Spotting a Relic

They’re tearing down a building;

All that’s left’s the concrete frame.

You can see the ceilings and the spots

That windows used to claim.

 

It was once a home to many -

Don’t know how or why folks left.

Maybe some received a buyout;

Others might have been bereft.

 

When I pass the site each morning

And I note this empty shell,

It is hard to see it as a place

Where people used to dwell.

 

Still today, beneath a window,

Or where one once seemed to go,

Was an add-on A/C unit

And that let the whole world know

 

That, though soon there’d be a building

With apartments, bright and new,

It’s replacing homes where lives were lived;

Acknowledgment is due.

My Grandma

My grandma had a book in which

To write what she recalled

Of her early life; I found it

And I read what she had scrawled.

 

She came from Pinsk and she described

A time when she was young

When she helped her mom make matzoh;

To this memory she’d clung.

 

Her father drove a trolley car

But left her mother when

She was pregnant with child # three –

That happened even then.

 

To make ends meet, her mother ran

A restaurant from her home,

A two room flat - how hard was that?

(But that’s another poem.)

 

My grandma never got to go

To high school, but she stayed

At a job ‘til she got married –

Just three bucks a week she made!

 

She never once complained aloud

Yet as I read each word,

I’m glad that even though she’s gone,

Her feelings have been heard.

Trust Your Gut

You should always trust your gut.

Ignore advice that starts with, “But…”

And let that door swing slowly shut

That leads to other ways.

 

For if you heed a different voice

And give in to another choice,

Most likely you will not rejoice

Since caving rarely pays.

 

It’s true, your gut may steer your wrong

But when that inner pull is strong,

Where it may lead’s where you belong,

For instinct rarely strays.

Cooking Spaghetti

My mother cooked spaghetti

When she made her fish croquettes,

The salmon from a can, a dish

One easily forgets.

 

Ronzoni was her pasta brand;

The box was blue and bold.

This never varied, even though

Some other brands were sold.

 

The water boiled inside a pot

And when the time arrived

To drop in the spaghetti,

We were somehow all deprived

 

Of a meal Italians would condone

Because – you might just laugh –

To make the cooking easier,

She broke the strands in half!

 

It never felt quite right to me,

Yet when I cook today,

I understand exactly why

She made her dish that way.

 

You have to force spaghetti down,

Unless your pot is huge,

So breaking it in half is like

A clever subterfuge.

 

I cook it in the proper way

And haven’t backed down yet,

But I still can’t get my spouse to try

The go-with fish croquette!

The Bright Side

Looking on the bright side 

Only works when one’s inclined

To ignore emotions that may

Take up space inside one’s mind.

To focus on the positives

Sounds easy, but it’s not,

When the negatives have crowded into

Every open spot.

Advice with good intentions

Doesn’t mitigate the cause

Of what someone may be feeling,

But should give advisors pause.

6-7

When we picked up our grandson

From sleepaway camp,

A few new expressions

Had managed to stamp

 

Themselves on his psyche –

6-7 was one,

Its sing-songy rhythm

A part of the fun.

 

He tried to explain it –

I couldn’t quite get it.

It stuck in my head, though;

I couldn’t forget it.

 

It’s an internet meme,

Maybe based on a song.

If you Google it, you’ll be

Confused before long.

 

For my grandson’s 12^th birthday

I stitched up a gift

Of 6-7 in felt;

His reaction was swift.

 

He laughed and I knew

My idea was a smash,

But he pointed out, “Nana,

You don’t need the dash.”

 

I guess I’m not hip to

The trends of today.

Still, my grandson will teach me

And that is okay.

Where a Despot Rules

In countries where a despot rules

And history’s revised in schools,

The freedom to speak out unspools

Since nobody will dare.

 

The USA is getting close;

It isn’t hard to diagnose.

First Colbert, now a second dose

With Kimmel off the air.

 

They put him back, but ABC

Is not the hero, not to me,

But maybe now the world will see,

For any unaware,

 

That what we’re facing’s really sick

And if we don’t do something quick,

This blatant bully might just kick

Our laws beyond repair.

The Mayor's House

The mayor’s house is gated,

With a policeman standing guard.

Most times that job seems boring

And, although it isn’t hard

 

If things go wrong, there will be blame

So every day and night,

The little guard hut’s occupied;

Security is tight.

 

I’m sitting with a perfect view

And watched the guard unlock

The iron gates; two SUV’s

Drove in from up the block.

