Maps

We used to keep maps

In our home and the car

To navigate when

We were traveling far.

 

Most were AAA issued;

We got them for free

For New York or wherever

Our next trip would be.

 

When planning a journey,

We’d highlight the route

So, aside from construction,

There’d be no dispute.

 

We relied on our maps

Until GPS came,

Then a voice gave directions;

It wasn’t the same.

 

With WAZE, there are updates

Of traffic, we’re told,

So our routes can be switched

With no maps to unfold.

 

Our stash, which once helped us

Avoid getting lost

Has, except for some strays,

Been, quite candidly, tossed.

Sunbathers on the Grass

People sunbathe on the grass

So everyone needing to pass

Can get a good view,

Which they’re likely to do,

Of, because of the thongs, lots of ass.

 

Since this spot is a park, not a beach,

Such visions should be out of reach,

But those choosing to bare

Derrieres do not care

And would likely resent those who preach.

 

Yet I wonder what pleasure they find

Having strangers admire their behind.

Even if I were young,

I would not be among

Those to whom such displays are inclined.

Such a Treat

Our grandson had a party

To attend near where we live,

So a place to stay with Uber rides

Was what we had to give.

 

At 12 years old, Bar Mitzvahs beckon;

He’s a busy guy.

It’s hard to understand how fast

The years are zipping by.

 

Yet it was such a treat for us

To have him come to stay,

For even just the shortest time

With him can make our day.

 

To see the city through his eyes,

The place his dad was raised,

Is the part of nana-ing that leaves me

Happy and amazed.

Today's Dance Recital

The dance recital featured girls

From 3 to high school age,

With choreography and costumes

Lighting up the stage.

 

Our grandchild in the hip hop group

Is old enough to know

The full routine with all the steps,

Her confidence a’glow.

 

The youngest dancers, oh, so cute,

Came out not quite prepared.

Should they be twirling? Maybe not,

But no one really cared.

 

Except for one who stood transfixed,

Like staring at a wall.

I couldn’t tell, but maybe

She was crying through it all.

 

I wondered how her parents felt

But I could surely guess,

Since oftentimes what we expect

Instead, is slightly less.

Heat

My apartment, this morning, had heat

Which, because it was cold, was a treat.

Though I really must say,

For the middle of May,

It’s a threshold we rarely do meet.

Now the weatherman strangely predicts 

That by Tuesday, we’ll be in a fix

Since the weather will - Jeez!

Reach to 90 degrees,

Which means Winter gets no more last licks.

If that happens, I’ll need the A.C.,

For the heat and I do not agree.

Mother Nature, I find,

Cannot make up her mind

So we suffer, to varied degree.

-

Eggplant

The eggplants at the fruit stand

Were on sale for just a buck.

My husband’s eggplant-picking rules

Inside my head were stuck:

 

You want one that is firm but light.

I didn’t question why,

But hefting two, the heavy one

I therefore didn’t buy.

 

It seems I made the perfect choice,

For, sliced up very thin,

Then bread-crumb topped and fried in oil,

The taste just made me grin.

 

I’m married to a man who cooks

And gears things to my taste.

That eggplant filled a platter high,

But none will go to waste.

 

To think, a meal with plenty left,

With pasta on the side,

At a cost of just a dollar,

Left me more than gratified.

Breakfast on Broadway

When a friend’s in Manhattan,

Amid all the din,

A breakfast on Broadway’s

The way to begin.

 

A place near the theater

Where she has to go

Means a leisurely stroll

Will lead right to her show.

 

The food will pass muster;

The booths will be large.

The waiters won’t rush you,

So you’ll be in charge.

 

The crowds won’t be there yet,

If early you meet,

Making it much more civil

When crossing the street.

 

Then after your breakfast,

Once she gets on line,

You’ll stroll north on Broadway

To Arts and Design.*

 

The day’s just begun,

But your stomach and heart

Will be filled with the comfort

This meal will impart.

 

*Museum of Arts and Design

Dannon Coffee Yogurt

I’ve been eating Dannon coffee yogurt

Oh, so many years,

So learning it’s been discontinued

Didn’t quite bring tears…

 

But a wave of disappointment

Since it’s hard to fathom why

It’s no longer waiting on the shelves

For customers to buy.

