Seen On My Walk

Seen on my walk – a delivery truck

Was being unloaded. One box

Was plunked on the ground; some may be out of luck

For its eggs might have suffered some shocks.

 

Another block on, there was parked on the street,

With a fender that suffered a wham!

A new pick-up truck named, just to make it complete,

In big letters, you guessed it – a RAM!

 

Saw three pickleball games and a guy with green hair –

Just a typical 6 a.m. sight.

In the city, no matter the time, you’ll be where

Something’s sure to surprise or delight.

Cocktail Hour

My aunt complained at “cocktail hour,”

All they served was juice,

The definition of this drink,

Sans alcohol, too loose.

 

She’s in assisted living now,

At almost 98;

With many neighbors wheelchair-bound,

She simply can’t relate.

 

Her balance is an issue, though,

And even with her phone,

It’s clear that, though she disagrees,

She shouldn’t be alone.

 

I can’t imagine being told

That others can decide

That where you’ve lived no longer is

The place where you’ll reside.

 

It may be necessary; still,

Though safety’s a concern,

The loss of one’s autonomy

Is something I would spurn. 

The AQI

The AQI* has me obsessed.

I check it every hour

And rising numbers get me stressed;

It’s not within our power

 

To change what all the wildfires wrought.

The smoky haze that’s drifting,

Despite how first responders fought,

Is growing and keeps shifting.

 

So miles away, our air is filled

With particles unhealthy

And, though the fighting crews are skilled,

Pollutants are quite stealthy.

 

While venturing outside, we might

Breathe ozone and some oxides,

Invisible to normal sight

But felt inside as toxides.

 

The AQI goes up and down,

With warnings – if you’re older,

Don’t venture out around the town

While fires burn or smolder.

 

*Air Quality Index

Tick Tick Tick

Just read two different articles 

About a certain tick -

The lone star - which can make

A person very, very sick.

Of course, we’ve heard of Lyme disease

(Which deer ticks often spread),

But lone stars may cause allergies

Which make some people dead.

A syndrome, known as alpha-gal,

Passed on by this tick’s bite,

May trip a strange reaction 

Which the body cannot fight.

So someone eating burgers

Or a lamb chop or a steak 

Might go into shock if prior,

A tick’s bite his skin did break.

It seems ironic that in summer,

Life is lived outside,

The perfect place where all these 

Little buggers like to hide.

Outlier

I go to bed early.

I do not use Zelle.

When changes occur in life,

I don’t do well.

I no longer drive

And, though crowds I’ll avoid,

I like life in the city;

Still, I get annoyed

By unwarranted noise

Sometimes blasting outside

From a scooter or car,

Music I can’t abide.

With no iPad, I type

On a desktop P.C.

And the coffee I perk

On the stove works for me.

Where religion’s concerned,

I’m a Jew, but don’t pray 

And my politics veer

Far from You-Know-Who’s sway.

I’m technology-challenged,

Afraid of A.I.,

So the outlier handle

I will not deny.

Power

Based on delusions,

Some people’s conclusions

Absolve them of guilt or of blame 

And oozing effusions,

At times in profusions,

Make power the name of the game.

And when those wielding power

Cause others to cower,

There’s less of a chance to reclaim

What once bloomed like a flower

But dims by the hour

As democracy withers in shame.

Superman

 Superman was nervous,

Thinking he might have to fight,

For he’d fallen for a service

With financial gain in sight.

He agreed to take a meeting,

Hoping all would be all right,

But his heart was loudly beating 

As he faced a Crypto-night.

A Breeze When It’s Hot

A breeze when it’s hot 

Doesn’t count for a lot

Though we can’t assign blame to the trees,

For their branches that sway

Try to cool off the day

But their efforts can’t really appease.

It looks lovely outside;

Still, the time comes to hide

In the house with a blasting A/C

When the temperatures rise 

And humidity tries

To sap all of the oomph out of me.

My Thanks

For all of those who make a point

To comment on my rhymes,

No matter if it’s only once

Or very many times,

 

I want to let you know how much

I treasure your support,

Since even though in other poems

I’ve managed to purport

 

That all my writing’s just for me

(And mainly, that is true),

It’s such a lovely boost to hear

From readers such as you.

