Yet To Come

“The best is yet to come,” to me

Is more a wish than guarantee

For in the future, what will be

We cannot really know.

 

We tend to hope things will improve

For life’s in motion; as we move,

We try to get into a groove

That lets our feelings flow.

 

Yet who’s to say that on our quest

To seek what’s joyful, we’ll get stressed

And realize we have not progressed

Or taken time to grow?

 

In that case, we’ll look to the past

At happiness we thought would last

And see that all that we’ve amassed’s

As far as we can go.

 

At times, it seems quite evident

That “all the best to come” just went

And though it wasn’t our intent,

That best was long ago.

On Pi Day

Because it is Pi Day,

Let’s talk about pie.

The math type’s beyond me;

I won’t even try.

 

But thinking of key lime

Or lemon meringue

Just makes my mouth water –

That citrusy tang!

 

Or how about apple crumb?

Yes, a la mode!

Or strawberry rhubarb,

With tastes that explode.

 

My favorite is blueberry,

Raspberry, too.

I’m not fond of cherry,

Which might work for you.

 

Some people like custard

Or chocolate cream

Or pecan or pumpkin

And, while on this theme…

 

Of course, there is pizza

So scarf up a slice.

However you celebrate,

Pie will suffice.

Committed

I’m committed to writing a poem every day;

I’m committed to keeping in touch.

I’m committed to hearing the music I love,

But to buying a couch? Not so much.

I’m committed to reading my books and The Times;

I’m committed to crosswords and such.

I’m committed to exercise, walking outside

With a bottle of water to clutch.

I’m committed to seeing museums with art;

I’m committed to dining out Dutch.

There are many committed for reasons like these;

If I get to be one, keep in touch.

According to My Phone

According to my phone, the rain

Would start at 9 or 10.

My walk began at not quite 7;

Lots of time ‘til then.

 

Of course, at 7:45,

It started pouring hard.

Without my small umbrella,

It was tough to disregard.

 

The last half mile, I got soaked;

At least it wasn’t cold

And being close to home, I was

A little bit consoled.

 

I never learn my lesson,

Which is not to trust my phone

And, judging by my fellow drenchees,

I am not alone.

My Pearl Ring

For my 9^th grade graduation,

I received my first real ring.

My parents thought that it would be

The best gift they could bring.

 

It wasn’t very often that

Our presents were in gold.

We weren’t rolling in the bucks

And I had not cajoled.

 

A friend of mine had gotten one,

An opal, center-set,

With diamond chips surrounding it,

A style I can’t forget.

 

So when I saw my ring, which in

Its middle held a pearl

With a little sparkly flower,

I was not a happy girl.

 

To me, a pearl seemed older,

Meant for someone middle-aged.

I don’t remember if

My disappointment was assuaged.

 

I’m sure they knew my feelings

But it couldn’t be exchanged,

So I wore that ring, but how I felt

About it never changed.

 

It resides now in a box with

Other jewelry from my past

And as for rings I haven’t loved,

That pearl one was the last.

Scammers

For every lowlife scammer,

Preying on those unaware,

There should be a waiting slammer

With just other lowlifes there.

 

Stealing savings from the lonely

Or the elderly or sick

Is a crime that can be only

Done by those so cruel and slick

 

That they don’t deserve a pardon

From a life within a cell,

Since all sympathy will harden

When their victims start to tell.

 

In this techno world we live in,

Scams are easy to perform,

Yet no scammer gets forgiven,

Or at least that is the norm.

 

When I read or hear a story

Of a person who’s been scammed,

Well, to me, it’s mandatory

That their slammer door be slammed.

Back on My Bench

I am back on my bench

With the river in view.

People walk by in t-shirts;

The sky’s bright and blue.

There’s one small mound of snow

Which is coated in black.

It’s refusing to melt,

Fending off spring’s attack.

Flowers haven’t appeared

But the stage has been set.

By tomorrow, that snow

Will be gone, I would bet.

