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

Food for Thought

A fireboat goes zipping by;

A seaplane glides across the sky.

Not many folks around, but I

Am glad to be outside.

 

A group of sparrows swoop and fly

While joggers, on a runner’s high,

Race past, as, with a saddish sigh,

Some elders must decide

 

If they should sit or maybe try

To push ahead, no longer spry.

I understand their reasons why,

The past a faulty guide.

 

The ferry empties. Rules apply

For disembarking; most comply.

My time for heading home is nigh,

My food for thought supplied.

Watching the Parade

The Knicks parade was on TV

And that was close enough for me.

I cannot even blame my age;

I’ve hated crowds at any stage.

 

Yet for the celebrants, most young,

They loved it all, to be among

Their fellow fans, all there to cheer

Their favorite moment of the year.

 

To see their heroes and unite,

No politics, which might incite

Divisiveness, so very wrong

When fans all seem to get along.

 

The festive spirit will not last,

For from examples in the past,

We know it isn’t “if” but “when”

Hostilities will rise again.

Puzzling

Puzzles will appeal to me

When words are what you need

To solve them; then, most likely,

I’ve a good chance to succeed.

 

A tough crossword or acrostic

Sets a challenge I enjoy,

For it taps into the brain cells

That I often do employ.

 

Yet once numbers are involved,

I’m simply clueless and so lost

That it isn’t worth the failure

And frustration it has cost.

 

Give me Shuffalos and Spelling Bees;

I’ll take that letter path

But don’t try to steer me to the route

Which travels using math.

In Lane

Way back when, I learned to read

And I was super proud, indeed,

When, with my new-expanded brain,

I read the road sign, “Stay in lane.”

 

Of course, I didn’t get that sign.

I thought it should say, “Stay in line.”

My dad, the driver, set me straight,

An easy fix to navigate.

 

My reading’s helped me all these years,

But not so much when switching gears,

For in this world of tech galore,

I’m not as smart as once before.

 

There’s much I do not understand

And language not at my command,

So I am stymied when I try –

My reading skills do not apply.

 

I guess that long-ago advice

That I first read must now suffice,

For with computers, it is plain

That I have ventured past my lane.

Anchors

My husband vacuums; I write poems.

Both anchor us each day

And neither one is necessary;

That’s what most would say.

 

We all have our routines, though,

Things we really seem to need,

So we also daily exercise

And take the time to read.

 

That feeling of accomplishment

Is an important must

And it doesn’t matter what it’s from,

Including rhymes or dust.

The Knicks' Victory

I’m in a slight poetic fix,

For surely it’s expected

That I will write about the Knicks

Or else be disrespected.

 

See, for me, this team is local

So my loyalty is due,

Though no cheering, loud and vocal,

From my voice will come on through.

 

I’ll watch tennis games for hours

And some baseball here and there,

But it’s not within my powers,

Citing basketball, to care.

 

Still, to hear a drought has ended,

Fifty-three long years of thirst,

Revelry must be extended

As that pent-up joy’s dispersed.

 

New York City’s set and ready

For the ticker-tape parade

And the sky will rain confetti,

All poetic doubts to fade.

Query Theory

A query is a letter

And could be a starting step

To discover if an agent

Might become your writing rep.

 

It’s a process, I am learning,

Which takes hours of your time,

Often never making progress

Up the mountain you must climb.

 

The advice that I have gotten

Said, “Be patient and expect

Many, many more rejections

Than attempts that might connect.”

 

That makes sense, so I won’t wallow

In predictable defeat,

But my query theory lets me dream,

And fantasy is sweet.

The Jewelry We Wear

I don’t remove or change my rings;

All four I’ve worn for years,

Unlike my huge collection of 

What dangles from my ears.

My necklaces and bracelets 

I switch out and do with care,

Depending on the style of clothing

That I choose to wear.

Around my wrist’s a watch;

I own a few (one even winds!)

And when I’m sockless, on my ankle,

Chains of varied kinds.

My husband wears his wedding band

And that is the extent

Of jewelry he sports

(Though somehow watches came and went).

Displaying our adornments 

Is quite personal, it’s true,

But it’s also a reflection 

Of ourselves that others view.

Opening Your Mouth

Sometimes it’s better to open your mouth

But on other occasions, it’s not,

For declaring opinions may often go south,

So decide if you’re taking that shot.

 

There’s a certain relief when your views are expressed,

Yet it could lead to some confrontation

And you might then regret not just letting it rest,

Thus avoiding a bad situation.

 

How to know what to do is a balancing act -

Neither spewing nor stewing’s ideal –

Though perhaps, with finesse and a sprinkle of tact,

You can calmly explain how you feel.

A Coveted Bench

A coveted bench in the shade,

In my world, means that I’ve got it made,

For tomorrow will be, I’m afraid,

Much too hot, so I wouldn’t have stayed.

 

But today, I can watch the parade

On the river, as boats are displayed

And attention, of course, must be paid,

To the pigeons, who visit, dismayed

 

That I offer no crumbs in a trade.