 

Now most of you I’ve never met

And likely never will,

But please accept my thanks and know

The joy you do instill.

Reminder

My phone dinged a reminder,

The subject of this poem,

A simple message and it said:

“9:30 Flying home.”

 

See, I had planned to be away

Upon a river cruise.

My husband, though, had gotten sick

And so, for weeks, my views

 

Were of the buildings I can see

Within my neighborhood

Instead of little charming towns

As I had hoped I would.

 

We canceled all that we had booked –

The flights, the room, the tours

And waited ‘til at last, my husband

Ventured out of doors.

 

He’s better now, but never could have

Done the things we’d planned.

I’ve put it all behind me, but

My phone can’t understand.

The Crazy World of Sports

In the crazy world of sports,

A player’s age reflects,

On varied fields or surfaced courts,

What everyone expects.

 

For athletes in the 40’s range

Or those soon closing in,

Will likely see a subtle change

In what they need to win.

 

Perhaps their bodies just don’t move

As quickly as before

And even if they find their groove,

It’s tougher, now, to score.

 

In much of life, our wisdom grows

And elders, we are told,

Should be revered, but in the pros,

The young ones earn the gold.

My Zip Code

There’s an outbreak of a bad disease

Right in my neighborhood,

My zip code being one they’ve named

And that just isn’t good.

 

It’s spread when there’s bacteria

In cooling towers, where

They infiltrate and form a mist

That’s sent into the air.

 

If places are identified,

Which testing can decide,

A disinfecting protocol

Can peace of mind provide.

 

As numbers of the sick increase

(And treatment seems to work),

I glance at buildings, wondering

If that’s where germs may lurk.

Comparing Craziness

When you’re down in the dumps

And life’s giving you lumps,

It’s so nice to have lunch with a friend;

For occasional slumps,

Like a log’s many bumps,

Make it hard with a smile to pretend

 

All is dandy and fine.

Sometimes problems combine

With the natural ways that you cope

And your pal throws a line,

Which you take as a sign

That you’re not at the end of your rope.

 

So you sit and you eat,

Which itself is a treat,

And compare what’s been driving you nuts.

Though you do not compete,

Each admits to defeat

By not climbing up out of your ruts.

 

Still, a heaviness lifts,

One of friendship’s best gifts,

(Which can also take place on the phone).

Though the stuff that resists

Cheering up still exists,

You, at least, feel a lot less alone.

In Neutral

The days drift by at summer’s pace,

Too insubstantial to embrace.

Without a goal that I can chase,

In neutral I am stuck.

 

Though I am home, most any place

Would seem the same, with just a trace

Of novelty to help me face

A way out of the muck.

 

No matter what, in any case,

The passing time might grant some grace,

My lethargy conceding space

To welcome back some pluck.

On Centre Court

At Wimbledon, on Centre Court,

The players, dressed in white,

Run back and forth across the grass,

To spectators’ delight.

 

Of course, in the United States,

The court called Arthur Ashe,

In honor of a tennis great,

Is where opponents clash.

 

If it did not have Ashe’s name,

It might be Center Court,

But note the “e” and “r” reversed,

Which U.S. guides support.

 

The U.S. Open doesn’t mind

What color players wear,

Unlike Britain’s rules of “colour”

With a “u” that’s stuck in there.

 

I realize (yes, I use a “z,”

Not “s,” as do the Brits)

That language often changes after

Factions call it quits.

 

It’s fascinating, really,

How our long-ago “divorce”

Somehow took the centre of the land

And moved it off its course.

Sprawled

Whenever I see someone

Sprawled on a bench,

Exposed to the elements,

Hands in a clench,

 

I wonder if long ago,

Curled in his crib

Or perched in his high chair,

With drips on his bib,

 

A mom or a dad,

With the tenderest gaze,

Saw their hopes for their son

Mapped in various ways.

 

They certainly never

Imagined him stuck

On a bench in a city park,

Down on his luck.

 

Few passersby stop,

(And yes, that includes me)

Rarely thinking about

How such things come to be.

In the U.S. of A.

On this date, in the U.S. of A.

People celebrate in their own way.

There are hot dogs on grills

And the fireworks’ thrills

With the stars and stripes out on display.