A Diner Booth

Sitting in a diner booth

Is cozy and inviting.

To me, such places are, in truth,

The tables most delighting.

 

When offered booth or table,

There’s no contest; I will choose

A booth which will enable

Me to chill out and enthuse.

 

At dinner, I like atmosphere

And candlelight and chairs,

A place to sip an ice-cold beer

And wait while food prepares.

 

Yet for breakfast or a lunchtime meal,

My preference tends to be

A diner with the main appeal

Of booths for friends and me.

 

My husband likes a table most

But will not raise his voice

When we end up in, you might have guessed,

A booth. (He has no choice!)

Listening to the Band Rehearse

The band’s composed of middle-schoolers

From within the state.

Most have never met before,

Yet right from out the gate, 

Their music sounds incredible,

Professional and full

And any passerby would feel

Its strong inviting pull.

Of course, I try to listen for

One close-to-me trombone,

But in a band the point is that

No sound exists alone.

We’ll attend the concert later

Yet I’m glad we happened by,

Catching part of the rehearsal;

Kvelling* privileges apply.

*bubbling over with immense joy (Yiddish)

Two Hundred Miles

Two hundred miles of driving

For tomorrow’s concert date,

Where we’ll watch our grandson play trombone 

And get to celebrate.

It’s quite a feather in his cap

To make the state-wide band 

And anyone with grandkids

I am sure will understand.

We never know how many

Chances in the years ahead

We might have to make these efforts;

I will leave “until” unsaid.

So we’re rolling on the highway

With our trusty brand-new tires,

Glad to be a part of this event

Before our time expires.

Hooray!

Hooray! It’s time to write a poem

About an absolute

Disgrace by name of Kristi Noem,

Who finally got the boot.

 

A spotlight-craving dilettante

Who shot her dog and goat

Is not the person most would want

To hold a job of note.

 

Yet there she was, in camo gear,

Like she was set for war,

Though all her make-up made it clear

That she was out for more.

 

In ad campaigns she was the star,

With mucho millions spent,

To showcase her as Homeland’s czar,

Her failures evident.

 

What bothered me (and maybe you)

The most, with all she spewed,

Was, more than what she tried to do,

Her nasty attitude.

 

Good riddance, now; it’s way past time

The reign of Kristi Noem

Gets its comeuppance, though with rhyme,

She isn’t worth this poem.

Letting Go

We cling to traditions

And habits and friends

And gatherings where

No one lately attends.

 

It’s hard to let go

But how long one pretends

Things are just like they were –

Well, that kind of depends.

 

If whatever we cling to

In some way extends

To those with whom we share it,

That surely transcends

 

Any reason to lose it.

Still, time’s flow portends

Letting go is expected,

Since everything ends.

What Rhymers Do in the Middle of the Night

A donut requires a dunk

And a stone, sitting creekside, a plunk.

With the first, there’s a dip

And the second, a skip,

Both delightful as thoughts to have thunk.

What's Left

What’s left of the snow

Are some scattershot mounds,

The piles that from shovels

Stayed way out of bounds.

 

I spotted some toddlers,

In bright-colored boots,

Attempting to climb some,

With giggles and hoots.

 

What’s really a pity’s

That old city snow,

While pristine when falling

And perfect to throw,

 

Turns black from pollution

And leftover piles

Elicit annoyance

Where once there were smiles.

 

The melting has started

And, as it gets warm,

That blackness will vanish

And puddles will form.

 

Of course, we’ll remember,

In memory’s sight,

The mountains of early snow,

Magically white.

Where You Walk

After being cooped inside

Because of cold or snow,

A warmer sunny day demands

You get outside and go!

 

Depending on your lifestyle,

If you leave to get some air,

You choose a place to perk you up

And mosey over there.

 

One friend of mine adores the beach,

So she will take a drive

And hit the boardwalk for a stroll

To make her feel alive.