 

I Googled it and found it was

A “marketing decision,”

A reason which will surely meet

With clucks of pure derision.

 

A number* seeking feedback

Linked me to a friendly voice

Who took down my information

On my lack of coffee choice.

 

Maybe if they’re inundated

With a thousand calls like mine,

Those in charge will reconsider

Pulling coffee from their line.

 

*877-326-6668

Our Expectations

Our expectations rarely match

Reality, it seems,

For it’s not possible to snatch

The dazzle of our dreams.

 

The same applies to dreaded fears

Which cloud a coming date.

The truth, when it at last appears,

Proves we can’t speculate

 

About what hasn’t yet occurred;

Such attitudes waste time.

Our future’s either dark or blurred

And changes on a dime.

 

So whether outcomes fall quite short

Or drastically exceed

Whatever we’d envisioned

What is always guaranteed

 

Is that no one ever knows for sure,

Including every sage,

If our hopes or fears are premature,

Until we turn the page.

On This Day

Do you celebrate yourself today,

Remembering the birth

Of your child or children when they first

Drew breath upon the earth?

 

Or, instead, do you reflect upon

The one within whose womb

You developed ‘til the day your body

Craved a bit more room?

 

Or possibly, it’s neither

And your thoughts are drawn to those,

Like an aunt or grandma, whose embrace

Did tenderly enclose.

 

No matter whom you think about

When Mothers’ Day rolls ‘round,

I hope the spirit of the day

Within you does resound.

In the City

In the city, theater beckons,

As museums do and parks.

There are restaurants and monuments

To set creative sparks.

 

There are streets that teem with tourists,

Gazing goggle-eyed around,

As they navigate by foot or bus

Or subway underground.

 

There are fields where sports are playing;

There are ferries on the river.

Yet if quiet’s what you’re seeking,

There are spots that can deliver.

 

Benches nestle hither thither,

Just awaiting their next guest,

Who might find that it’s the perfect place

To get oneself de-stressed.

Two Cardinals

Saw two bright red cardinals fighting,

Or that’s how it did appear.

Maybe ‘twas a mating problem, 

Though to us it wasn’t clear.

Wonder if a nearby female

Had a stake in who would win,

Or if she’d reject both fighters 

For what was a cardinal sin!

Hummingbird Cake

I came upon a recipe

That wasn’t a mistake,

Though it was for something strangely called

A hummingbird (huh?) cake.

 

I glanced at the ingredients –

The list was far from brief

But there weren’t any hummingbirds,

Which was a huge relief.

 

With pineapple, bananas,

Sugar, cinnamon and flour,

Eggs, vanilla, oil and pecans

It sounds great, but gets its power

 

From its cream cheese butter frosting,

Which must add the perfect touch

To a sweet dessert that many people

Must like very much.

 

The cake is from Jamaica

So its name, from what I’ve heard,

Is a tribute to, you might have guessed,

The nation’s namesake bird.

 

Maybe someday I will try it,

But I know when that day comes,

I’ll be grateful knowing there was no

Ingredient that hums!

I Write a Poem

I write a poem because there’s something

In my soul that needs it,

Despite the fact that there are times

When maybe no one reads it.

 

We all have things we do to help

Us feel a sense of pride,

Though oftentimes that treasure

Nestles, tucked away inside.

 

Of course, acknowledgement is nice,

But it is not required.

I do not write in hopes that I’ll

Be famous or admired.

 

Yet setting down my daily rhyme

Is what I do for me,

My thoughts spelled out and posted,

There for all the world to see.

 

And if I never hear a peep

About what I may say,

I’ve taken care of that myself,

With words to lead the way.

Not a Match

My spinner’s simply not a match 

For when the wind is rough.

I reinforce its pole with stones 

But that is not enough.

The ground is hard and rocky

So it’s tough to hammer in,

Though as soon as it’s erect,

The slightest breeze will make it spin.

I’m on the back porch writing

With the wind chime’s tinkling sound

When, with one big gust, that spinner

Tipped and fell upon the ground.

I’ll head outside and stand it up

And it will work, I trust -

At least until the next time

There’s a more insistent gust.

The Met Gala

Tonight’s the Met Gala;

I wasn’t invited

And here, in my jeans,

I don’t feel at all slighted.