 

Yet for many who feel as I do,

There’s no point to this hullabaloo,

For instead of delight

At the flag’s red and white,

All I see and I feel is the blue.

The Wedding You've Heard Of

I didn’t get married at Madison Square

And only immediate family was there.

We needed no permits nor one single guard,

For our wedding was held in my parents’ back yard.

 

There wasn’t a limo to ferry each guest

And a cousin took photographs at our request.

The food was whatever my mother did choose

And no, it did not make it into the news.

 

It’s been fifty years, though, so, begging your pardon,

The wedding you’ve heard of today, at the Garden,

May have all the world and the paparazzi

Pay attention, but what is important to me

 

Is that keeping it simple worked fine way back when

And if I had to do it all over again,

There’s just one little change I’d be certain to make –

Not a holiday weekend, a common mistake.

Early July

It’s early July and what’s happening is

The weather’s so hot it will make your hair frizz

And perhaps even ruin that cold champagne fizz

At Taylor and Kelce’s “I do’s.”

 

Abe Lincoln sits gazing at water, now green,

With algae the worst anybody had seen

And you-know-who claiming his conscience is clean –

It’s vandals that one should accuse.

 

The National Mall has a Giant State Fair

But somehow the crowds aren’t showing up there.

Performers pulled out, for they’d rather be where

They’re not forced to air you-know-who’s views.

 

Though the temps may be broiling, an obvious fact,

And the wedding at Madison Square will distract,

The sad truth is the soon-to-be 4^th has been stacked

With so much that it’s hard to enthuse.

 

For our country’s divided on every stage,

Which will make it a challenge for us to engage

And beneath all the fireworks, sorrow and rage

Will infuse all the red, white, and blues.

The Midst of the Night

In the midst of the night

I might hear the refrain

Of the thoughts that disturb

Oozing out from my brain.

 

And then once they take hold,

I can’t get back to sleep,

As reflections begin

That will pull me down deep.

 

Scenarios beckon

Beyond my control

While anxiety threatens

To swallow me whole.

 

As I struggle to sink

Into slumber again,

I write rhymes in my head

Without paper or pen.

 

In the morning, they’re gone,

Yet I’m left with the curse

Of remembered emotions,

But none of the verse.

Half as Old

A twenty-four year difference

In the ages at the match

Means the older of the players

Has some wisdom to dispatch.

 

After all, she is a champion,

With many trophies won,

Her opponent at a point

Where her career has just begun.

 

Yet a twenty year old body

Still has spring that hasn’t sprung

And an arm or two that hasn’t

At a million forehands swung.

 

So at Wimbledon today, Serena,

Though she tried her best,

Got the crowds to cheer her on

But ultimately, failed the test.

 

They say age is just a number,

Which sounds nice, but truth be told,

It’s too hard to be competing

With somebody half as old.

Correspondence

Writing letters, now passe,

Was once the only sure-fire way

To keep in touch with those in camp,

Enough to give one writer’s cramp.

 

And when in Europe, years ago,

On aerogrammes I’d say hello

To keep my family up-to-date

And tell them things were going great.

 

Of course, there was no email then;

You wrote on paper with a pen.

That way still works, for we just sent

A letter with the sole intent

 

To let our grandchild have a hint

That she is missed (right there in print!).

She may write back and she may not,

But we’ll persist, no matter what.

Outside

If you don’t have a yard

Or a terrace or deck,

(And, if moving, I’d strongly

Suggest that you check)

 

Just make sure there’s a park

Or a riverwalk, so

When you’re feeling cooped up,

You’ll have someplace to go.

 

For a window is not

Quite like being outside,

Where the air (fresh or not)

Somehow seems to provide

 

A connection to life,

Which I find that I need

To boost up my morale

(And for me’s guaranteed).

 

Yet I have to admit,

One exception I’ve got,

Will come later this week –

I’ll stay in when it’s hot!

Sleep-Away

I never slept away from home

At either camp or school.

Where I grew up, we stayed close by

Our families, as a rule.

 

My son attended college, though,

Residing in a dorm

A good six hours’ drive away,

Which was within the norm.

 

My grandkids travel to their camps

And sleep, with friends, in bunks,

Their clothes and all necessities

In duffel bags or trunks.

