Ingrained

Certain habits are ingrained

From when you were a kid,

So though you’re grown, they’ve been retained

For things you always did.

 

Like if you’re sloppy or you’re neat,

Your age won’t likely change it

And if your diet leans towards sweet,

The years won’t rearrange it.

 

If you’re quiet, maybe shy,

It’s rare that you’ll outgrow it

And once a bully, you might try

To change, but you will blow it.

 

We learn when we are very young

From others we are seeing

And those we closely live among,

The varied ways of being.

 

And slowly we adapt and find

What self we’ll be presenting,

How others see what in our mind,

Which we can’t help preventing.

Unbleeped

The New York Times won’t print the word;

It’s bleeped on every station.

Yet somehow, now, the “leader”

Of this once-respected nation

 

Can read and post a message

There for everyone to catch,

With a F**K YOU and a B***ARD

Written out in ALL CAPS, natch.

 

What a shining fine example

For our kids and grands to follow!

Correcting their obscenities

Will come across as hollow.

 

Yet this is what we’re stuck with,

Every awful trait unfurled.

It’s no wonder we are mocked

In every corner of the world.

On Easter

I let them all pass over me –

The cheery Happy Easters!

Assuming I will be among

Today’s hot cross bun feasters.

 

But no, I won’t be eating lamb

Or ham with all its glazing,

Although I’m sure the Easter pies

My friend makes are amazing.

 

For I’m observing Pesach,*

So what I will eat instead

Will be matzoh or its relatives,

All with unleavened bread.

 

Of course, there’s meat and chicken,

Lots of veggies, eggs and fruit

And special cakes and cookies,

Made with matzoh meal, to boot.

 

I used to set those people straight

Whose greetings had no clue

That Easter’s not for everyone,

But I no longer do.

 

When people offer me a wish

For a Happy Easter day,

I smile and say, “The same to you”

And send them on their way.

 

*Passover

A Driving Trip

A driving trip to someplace new,

Complete with water views,

Made my birthday very special,

Just the weekend I would choose.

Included was a mansion tour,

A river walk and meal

At a lovely local place, which had

A cozy, warm appeal.

Of course, throughout the day were lots

Of texts and calls for me,

Plus an ice cream stop to make the time

As happy as could be.

The weather held, the sun came out,

Our room, adjacent to

A marina, with its bobbing boats -

All better than we knew.

Today we drove past wineries

And farms with cows and sheep,

Enough to fill my dreams

When, one year older, I will sleep.

At a Vanderbilt Mansion

At a Vanderbilt mansion,*

Two bathrooms surprised,

With features too modern

For me to’ve surmised.

In the owner’s own shower,

One handle controlled

A foot-facing faucet;

If too hot or cold,

You adjusted the temp

‘Til you felt the right heat

Before water would hit you,

Just touching your feet.

Only then, when correct,

Did you turn on the taps.

Maybe otherwise, those 

Really rich would collapse.

In his wife’s room, a scale

In the floor tiles was sending

Her weight at eye level,

Preventing her bending.

These accoutrements really

Allowed me to see

That the rich are quite different

From you and from me.

*William K. Vanderbilt’s mansion,

built between 1910 and 1936.

Millions and Billions

Four hundred million dollars

For a ballroom for the prez,

The funding from some private sources;

Least that’s what he sez.

 

A billion dollars daily

For the conflict in Iran.

You’d think there could be better things

To spend that money on.

 

To people who can’t pay the rent

Or have to sometimes choose

Between food or medications,

It must seem they always lose.

 

Since the government is more concerned

With how it is perceived,

Though the way things are presented,

It’s more mocked now than believed.

 

I try to block these stories

But when mentioned in the news,

All these million billion numbers

Make me want to blow a fuse.

Old Familiar Recipes

Today I measured, chopped and baked

And all from scratch, with nothing faked,

From old familiar recipes

I know, to varying degrees.

 

The matzoh balls I shaped, as well,

(The soup, however, made by Mel*)

And last, charoses** was prepared

With not one nut or apple spared.

 

The kitchen’s not my natural spot,

But on the holidays, I’ve got

The need to potchke*** so I feel

Connected to this ancient meal.

 

My husband asked me why I fuss,

A question worthy to discuss,

Yet all that I can say, for me,

Is this is how it has to be.

 

For even if nobody cared

About these dishes I have shared,

I’ll keep traditions up, unbowed

And know my grandmas would be proud.

 

*my husband  **a dish for the Passover meal

***fiddling or messing around, especially regarding cooking

Just Floating

One quarter of the year has passed;

It seems to me it’s flown by fast

And spring is finally here at last,

The winter just a dream.

 

Those frigid days and piles of snow

Feel like they happened long ago

And, though I know that isn’t so,

Perhaps a bit extreme,

 

When seasons come, they disappear

More quickly every single year.

Despite that knowledge, I’m still here,

Just floating down the stream.