 

The tinted windows gave no hint

Of passengers within.

Perhaps it was the mayor

(Soon ex-mayor; he won’t win).

 

His presence or his absence

Doesn’t really mean a lot,

But I’m envious because he always

Has a parking spot.

Hatred Holding Sway

The Jewish New Year starts tonight

And autumn starts today.

I can’t feel optimistic, though,

With hatred holding sway.

 

Divisions in this country

Make me feel I don’t belong,

With the ones in charge ensuring that

We’ll never get along.

 

Colbert’s speech at the Emmys

Ended on an upbeat note.

“I have never loved my country more…”

Was part of what he wrote.

 

I wish that I could feel that way

But I must disagree,

For our leaders now don’t represent

America to me.

You're the Walker!

On morning walks, I pass by

Certain people every day,

But rarely do we say hello;

It’s not the New York way.

 

Occasionally, breakthroughs

May result in first a nod,

Then perhaps a wave or “Morning!” shout

Or not, which isn’t odd.

 

One woman greets me warmly now,

Yet there were many years

When she wouldn’t even catch my eye;

Who knows why she switched gears?

 

A runner I see frequently

Will give a sideways glance

But won’t take it to the nodding stage

In this strange New York dance.

 

This afternoon, though, as I strolled

In Sotheby’s,* viewing art,

I spotted a familiar face

And blurted, with a start –

 

“Hey – you’re the runner!” He turned ‘round

And broke into a smile.

“And you’re the walker!” he replied;

We knew each other’s style.

 

“We could discuss this further

In the morning, but we move

In the opposite direction;”

(Since we’re in our a.m. groove).

 

The whole encounter felt like

Just how New York stories go

And the next time when our paths cross

Guaranteed, we’ll say hello.

 

*the famous auction house

A Teacup

In anticipation of a major

Cleaning of our floors,

I’ve begun to whittle down my stuff,

The toughest of the chores.

 

I thought I tossed a lot of things

And worked with true devotion

But my husband says it’s like I took

A teacup to the ocean.

 

If he took charge, there would be

Nothing sentimental left

And yes, it would look better

But would leave me quite bereft.

 

He’ll have to wait until I die

And, if I predecease,

He can empty our apartment

And live emptily in peace.

When I Was Young

When I was young, the holidays

Were filled with fun and food.

We spent the day with relatives,

All in a happy mood.

At least, that’s how it seemed to me -

My cousins and my brothers

Enjoyed the time we got to spend

Just hanging with the others.

Of course, I never thought of

What the grown-ups had to say -

The cleaning and the cooking

And rambunctious kids - Oy vey!

The hours in the temple 

Followed by a home-made meal

And perhaps there were resentments,

Some unable to conceal.

Then the clean-up and the travel

As exhaustion staked its claim.

Still, the warm embraces reaffirmed 

That all were glad they came.

Today I am the grown-up

And my eyes are opened wide

As I view the coming holidays 

From the much-less magic side.

Buying a Suitcase

Our suitcases are very old;

They’re heavy and they wobble.

Discussing getting new ones

Caused a wee bit of a squabble.

What size to buy? Hard shell or soft?

So many out there waiting.

To order it online or not?

We spent much time debating.

We chose one sent by Amazon,

But found it big and bulky

And having to return it

Made us both annoyed and sulky.

We sent it back and in the store,

We found the luggage section

And checked a few ‘til finally,

We made a joint selection.

The purchase made, we’ll wait and see

When we go on vacation 

If what we bought was worthy of

All that consideration.

One Toke Over the Line

Sometimes an obituary

Adds some background fact

That brings laughter, not the way

You’d think a reader would react.

 

Tom Shipley’s obit clarified

That he was feeling fine,

Perhaps a bit too much, when we went

One toke past the line.

 

A friend gave him some weed to smoke

Backstage between two sets

And warned him more than just two hits

Might cause him some regrets.

 

He didn’t listen, spurring him

To state the way he felt,

Yet a song was born resulting from

The hand that he was dealt.

 

What cracked me up, though, was to learn

Some clean-cut duo sang

That song on Lawrence Welk’s show;

Unfamiliar with the slang

 

Of the drug world, Welk declared

“A modern spiritual” was heard

Because within the toke line, to

“Sweet Jesus” was referred.

 

I wonder now if Lawrence Welk,

So strait-laced way back then,

Ever learned what he endorsed

And why folks shouted out, “Amen!”