I don’t wear couture 

And the funds that they’ll raise

Are a little beyond

What my pension fund pays.

I’ll read in The Times

What celebrities wear

And no one in the crowd

Will take note I’m not there.

At a recent Met visit,

I gazed at the art,

Much better than fashion

That sets folks apart.

Though some chairmen who took

Over Venice to wed

Think the world would prefer

Seeing them there instead.

Dilemma

I bought a new wind chime,

A for-myself treat

And think it looks lovely,

Its melody sweet.

But where should I hang it?

It’s windy today

So it will sound dulcet

As tree branches sway.

Yet when I’m in the house

And it’s dangling outside, 

I won’t hear it at all

So I have to decide

If perhaps I should hang it

Indoors, where I’d swat it

To hear its sweet music,

‘Cause that’s why I got it.

Still, that would defeat

Its true purpose by name,

For chiming in wind 

Is its one claim to fame.

That settles it! I’ll find

A branch on a tree

Where, when coming or going,

That sweet sound will be.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

In 7^th grade English, my class got to read,

With Mrs. Kaminsky, my first

Taste of Shakespeare, the dream of “A Midsummer Night”

And for weeks we were fully immersed.

 

We couldn’t have done it alone, without help –

The language and style, to us

Was a challenge and yet with our teacher to guide,

We sailed through it without too much fuss.

 

I’d need a refresher to dig out the plot

From the recesses deep in my brain,

Though the love of the language and what it inspired,

Front and center, to this day, remain.

 

My grandson just told me (he’s 7^th grade now)

That in school, with his class, he’ll soon start

The very same play, his first Shakespeare, as well,

And that knowledge tapped into my heart.

 

I hope I can find my old copy from school,

Which is scribbled with jottings I wrote

When, to 7^th grade me, the idea of a grandson

Was more than remotely remote.

The Saturday Crossword

I finished a Saturday crossword,*

The hardest one offered each week.

It took me a while

But earned me a smile 

And the constant reminder I seek

That my brain cells, although I am aging,

Are still functioning well enough to

Fill in all of the squares

That some person prepares

So we solvers can track down each clue.

It’s a sense of accomplishment, truly;

Other puzzlers know just what I mean.

Though we do it alone,

We are, each of us, prone

To a chance to internally preen.

*last Saturday’s New York Times puzzle,

solved today 

For the Record

If you’re old enough, you might remember

Records that we played

On Hi-Fis or Victrolas;

If you’re not, I am afraid

 

You won’t quite understand

Exactly what this poem’s about,

Which is candy shaped like records,

Treats I cannot do without.

 

Each is made of strips of licorice -

The real stuff, strong and black,

Which is curled into a circle,

Like those records from way back.

 

I bought them for a penny in

A candy store near school

And the middle held a sugar dot,

Bright reddish, as a rule.

 

My husband searched for them online

And buys me three pound bags.

I have one every night I’m home

Or else my spirit sags.

 

They have no sugar dots, but still,

Their taste is just as sweet

As the ones I brought so long ago

On a local Brooklyn street.

Shorter Days

I like when days are shorter,

Though I know most won’t agree,

But getting out before the sunrise

Seems just right to me.

 

On winter days I read in bed

Before I venture out.

Yet now, with just one chapter,

There’s a bright blue sky, no doubt.

 

I miss the oranges and pinks

That make the sky aglow.

It’s like having front row seats

For Nature’s early morning show.

 

The daylight hours stretch, as well,

So when it’s sunny-bright

At the dinner hour and beyond,

It doesn’t feel like night.

 

I much prefer the coziness

Of being tucked inside

When the afternoon is slowly

Starting on its evening slide.

 

Alas, my preferences take hold

For one-half of the year

And to the rules, I have no choice

But simply to adhere.

Wifely Wrath

A person in the public eye,

When subject of a joke,

Has every right to mope or cry

About the one who spoke.

 

Yet we’re still a democracy,

Though maybe not much longer,

And things we thought we’d never see

Are here and getting stronger.

 

The freedom that we have to speak

And criticize or sneer at

Applies to even those so weak

Their enemies they JEER AT!

 

The ALL-CAPS ranting’s not enough –

The claws must dig in deeper

To prove to all that he’s so tough

Revenge will cut much steeper.