 

For weeks, they do activities

With parents out of range

And even at the youngest age,

Nobody finds it strange.

 

I guess when college rolls around,

They’ll know what to expect,

Since being on your own must have

A powerful effect.

 

I liked my local schools and camps

So when I reminisced,

I rarely thought about that whole

Experience I missed.

On the Train

On the train, there’s room to spare

And lovely air-conditioned air.

I have 2 seats – no need to share;

It’s pleasant, no disputing.

 

The windows give a city view

Of buildings on Park Avenue

And sometimes a construction crew,

Their hoes and diggers rooting.

 

At every station, people board,

Their day beginning, heading toward

A job or visit, their reward

For miles of such commuting.

 

For me, this type of travel’s rare,

A different way of getting there.

No traffic causing me despair,

Anxiety diluting.

 

The novelty’s what makes it cool

But daily train rides, as a rule,

Would not be fun, as any fool

Would never be refuting.

Not For Me

It’s easy keeping things the same;

There’s comfort in the knowing

Exactly what you should expect

When coming or when going.

 

Yet many choose to shake things up

And find a joy in changing

By purchasing some brand-new stuff

Or simply rearranging.

 

While I admire those who have

The gumption for the shake-up,

To switch things out is not for me;

It isn’t in my make-up.

When Disappointments Happen

When disappointments happen

(And of course, you know they will),

It’s hard to then remember

There are good things out there, still.

 

For all that you can think about

Is how the day went wrong,

As if the positives in life

Don’t really quite belong.

 

And minor setbacks do not rank

With really awful stuff,

Though for some people, tiny glitches

Spoil things enough.

 

I guess we have to suck it up

When plans may crash and burn,

But that’s a lesson that we’re always

Having to relearn.

A Horse

My husband says he wants a horse,

Which could be reason for divorce.

That’s if his wish were true, of course,

But it is simply not.

 

His horse fixation is a joke,

Though it’s been years since he first spoke

Of owning one; each little poke

Confirming he forgot

 

That hobby horse I gave him, which

I’d thought would satisfy that itch.

Yet now he’s on a brand-new pitch

To take another shot.

 

We live in New York city, though;

We have no place for hay to stow

Nor land for galloping, so whoa!

He can’t be hot to trot.

 

The funny part is knowing Mel

Would not, upon a horse, do well.

He’ll hate this poem, but I can tell

Deep down, he knows what’s what.

Whackos

The world is full of whackos

If you listen to the news,

And not just those who do not share

Your values or your views.

 

It’s not always mental illness

That makes certain folks behave

In a way that spreads discomfort

In the way they rant and rave.

 

An unruly person flying

Bit a passenger on board,

Just another fine example

Of the point I’m aiming toward.

 

There’s another tale of someone

On a plane who left his seat

And attempted opening a door

At 30,000 feet.

 

Hey, right here in New York City,

I have sensors to avoid

All those people on the streets

Who leave me scared more than annoyed.

 

Life is challenging for many

But it seems at every turn

There’s a whacko waiting in the wings

To cause you some concern.

Cufflinks

Does anyone still buy, for dad,

Some cufflinks on this day?

It’s what I sometimes bought for mine

When shirts were made that way.

 

It had to be a local store

Which carried varied clothes,

Including the accessories;

That’s how the mem’ry goes.

 

My dad’s been gone for many years,

Those cufflinks likely tossed.

His place within my heart, though,

Hasn’t ever gotten lost.

 

I wish a Happy Fathers’ Day

To all who fit the bill

And hope, with cufflinks or without,

Somebody’s heart you’ll fill.

In the Gift Shop

In the gift shop of the Met*

I watch to see what people get.

The kids are mostly drawn to toys,

With Lego building sets for boys

 

And for the girls, a teddy bear

Or other stuffies which compare.

Women look at mugs or tees

Or jewelry, all kinds to please,

 

While men check hats or socks or ties,

No need to bother with a size.

For everyone within the store,

Of course, they’re selling books galore.

 

There, naturally, are art supplies -

In a museum, no surprise.

On offer are pastels and clay,

Plus paints and pencils on display.

 

A scarf collection caught my eye,

But mostly I’ll give in and buy

When I’m a tourist; then the urge

For souvenirs will let me splurge.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC