

 

I learned all about this today on TV,

But I’m glad that awareness was raised

In an alphabet book on which, ages ago,

Both my grandson and I once had gazed.

Birthday Video

In a video for my friend’s birthday,

Her family and pals did record 

Their own message of varied good wishes 

And watching it was her reward.

There were tributes from both of her daughters,

Her husband and grandkids and friends,

Plus some photos from happy occasions,

Where the smiles showed that fun never ends.

Some told stories of camp, school and teaching;

Others sang or recited a poem,

But all shared so much love in the telling

That the messages surely hit home.

I loved watching it all put together,

Though I didn’t know everyone there,

But I’m glad I was part of the medley

Letting Fran know how much we all care.

Exercise

I always thought that exercise 

Meant pumping up your heart,

Which every sport, to some extent,

Does right off, from the start.

In classes I took years ago,

Aerobics was the theme.

We marched and jumped and stepped,

The workout every heart-pump’s dream.

Yet other types of working out 

Have always had their place,

Though never offering a skill

I thought I could embrace.

Until I tried a stretching class

Without a single jump,

Just using weights and movement

With my heart a steady pump.

And man, I was exhausted!

Which to me was a surprise 

And allowed me to see exercise 

Through very different eyes.

Kvetching

If all your basic needs are met,

Your bills are paid, no cause to fret,

Whatever food you want, you’ll get –

It’s then you can be kvetching.

 

For if you have no place to sleep

And hunger makes you want to weep,

The only thoughts your mind can keep

Might deal with budget stretching.

 

It takes some chutzpah to complain

When others’ lives are filled with pain,

Yet human nature can’t refrain

From some entitled retching.

Gorgeousness

Arranged by their color, the tulips await

Every camera phone holder to stop

And capture in photos the dazzling array,

All varieties planted to pop:

 

The lipstick-bright reds and magentas and rose,

The velvet-like purples and types

Like the traffic-light yellows, the whites edged with pink

And some two-tones with contrasting stripes.

 

There were daffodils, too, and some blossoming trees,

All this gorgeousness out on display

In a park near my home with no airport involved –

Just a lovely walk taken today.

The Newspaper

I’m tired of the newspaper,

Defeated and ashamed,

For story after story features

He-who-can’t-be-named.

 

But even worse, the toadies

Who bow down and kiss his toes

Are gloating with their power

Which nobody will oppose.

 

We’re headed for disaster

Yet it’s difficult to care

Because the news assures us

That, already, we are there.

 

Our nation once was mighty,

Opportunity did shine,

But that’s the case no longer

Since nobody has a spine.

Reddi-Whip

Here’s today’s New York surprise

I witnessed with my own two eyes:

Reddi-Whip, the cans amounted

To nineteen (and yes, I counted!).

 

Lined up on a bench, as well

As underneath, and I could tell

They all were empty, for the caps

Were strewn around, by slobs, perhaps.

 

There was no whipped cream residue

And raindrops hadn’t sprinkled through,

So with these clues, I did conclude

That this was gobbled up as food.

 

Yet one more possibility

Did naturally occur to me –

A group of young adults or teens

Went crazy spraying all their jeans.

 

I’ll never know just what took place –

The detritus, though, I’ll embrace

As fodder for my daily poem

About the place that I call home.

Pig on a Spit

Walking down York Avenue,

A very urban block,

An odor had my senses piqued

And then I saw, in shock,

 

In front of a local restaurant

A pig turned on a spit.

With juices dripping down, it somehow

Didn’t seem to fit.

 

It’s not a sight I’ve ever seen,

Right out there on the street,

And though I’m sure that some would be

Excited by that meat,

 

To me, it registered as just

Another strange surprise,

For such anomalies are part

Of New York City’s guise.

 

I hope that those who feast on this,

A fresh-cooked Easter ham,

Are not as bothered by this

Street-side cookout as I am.

On This Kind of Day

The weatherman says it will be 85

But it now feels like 72.

So what should I wear? Out the window I glance,

Thinking people will give me a clue.

 

Yet from what I can see, it’s a very mixed bag –

There are t-shirts and sandals and shorts,

Though I also see long-sleeves and jackets and jeans,

Which all go with both weather reports.

 

Yes, on this kind of day, there’s a wide-ranging arc –

Any item of clothing will do

And since I’m always cold, I’ll wear layers to peel,

So I’ll comfortably muddle on through.

Home to Roost

I wrote about my timer,

Which is permanently stuck

And, after many years, at last

Emitted its last cluck.

 

That was two days ago; today

A package came for me.

I hadn’t ordered anything

And thought, “What could it be?”

 

A brand-new chicken timer

With a message from my son:

“I hope this works – it looks just like

Your now non-ticking one.”

 

I laughed out loud at such a gift,

So generous and sweet

And in response to what I wrote! –

An unexpected treat.

 

Of course, my husband had to add,

When seeing where this led,

“Your next poem should describe our car

And how it’s almost dead.”

A Happier Place

To sit by the river,

The sun on my face,

Transports me at once

To a happier place.

I know that so many 

Would never agree,

But the city (and river!)

Are perfect for me.

The view isn’t private

And quiet, it’s not,

Yet this bench by the river’s

A wonderful spot.

A cat on a leash

Jumped up, looking to share,

But she left with her owner

To I don’t know where.

There’s always a chance

For a little surprise 

When I sit by the river

With wide-open eyes.

Out of Cluck

In my kitchen, an old-fashioned timer

Keeps track of my coffee pot’s perk.

I wind it and eight minutes later,

The pot has completed its work.

The timer is shaped like a chicken;

It ticks as the minutes elapse,

Then rings to announce its completion,

Technology prior to apps.

Yet this morning, my chicken stopped tickin’;

Its mechanics have chirped its last cluck,

So I kept a close watch on my coffee - 

Guess Alexa would never get stuck!

A’Sway

My whirligigs are spinning;

The trees are all a’sway.

The dafs, with blooms beginning,

Bow their heads in mock dismay.

The windsock strips are dancing;

The bushes are a’bounce,

The dogs on leashes prancing,

Swishing tails an added flounce.

As I sit here with my writing,

While the sunshine’s all a’peek,

Rhyming words have been alighting

To allow my thought to speak.

Mildred’s Onion Rolls

A colleague once gave me, on paper,

A recipe written by hand

For Passover rolls

And one of her goals

Was for choices I’d make to expand.

Though they can’t substitute for a bagel

Or some sourdough or seeded rye,

For the holiday week

When some bread I might seek,

They’re a stand-in on which I rely.

When I make them, I’m thinking of Mildred,

Though I’m certain that she is long gone,

But when I form the dough

Into roll shapes, I know

That her spirit I’m carrying on.

Little Mounds of Snow

Although the stems of daffodils 

Have pushed up through the ground

And tiny buds on branches,

Here and there, can now be found…

Along the road are little mounds

Of dazzling white snow,

Perhaps from when the plow came through,

But I don’t really know.

They serve as a reminder that,

Though it indeed is spring,

We’re never sure what weather

Mother Nature might just bring.

Zelle or Venmo - the Singing Version

 (to the tune of “Love and Marriage”)

Zelle or Venmo, Zelle or Venmo

Modern methods to let all your cash flow.

I can tell you, honey -

This is how the young send money.

Zelle or Venmo, Zelle or Venmo 

Where did former ways to send your dough go?

Ask an older person

And understanding this will worsen.

Try, try, try to then explain it;

It isn’t easy.

Try, try, try, but they’ll complain; it

Just makes them queasy.

Zelle or Venmo, Zelle or Venmo

Taking finance to a place they don’t know.

Youth may find it funny

When seniors try to still get by

With checks or Visa for their money.

Zelle or Venmo

Before I had a credit card,

My car, newly repaired,

Required cash to pick it up

And I was unprepared.

I borrowed money, then I got

A MasterCard - hooray!

It changed my means of payment,

Which I still do use today.

Along with checks and cash, that card

Could pay for all I’d need

And up until quite recently,

It seemed that way, indeed.

But then there was some money

That I wanted to convey

And a credit card or check 

Just wouldn’t be a way to pay.

Then how ‘bout Zelle or Venmo?

Was the question I was asked.

Alas, I called my son and 

For this favor, he was tasked.

It isn’t fair that things that worked 

For years no longer do

And with this new technology,

I do not have a clue. 

The Recipe on the Box

Each year I make the matzoh balls,

Which come out pretty good.

My husband cooks the chicken soup;

Our roles are understood.

 

He always wings it when he cooks,

Just uses what’s on hand

And never needs a recipe,

Which I can’t understand.

 

I follow the directions

When I cook or when I bake

And measure the ingredients

So there is no mistake.

 

My time-worn recipes are stashed

In cookbooks or in files;

The drips and spatters dotting them

Evoke nostalgic smiles.

 

Yet always for the matzoh balls

What has the most appeal

Is the recipe that’s on the box

Of any matzoh meal.

 

That’s up until this year – there was

No recipe at all!

I Googled and saw dozens,

But not one my matzoh ball.

 

Until I saw a posting

From a woman who, like me,

Asked if anyone could help her

Find that box-back recipe.

 

Voila! Someone responded

With a picture of the box.

It’s amazing what technology,

From time to time, unlocks.

 

I made the matzoh balls

And hope they’re good as they appear,

But I copied down the recipe

So I’ll be set next year.        

The Holidays

The holidays are not the same

As when I was a kid,

When every year we did exactly

What we always did.

 

The relatives who gathered

Were the ones who always showed,

With favorite recipes prepared

In nana/grandma mode.

 

No one was on vacation

Or unable to attend

And you hung out with your cousins,

Couldn’t FaceTime with a friend.

 

Alas, today, the world has changed

And so we must adjust,

Accepting that the way things were

Has somehow bit the dust.

Manischewitz Wine

Every year for Passover,

There’s Manischewitz wine.

It’s Concord Grape and super sweet;

For holiday, it’s fine.

 

Some people will not drink it,

Since it’s syrupy and thick,

But for Seders every year, it is

The only wine I’d pick.

 

Throughout the pre-meal reading,

There are times to fill your cup.

It’s expected that you’ve drained your glass

Four times before you sup.

 

I guess in ancient times they knew

Exactly where this led –

Tipsy diners wouldn’t notice

Matzoh standing in for bread.

Home Ec

Women of a certain age

Remember, when in school,

Boys did woodwork, girls

Home economics, as a rule.

 

The boys made houses for the birds –

They sanded, sawed and nailed

While girls both cooked and sewed,

Which every housewife’s job entailed.

 

When reminiscing with some friends,

We all could recollect

We had to sew an A-line skirt

For teachers to inspect.

 

Each one of us had moms like mine,

Who, knowing how to sew,

Helped stitch the skirt on her machine,

So we’d be good to go.

 

The memory brought laughter

Of our common circumstance,

But I might’ve made a better birdhouse

If I’d had the chance.

Morning People

If you’re a morning person,

Then you wake before the dawn

And thus, it’s dark outside

When blinds are raised or drapes undrawn.

 

The city’s very magical

When most of it’s asleep.

It’s relatively quiet

And the stillness settles deep.

 

The subway’s fairly empty

And most stores are shuttered tight,

Just waiting for their owners

To unlock and flip the light.

 

Museums are less crowded,

As are parks and paths to stroll,

The noises of the afternoon

Still held in some control.

 

Late risers miss the magic

That the mornings always bring,

But to them, it is the night time

When their joy is taking wing.

The Acrostic

Spent a couple hours

On a puzzle from The Times,

An activity I almost like

As much as making rhymes.

 

I do the crossword daily,

Since it’s there in each edition

And work on it until my solving’s

Come to its fruition.

 

Yet on Sunday, in the magazine,

Some other puzzles wait,

Where varied types on different weeks,

In print, will alternate.

 

I tackled the acrostic,

Which is challenging and cool.

I usually finish

With a few tries, as a rule.

 

But today I was determined

And kept at it ‘til I finished.

Supposedly, this will not let

My brain cells be diminished.

Curves

An easy type of quilting 

Is to sew two fabric squares 

Which are pinned and lined up neatly;

Nothing else, for ease, compares.

Once you make the shapes more complex,

Like a triangle or curve,

Things might get a little tricky

And you need a bit more nerve.

I’ve been sewing several years now

And still have a way to go,

For when stitching points or circles,

There’s a lot you have to know.

Curves have always proved a challenge

And frustration is no fun.

Every time I had to sew some,

I would backtrack to square one.

But I’ve lately had a breakthrough, 

Which I hope my brain preserves,

For my latest little project

Has a lot of sneaky curves.

Yet I’m tackling them slowly 

And they’re falling into place.

Something clicked - you know that feeling?

And a smile is on my face.

Now my project, when I finish,

Will be far from error-free,

But if you check out my curves, I think

That you’d be proud of me.

Birthday

Texts and phone calls,

Gifts and cards,

All conveying

Best regards.

 

Took my walk and

Zoomed my class –

My quilting project’s

Kickin’ ass.

 

Had a candle

Which I blew.

(Instead of cake –

Tiramisu!)

 

Soon a dinner –

Mussels, fries,

I.P.A. and

Lemon pies.

 

First New Orleans –

Golly gee!

What a birthday,

Just for me!

In the Swamp

In the swamp the raccoons romp

And gators ply the waters.

Wild boars snuff and strut their stuff

And eat their sons and daughters.

 

Take a ride but stay inside

The boat, both feet and fingers

Or else your zeal provides a meal

(And teeth hurt more than stingers!).

 

On the boat, when gators float,

The captain calls them closer

With marshmallows tossed at little cost

Or meat that’s raw (much grosser!).

 

The gators know this little show

Provides a snack quite tasty,

So use their tail to some avail,

Their movements smooth but hasty.

 

The swamp’s a place I’d hate to face

On any daily basis,

Yet to its beasts it’s never ceased

To be a true oasis.

In New Orleans

We try to do some local things

Whenever we’re away,

Although we’re clearly tourists 

On a short and jam-packed stay.

So we signed up for a cooking class

And watched a chef prepare

Gumbo, jambalaya and pralines,

Some Cajun-Creole fare.

It all was most delicious

And Chef Austin was the best.

We left there more than satisfied

And happily impressed.

Not needing any dinner, 

We checked out some local jazz,

Where Tom Hook, a piano player,

Entertained us with pizzazz.

It’s wonderful to have a chance

To try out something new 

As a little break before you’re back

To what you always do.