Twelve Years Ago

Twelve years ago today, I sat

In a garden, where the birds

Chirped and frolicked in the fountain;

I was waiting for the words

 

Which would let me know that I’d become

A nana to a boy

And making room within my heart

For some never-ending joy.

 

No matter what you hear or read,

There is no way to know

How a grandchild stakes his claim on you

And never lets it go.

 

Of course, that’s if you’re lucky,

And the way things have unfurled,

I’m among the very luckiest

Of nanas in the world!

REPENT!

In a supermarket in Pa.

I couldn’t quite avoid

A MAGA-hatted tattooed guy

Whose shirt got me annoyed.

Beneath a giant cross, it said,

“REPENT!” (Can you relate?)

And after that, what followed was,

“Before it is too late.”

I think religion ought to be

A personal embrace,

Without the need to shove it,

Uninvited, in my face.

And though some freedoms, such as speech,

Have not yet gone away,

An order to REPENT! is one 

I never will obey.

Mabel

There once was a woman named Mabel

Who lived in a house with a stable.

She wanted a horse,

But since her divorce,

To afford one she just wasn’t able.

She had an idea for a cable 

Which might bring enough cash to enable

Her life to change course 

And she knew just the source,

So she laid her plan out on the table.

She contacted Julian Schnabel

And asked if perhaps he was able

To help her endorse,

By using his force,

Her product, which needed a label.

He agreed and how lucky was Mabel

When Amazon offered her cable!

She purchased her horse,

Which sounds crazy, of course,

But this story is only a fable.

Some New Storage

You see it in the store 

And it looks like it will fit.

You really can’t be sure 

So you doubt yourself a bit.

You pay and drag it home

And you set it on its place 

Hoping, kind of like a poem,

It will feel a warm embrace.

You step bank and you assess

And decide that it should stay.

It’s not perfect, but you guess,

Nothing’s perfect, anyway.

Now if only that applied 

To the purchase of a couch.

Somehow I just can’t decide 

And to this, my spouse will vouch.

Pardon My Outrage

Someone serving life in prison

Some way, somehow gets the nod

To release him, like an order

From a despot or a god.

The same applies to lowlife thugs

Whose insurrection acts,

When they stormed the U.S. Capitol,

Were changed to lies from facts. 

When power goes to someone’s head,

It’s like a weird disease 

Where he violates the law

And justice drops down to its knees.

Half the country hates it,

While the other seems to hail

The release of felons who should be,

Most rightfully, in jail.

I guess it’s pretty obvious

In which half I belong.

These pardons reek of villainy

And are simply, flat-out wrong!

My Day

I had a bad reaction

To the Covid booster shot,

A pattern that repeats

With every one I ever got.

 

On top of feeling sick, I had

Some problems with my phone.

My email wasn’t working

And to raving I am prone.

 

I’ve started feeling better

And my email finally works.

(An Apple agent cleared things up,

Among the iPhone’s perks.)

 

My day was not the greatest

But it feels wrong to complain.

After all, it’s 9/11

And those memories remain.

Covid Booster

I got my Covid shot today

And so far, I feel A-OK,

Yet what I really want to say

Is f*** you, Jr. R.F.K.

 

Each year, I get the booster shot

And, whether you agree or not,

We all deserve the chance for what

Most scientists endorse a lot.

 

Vaccines won’t work if people heed

What R.F.K. says we don’t need.

At least some states will now proceed

With keeping people up to speed.

 

My band-aid proves I got the stick,

Which didn’t hurt and ended quick.

I’d rather have a little prick

Than one who’s quite the lunatic.

The Local Swimming Pool

I passed the local swimming pool

And saw that what remained

Was lots of empty space because

The water had been drained.

 

Now, I am not a swimmer,

Though I walk by every morn,

Way too early for the crowds of folks

Where bathing suits are worn.

 

Yet I’m certain they enjoyed it,

Cooling off or doing laps,

While the children played or splashed

With “Marco Polo!” shouts, perhaps.

 

That’s all finished for the season

And the lifeguards, too, are gone,

Maybe to an indoor gym, where some

Aquatics still go on.

People Flock

On the ground or in the air,

People flock from here to there

And if they walk or bike or drive,

Eventually they’ll arrive.

 

Their journeys may be short or long,

Their need to travel weak or strong,

Yet everybody on the move

Succumbs, somehow, to travel’s groove.