 

Another lives in warmer climes

But when she needs her space,

She hits a nature sanctuary;

That’s her go-to place.

 

And as for me, when I am drawn

Outside to take a walk,

I’m happiest just traipsing on

The sidewalks of New Yawk.

Waiting for the Bus

I waited for the crosstown bus

Forever and a day.

That may be an exaggeration,

But it felt that way.

 

At least three dozen people

Were bemoaning what became

The perfect opportunity

To find someone to blame.

 

To make things worse, a bus was parked

Right near where we’d hop on,

Although the driver, maybe

On a break, was just plain gone.

 

At last a new bus showed and so,

All three doors had a crowd.

The driver opened none of them,

The grumbles getting loud.

 

When finally, he made a move,

The front door opened wide

And access to the other two

Was out and out denied.

 

More kvetching, but we inched our way

And finally could board.

I snagged a seat (not many left),

Which felt like a reward.

 

At least it wasn’t freezing and

I wasn’t running late,

Yet surely, it’s a well-known fact

That no one likes to wait.

In Stride

To take things in stride, 

One must simply decide 

To let nervousness slide

And just chill.

If these rules are applied

And no planets collide,

Then what might be implied

Likely will

Keep one feeling supplied

With the skills to abide

By life’s customs, which guide

People still.

I have never denied

Nor have I ever lied 

About lacking the pride

To fulfill 

Life’s demands while allied

With some Zen bona fide

But I can’t, though I’ve tried,

Learn the drill.

My Kitchen Cabinets

To upgrade a kitchen,

Most people I know

Would hire an expert

And work with a pro.

 

I live in a rental,

Which limits the range

Of the choices I have

If I’m wanting a change.

 

So to spiff up my cabinets,

Boring and plain,

I decided that I’d go

Against the, um, grain.

 

For, instead of cheap plywood

Or particle board,

Some rustic aesthetic

Was what I aimed toward.

 

I found what I needed

And measured and cut.

The kitchen looks better

(At least to me!), but

 

I have to fess up

For it didn’t take much.

Contact paper provided

That cool farmhouse touch!

Parents and Children

Our parents introduce us,

From the moment of our birth,

To their values and we learn from them

What everything is worth.

 

We grow up and observe the ways

They deal with joy or strife

And tuck this knowledge in our minds

For later on in life.

 

In time, we leave the nest behind

And follow our own trail,

Which leads us to a place where

Not all lessons will prevail.

 

We may reject the models that

Are those our parents taught

And sometimes quite the opposite

Will be the ones we’ve sought.

 

Most parents do the best they can,

But it’s a short-term role

And as their children grow, those lives

Are out of their control.

A Birdhouse

A birdhouse hanging from a tree

Has snow piled on its roof.

If there are doubts about the storm,

Well, there’s the real-life proof.

 

Designed with details to appear

So cottage-like and charming,

Its Wedgewood-colored siding

Both familiar and disarming,

 

This mini-homestead’s cuteness is

An unexpected treat.

You wouldn’t look for such a thing

On a Manhattan street.

 

Yet there it is, with bright white door

And next to it, a broom,

Just waiting for a sparrow

To stop by and take up room.

 

Surrounding it, apartments loom;

Pedestrians make haste.

Still, somehow in this neighborhood,

This dwelling’s been embraced.

Chain Mail

When I was a girl,

Every once in a while,

I’d receive in the mail,

Because that was the style,

 

A letter to copy

And send to a name

At the top of a list,

Which in that letter came.

 

When you copied the note,

You’d add your own address

To the list, while deleting

The top one. Success

 

Came when after some days

You’d receive quite a slew

Of the letters, from strangers,

Delivered to you.

 

If you followed the rules,

You would have some good luck.

If you didn’t, without it,

I guess you’d be stuck.

 

The letters back then

Needed stamps and were mailed

And the fun part was knowing

That you had prevailed.