 

And so the toadies and the Court

Will seek some retribution

As ABC might cut things short

In hopes of absolution.

 

It’s bad enough when words are hurled

From One-I Will-Not-Mention

But now, with wifely wrath unfurled,

There’s double the attention.

Nice to be Outdoors

Some days are good for doing chores

But also nice to be outdoors

So I’ve combined some stops in stores

With soaking up some sun.

 

For days like this, I can’t abide

Too many hours stuck inside.

Instead, with instinct as my guide,

I’m getting so much done.

 

I bought some flowers in a pot

And posted letters in their slot,

Plus bought a shirt I like a lot,

All on my chore-type run.

 

And now, with laundry washed and dried

And Swiffered floors, I’m back outside,

For sunny afternoons provide

The chance, which I’ve begun

 

To watch the river as I write,

The water such a calming sight,

The city bringing me delight,

Like magic it has spun.

Dressing Up

I’ve heard that in the early years

Of traveling by air,

The passengers would get dressed up

To get from here to there.

 

That was before my time and yet,

The dress-up rule applied

At many places where that custom’s

Simply up and died.

 

Like going to a Broadway show

Or ceremony for

A graduation where it will

Be noticed what you wore.

 

Religious celebrations, too,

In temple, mosque or church

Might reveal a dress-down pattern

Among many if you search.

 

Still, for certain nice occasions,

I like dressing up so I

Am reminded of decorum,

Which was part of days gone by.

Decapitations

Park Avenue’s had tulips

On the median each year

Since 1980 and their blooms

Announce that spring is here.

 

They brighten up the neighborhood

For all who pass them by,

But a vandal chopped their heads off

And it makes me wonder why.

 

Resentment towards the rich?

Yet volunteers do all the work,

So all who drive or walk there

Can enjoy this city perk.

 

The bulbs, too, are donations

Meant to beautify the street.

Perhaps the lone decapitator

Couldn’t quite defeat

 

The urge to make a statement

With this nasty act of rage.

A doorman saw it happen

And the police he did engage.

 

Alas, the vandal got away

But here’s an upbeat fact:

The blooms are gone but might return;

The bulbs are still intact.

Modeling Clay

Kids today, I have to say,

Are latched onto their screens

And spend more time than I on rhyme,

No matter what their means.

My grandkid’s friend, at school day’s end,

Came over for a while.

They ate and talked but mostly gawked

At sites that did beguile.

The sunny day lured them to play

Out in the grassy yard

‘Til boredom hit, so in a bit,

They played the hungry card.

A little snack, but then a lack

Of things to do set in.

Some board games? No! With spirits low,

The kvetching could begin.

Until my son got the job done,

Producing what he knew

Could save the day, some brand-new clay - 

Wow, something cool to do!

Ideas took hold, they squished and rolled,

Creating works of art,

With smiles of pride that couldn’t hide

What screens cannot impart.

The Way We See Ourselves

Some people think they’re talented

When clearly, they are not.

Yet maybe they are better off,

Believing that they’ve got

 

The kind of skills worth noticing,

Perhaps to lead to fame,

A place where everybody

Everywhere will know their name.

 

Yet others criticize themselves,

Believing that they lack

Whatever talents that might earn

A pat upon the back.

 

No matter what they try to do,

It seems to come out wrong,

So to those more accomplished types,

They never will belong.

 

The truth is often in between,

For how we are perceived

Is often quite the opposite

Of what we have believed.

 

Yet it might be impossible

To burrow deep inside

To change the way we see ourselves,

And most have never tried.

On Earth Day 2026

Happy Earth Day, Mother Earth!

I have to say, for what it’s worth,

That you’ve seemed better in the past;

Things are getting grimmer, fast.

Lack of snow in ski resorts

Has hurt much more than winter sports,

With fire, now, a constant fear,

Especially when winds blow near.

While temperatures that fluctuate 

Cause harm to crops and, as of late,

Between the times of floods and droughts,

Your advocates are having doubts

About sustainability;

Will future generations see

A way to help protect your lands

In ways that modern life demands?

We humans have our work to do

To fix the damage done to you,

But while we can, let’s pledge to try

So Earth Day hopes don’t up and die.