 

For if they didn’t need to be

En route, they’d linger comfortably

Close by or in the hugs of home,

To read a book or write a poem.

Boo Hoo

Today’s the U.S. Open Final

Taking place in Queens,

With Alcaraz and Sinner

Front and center on our screens.

 

We’ve been told the prez will be on hand

And, while the anthem plays,

All the cameras will be focused

On the bluster he displays.

 

Yet to show how things have changed,

A memo managed to get sent

To the broadcast booths of every station

Brooking no dissent –

 

No booing of the U.S. king

Should make it on the air.

If such disruptions do get shown,

Well, broadcasters, beware!

 

This censorship just reinforces

How low we have sunk.

Our former democratic values

Certainly have shrunk.

Art Fair

I went to an art fair this morning,

The breadth of the talent immense.

Don’t know if they knew of the warning

Of some thunderstorms, maybe intense.

 

The day started muggy, but sunny

And all of the art was displayed,

In hopes of exchanges for money,

In booths which provided some shade.

 

Yet the weather prediction was fitting,

Since a storm barreled in much too fast

For the artists to do much outwitting

Before the intensity passed.

 

I hope all that art was protected

When the winds whipped on by, all a’howl.

With Nature, it’s not unexpected

That a fair will turn into a foul.

Missing the Memo

The Home Goods store was filled

With tons of stuff for Halloween.

October’s weeks away, but it’s 

The most I’ve ever seen.

There were glasses and ceramics,

Decked in orange and in black,

Painted witches, ghosts and goblins

Meant to give a heart attack.

For the home were lots of pillows,

Shaped like pumpkins, ghouls and bats,

Plus assorted signs and dishes 

And some scary welcome mats.

But what really did surprise me

Were the many queen-sized sheets

With a Halloween design;

I never knew, aside from treats,

That to really feel the spirit,

We should decorate the bed.

Did I miss the memo sending

Such ideas into my head?

Next are turkey sheets for T-Day

And for Veterans, some tanks.

Dear Home Goods, guess for showing me 

The way, I owe you thanks.

No Longer the World

Everything changes; life rearranges

The way that, for years, things would be.

We go with the flow, for what we used to know

Is no longer the world we can see.

 

It isn’t just age, for when people engage

With each other, the way that they act

Seems more crude and imbued with a mean attitude

That is lacking in manners and tact.

 

Such negative views, like I read in the news,

Filters down from the leader in charge

And the toadies, like sheep, scared of making a peep,

Think their boot-licking helps them loom large.

 

While we wait and debate, all this free-floating hate

Forms a coating that makes us all numb.

Though I won’t be around, maybe hope will abound

In the years and elections to come.

Around the Stump

Around the stump, some giant leaves

Are reaching for the sky,

In defiance of the forces

Which allowed that tree to die.

 

They grow within a little square

Of soil in the park,

A sister stump in its own plot,

Alone and looking stark.

 

Perhaps those trees were felled because

Of some rare plant disease,

But if some saplings took their place,

It might have helped appease.

 

Instead, the stumps remind us

Of what once stood tall and proud

And those giant leaves announce

That Nature will remain unbowed.

The Bus

The bus is only practical

If you’re not in a hurry.

If time is of the essence,

Then your mind will fill with worry.

 

Aside from all the local stops,

The passengers board slowly

And don’t know how to swipe or tap –

Annoying! Holy moly!

 

A number are quite elderly,

While others come with strollers

Or luggage clogging up the aisle

Or shopping carts on rollers.

 

If you’re in luck, your driver

Will be practiced, moving fast,

But more likely he’ll be insecure,

Afraid of squeezing past

 

All the trucks and taxis double-parked

And blocking up the street.

You’ll sit there knowing you’ll be late

If someone you must meet.

 

It’s better on the subway,

Though, of course, it’s underground,

But it’s best if there’s a walking

Destination to be found.

September Is...

September is apples and honey,

New notebooks and sneakers for school,

The time to say so long to summer,

When days start to feel crisp and cool.

 

September is tennis and baseball,

Each sport winding down for a while,

As pumpkin scents waft from the markets

And orange and rust are in style.

 

September brings dark in the mornings

And new shows to watch or to stream,

A buckling down from vacation,

Or rousing yourself from a dream.

 

September arrives with some fanfare,

Announcing to all, “Let’s begin!

The convertible top won’t be down long,

So get ready for one final spin!”