 

Now my granddaughter sent me

A chain in a text:

“Sent to 15 new people

Or what happens next

 

Will be lots of bad luck

For 3 years if you don’t.

If you do, you will get

A new phone.” (No, I won’t.)

 

“You will also be getting

The pet of your dreams.

Everybody will love you!”

I guess that’s how it seems

 

To the youth of today,

But with this kind of chain,

As I wrote to my granddaughter,

I will refrain.

A Sizeable Story

A clairvoyant, who wasn’t too tall,

Got involved in an ill-fated brawl.

His predictions fell flat

And his client, quite fat,

Threw him head-first right into a wall.

 

When he managed to finally stand,

There was somehow a knife in his hand,

Which he used for one thrust;

Then, avoiding a bust,

He escaped, like it somehow was planned.

 

When the cops arrived, someone in charge

Did explain what occurred to the sarge;

So in minutes, the police

Sent an all-points release:

There’s a medium, small, who’s at large.

My Doctor's Appointment

I canceled my doctor’s appointment

The second time, due to the snow.

It’s to check on my eyes

But to no one’s surprise,

The predictions say I shouldn’t go.

 

It’s not an emergency visit,

But now I will be overdue.

I wanted things checked

But the blizzard’s effect

Is to underscore what is taboo,

 

Which is venture outside when the weather

May have whiteout conditions or worse.

I could trip on the ice

So I’ll follow advice

And stay home since the forecast’s adverse.

 

Maybe third time’s the charm will prove worthy

And on my next appointment, I’ll show.

Until then I’ll give in;

Mother Nature will win

And from home I’ll watch blizzard winds blow.

Their Own Ticking

We can’t set our internal clocks;

They manage their own ticking

And though it seems a paradox,

They can’t be changed by tricking.

 

For if you are an early bird,

Your body will awaken

At hours some will find absurd,

The dreamer’s world forsaken.

 

Yet you will revel in the dawn,

Its quiet like a buffer,

While later wake-up times will spawn

A mindset that will suffer.

 

For those who let the morning pass,

Reluctantly arising,

That extra sleep provides the gas

They need for energizing.

 

A rooster’s crow will surely jolt

Their deep and dreamy slumber

And mind and body will revolt

At daybreak’s early number.

 

Internal clocks are set at birth –

We have one or the other,

But my advice, for what it’s worth –

Don’t blame your dad or mother.

Bread and Salt

To follow tradition,

When someone has moved,

If to buying a gift

You feel somewhat behooved,

 

Instead of some flowers

Or wine, try instead

The old-fashioned welcome

Of salt and of bread.

 

These both are symbolic

Of things households need,

Ensuring its members

Will thrive and succeed.

 

An extra for sweetness,

Like cookies or cake,

Will round out the offer

Of mazel* you’ll make.

 

Whatever you bring to

Your kith or your kin,

It shows love for the home

Where new lives will begin.

 

*luck (in Yiddish)

So Many Athletes

So many athletes get their start

When they’re in school, or younger,

With parents to encourage dreams

And help sustain that hunger.

 

They’ll build a backyard skating rink

Or schlep them to their classes

And drain the family’s bank account

Plus take vacation passes.

 

The lucky ones fulfill those hopes

And join the real contenders,

Competing for the recognition

Such a feat engenders.

 

But what about the other ones,

Who never reach that level,

Whose injuries or lack of talent

Torment and bedevil?

 

I wonder if they sit and watch

The games and all the glory

And wish they had a very different

Ending to their story.

Long Ago and Far Away

In the pictures, I’m smiling,

My face deeply tanned,

Surrounded by friends

In a faraway land.

 

A summer in Israel,

Without any cares,

To spend meeting people

At work picking pears.

 

We woke at 4:30

And, after a meal,

We boarded the trucks;

Oh, that life did appeal!

 

So different from all

That I knew from before.

To sweat in the orchards

Felt not like a chore

 

But like an adventure,

To be there among

Others on their own journeys,

All carefree and young.