Nothing Lasts

The strap on my leather bag broke,

Its usefulness gone up in smoke.

My old shoe repair,

Like most others, not there,

So on Google my fingers did poke.

 

I found a small old-fashioned place;

Good reviews from the neighborhood base.

So I brought in my bag,

A short walk, not a drag,

And the owner stitched it up apace.

 

Eighteen bucks, which I gratefully paid;

The repair looks like it was well-made.

I asked, “Why did it break?”

He said, “There’s no mistake.

Nothing lasts for all time, I’m afraid.”

 

For that reason, his business exists,

But since life has ironic-type twists,

In these sneaker-clad days,

Tradesmen’s work hardly pays,

Though his livelihood somehow persists.

Holding My Hat

It’s sunny and breezy and lovely, but cold

And I’m days away from another year old.

I’m holding my hat so the wind doesn’t steal it,

Pretending the sun’s warmth means that I don’t feel it.

 

The seagulls are swooping, the branches are blowing;

I sit by the river with no way of knowing

How many more birthdays will grant me a candle

And whether what waits I’ll be able to handle.

 

Perhaps if I focus on merely today

And forget about what may be coming my way,

I’ll be able to soak up the sunshine instead

Of more worries than simply the hat on my head.

Not Quite Me

Despite a lovely day with friends,

To catch up with a meal

And a gift of potted daffodils

Which, to me, hold great appeal…

 

A small intrusion of A.I.

Disturbed me in a way

That’s impossible to process

And thus harder to convey.

 

A photograph of me today,

At lunch, a friend beside,

Was followed by an altered one,

Which A.I. did provide.

 

Our friend’s son, who’s a techno whiz,

Created it in jest

To make it look like 1990

And it passed the test.

 

My face and hair looked similar

To how I do appear,

But the clothing and the body

And the earrings made it clear

 

That it wasn’t me, but rather

Some strange version that was made

By a product I don’t understand

And makes me feel afraid.

 

The photo won’t go further

But it gave me just a taste

Of the power of the future

And how we can be replaced.

Planning a Special Day

To try to plan a special day

Is tougher than it sounds,

For sometimes circumstances make

Some choices out of bounds.

 

Of all the problems one could have,

This one won’t even rate,

Yet still, it’s nice to find a way

To get to celebrate.

 

A brand-new venue possibly

Won’t work out to one’s taste,

But there won’t be surprises in

A place that’s been embraced.

 

The effort spent on research

Might just frazzle someone’s nerves

And there might be second guessing

In a place that one reserves.

 

Maybe visiting a favorite haunt

And ending with a meal

Will bring home the point that special days

Are really no big deal.

Extra Innings

More baseball teams will play today,

The season in full swing.

For fans who’ve waited months, there is

Much joy that this will bring.

A friend who read my prior poem,

Comparing life to sport,

Responded with an observation

That I’d cut life short.

For even if we find ourselves,

In years, close to the end,

So many other factors may

Our time on earth extend.

Since there are extra innings played

In certain baseball games,

The bottom of the ninth might not

Be all that it proclaims.

So thank you, Ira, for that note -

We may not be in clover,

But quoting Yogi Berra,

“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over!”

Bottom of the Ninth

It’s opening day (that’s for baseball);

The season’s officially here,

With fans set to flock to the ball fields

To watch, buying hot dogs and beer.

 

If life were compared to a ball game,

Each inning a decade or so,

We’d root for our home team, while knowing

The game’s sometimes boring and slow.

 

Yet other times, there is excitement

And we take the lead in the score,

Without any way of predicting

What action is waiting in store.

 

There’s a break in the 7^th for stretching,

When the game’s cut as if by a knife,

Which is like when it’s time to retire

And confront what is left of your life.

 

Then the players get back in position,

The outcome still up in the air,

But there isn’t much time to the finish

And perhaps not much power to spare.

 

Now my husband’s a bit of a joker;

This baseball/life theme’s his, not mine,

Yet when he said we’re in the 9^th inning*,

I knew I would pilfer that line.

 

*The title is what he actually said about

where we’re at, which cracked me up…

No Kings

On Saturday, the nation will

Join forces east to west

To protest this administration,

Easy to detest.

 

Called “No Kings” with no explanation

Offered or required,

There will be large-scale gatherings

This “leader” has inspired.

 

To show support, I thought I’d buy

Some “No Kings” merchandise –

A hat or tee or even

Some lapel pins would suffice.

 

The quickest way to find this

Would be Amazon, for sure.

No matter what you think about it,

Speed’s its biggest lure.

 

So I was shocked when, on the site,

Most “No Kings” items shown

Could not or would not be delivered

(Cue the sad trombone…)

 

Until at least the 28^th

Or after; either case

Would get here past the point

When “No Kings” day had taken place.

 

I don’t think it is paranoid

To see Jeff Bezos’ role,

For when it comes to Amazon,

He’s kind of in control.

 

Ironically, this underscores

How vital is this cause,

For when greed and power rule, we’ve learned,

The kings make all the laws.

A Drizzly Mist

I went for my walk in a drizzly mist,

An umbrella not really required.

If I got to choose weather, I’d get this dismissed

Since it leaves me quite far from inspired.

For my glasses were speckled, which always annoys,

And my jacket, not waterproof, wettish.

This weather brings none of the usual joys,

My appearance more mussed, less coquettish.

I don’t need the sunshine to brighten my walk

And I know I won’t melt if it’s raining,

But a drizzly mist somehow gets me to balk 

And, with rhyme or without, start complaining.

An Irish Band

Went to see an Irish band 

For a late St. Patrick’s day

In a little local restaurant

Not very far away.

The fireplace was crackling,

The menu Irish-based,

The Guinness fresh and flowing,

All just perfect for my taste.

The 3 piece combo sang and played

Guitar and pipe and flute.

A banjo and a concertina

Joined the fun, to boot.

We rarely get to do this 

But as time makes it advance,

We should grab each opportunity 

While we still have the chance.

Missed Call

Years ago, if someone called 

And you were not around,

You’d never know about it 

‘Til another chance was found.

And then a new invention

Called the answering machine

Allowed a message to be left

For someone not on scene.

The mobile phone changed everything 

For data’s always saved -

The date and time of all the calls,

The dreaded ones or craved.

A few are labeled “Scam Alert”

But many sneak on through,

With numbers in your area,

Like someone that you knew.

Yet if a “Missed Call” notice shows

Without a message left,

Assume it was a bogus call 

And do not be bereft.

And sometimes, what’s recorded

Will not set your mind at ease,

For I’d rather get a missed call

Than a message in Chinese!

Eid al-Fitr

My classes were cancelled 

And school kids are home

Because of the holiday

Named in this poem.

No alternate parking,

In New York, at least,

So Muslims can gather

For prayer and feast.

When I was a teacher,

No calendar showed 

This holiday, so

No vacation was owed.

Our “melting pot” image

Is surely intact 

When days off are given

And how we react

Depends on our views -

Some support; others scoff.

I suspect those who like it, though,

Have the day off.

Parallelograms

I am spatially inept;

My brain just won’t work that way.

That is why I’ve always kept

Certain challenges at bay.

 

For my class’s Lone Star Quilt,

We have started now to sew,

Yet my spirits might soon wilt

As frustration starts to grow.

 

Parallelograms we’ve cut

Out of fabrics of our choosing.

They’ll be sewn together, but,

I find it’s so darn confusing

 

That some shapes face left or right,

Like a mirror image shown

And my brain puts up a fight,

Causing me to sweat and moan.

 

Still, I’ll keep up and attempt

To complete this pattern’s look,

Hoping that I’ll be exempt

From working strictly by the book.

A.I. Companions

Not only don’t I have one

But nobody else I know

Has an A.I. buddy, or, at least,

Will say that it is so.

 

I read a lengthy article

About these so-called “friends,”

Which scared me since it doesn’t seem

That these are simply trends.

 

Creators justify their use

To fill so many needs –

Companionship, approval,

Affirmation, all the seeds

 

Which we used to plant and nurture

With a living, breathing soul,

When actual relationships

Appeared to be the goal.

 

The future looms in ways to which

I can’t at all relate,

When real and artificial beings

Manage to conflate.

 

I’m glad that I won’t be around

When what we can expect

Is that everyone will need

Such a companion to connect.

At the St. Paddy's Parade

Of course there were bagpipes

And kilt-wearing men.

As always, they marched

Up Fifth Ave. once again.

 

The day, bright and sunny,

Was cold, plus the wind

Challenged anyone out there

Who wasn’t thick-skinned.

 

I felt for the students

Parading without

Warm jackets or gloves;

They were frozen, no doubt.

 

Yet the smiles were contagious

And so was the green,

For today we’re all Irish;

There’s no in-between.

 

Which is why, walking home,

I made one unplanned stop,

Since tonight needs some Guinness –

Not just a wee drop!

Reluctantly

A strange thing happens as I age,

Which cannot be controlled.

I tend to focus, everywhere,

On people who are old.

 

Today, a doctor’s waiting room,

A check-up for my eyes,

Was filled with those so elderly,

From seats they couldn’t rise.

 

As names were called, they shuffled out,

(Our wait time very wrong!)

But watching them, I wondered,

Is this group where I belong?

 

To get there, on the bus I sat

As people moved inside,

With canes and walkers, hoping

For a seat unoccupied.

 

And on TV, up on the stage,

On Oscar night, I saw

The older actors missing

All their sparkle, once a draw.

 

When I was young, I rarely noticed

Seniors within range,

Yet now, reluctantly, I see

My view’s begun to change.

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.