Still, I hope, as my rhymes start to fade,

That my writing has somehow conveyed

Just how peaceful is all I’ve surveyed.

Very Disappointed

 I’m very disappointed

The remaining 3 won’t quit,

Since “60 Minutes” took a real

Below-the-belt type hit.

The correspondents who are left

Gave reasons I found lame,

Because we know that long-loved show

Will never be the same.

Presenting a united front

Would make the message clear,

But who am I to give advice

On somebody’s career?

I’m sure they talked amongst themselves*

Though I could only sputtuh 

When I heard what they’d decided,

Which was very unlike buttuh.

*Couldn’t resist the Linda Richman reference

(Google her on old Saturday Night Lives)

My Skeleton

My skeleton has brittle bones;

That’s what the test reveals,

Another prime example of

What aging often steals.

I could take some injections or

A course of daily pills

To build my bones back, just in case

I suffer any spills.

Though if I manage not to fall,

My bones are working fine.

Still, if I trip and break my hip,

I’ll know the fault is mine.

The quandary I am in is like

A coin toss - tails or heads?

To trust my balance not to fall

Or cave and take the meds?

Right now it’s 50 - 50.

Will my osteoporosis 

Leave my no-meds skeleton in peace

Despite my diagnosis?

The Tree Man

The tree man toured my property,

Which was at my request.

I wanted some dead branches gone 

And figured he knew best.

He put some ribbons ‘round the trunks

Of trees he thought should go,

One big one next to my back door; 

I’ll likely tell him “no.”

That tree’s been here before my house;

It’s sturdy, tall and strong

And where it started growing first 

Is where it does belong.

Yes, twigs and leaves fall on the roof,

But I don’t have the heart

To have it ripped out from the ground

Where life, for it, did start.

My husband disagrees; he says

To trust the tree man’s eye,

But someone else can hire him

To do it, when I die.

 

Buying Something New

I’m sure I have enough to wear

To last until I die,

Yet still, I buy new clothes at times

And you might wonder why.

 

Though it feels good to dress oneself

In something fresh and cool,

It also makes the time ahead,

So tightly wound, unspool.

 

Since no one buys a shirt or pants

Believing it will last

For just a few appearances

Before one’s time has passed.

 

So purchases become a way

To guarantee (or hope)

That life will keep one on its path

And not death’s slippery slope.

What Parents Teach

What parents teach their children

Mostly isn’t what they say,

But the way they live their lives 

Those children witness every day.

If there’s kindness or there’s anger,

Lack of interest or support,

Kids learn quickly how their parents

May excel or come up short.

Offspring emulate behavior

In their folks that they admire

Or reject some ways of being

They’d be glad to see expire.

As they grow, without their knowing,

They absorb or let dissolve

Certain customs that they live with 

As their grown-up selves evolve.

And as they approach adulthood,

They might find, with some surprise,

They’ve become their parents or

The opposite, in their own eyes.

Riding on the Ferry

I am very, very, very

Fond of riding on the ferry.

There’s no traffic on the river,

So it’s easy to deliver

 

All the riders when expected

From the boats they have selected.

Up on top, the ride is breezy,

But in any seat, it’s easy

 

To gaze out at your surroundings

While the vessel’s leaps and boundings

Take you all around the city

For a taste of nitty-gritty.

 

Passengers of all persuasions

Ride for various occasions –

Workers heading to employment,

Tourist seeking pure enjoyment.

 

People-watching is rewarding.

Check out strangers while they’re boarding.

Hear the accents from their nations;

Eavesdrop on some conversations.

 

Ditch the subway, bus or taxi;

Turn your mini journey maxi

And your mood from tense to merry.

Hop on board a New York ferry!

The Final Minute

The final minute’s ticked its last

For “60 Minutes”’ time has passed.

A word of warning should suffice –

Its murderer was Bari Weiss.

 

First Anderson announced he’d leave;

His absence will make many grieve.

Then double axes heaved a chop,

Letting 2 reporters drop.

 

The Sharyn and Cecilia bust

Removed 2 women I did trust

To tell the stories, blow by blow,

The public has a right to know.

 

When Ms. Alfonsi spoke her mind

About a cancelled show, she’d find

The bigwigs didn’t like her nerve;

Her canning she did not deserve.

 

But worst of all was letting go

Scott Pelley, who, as we all know.

Was “60 Minutes”’ heart and soul

And perfect for his starring role.

 

He pulled no punches and did speak

With well-placed anger; his critique

Cost him his job. Ms. Weiss sure botched

A show we eagerly once watched.

Senior Mind

I realized what I’d left behind

When I was almost there,

But with my brand new “senior” mind,

I didn’t quite prepare.

 

The Met* was where I’d headed to,

About a mile away,

My membership renewal due;

I’d visit and I’d pay.

 

To make things lighter, I’d switched bags,

For when it’s summer weather,

My spirit and my shoulder sags

When weighted down with leather.

 

I’d moved my phone, my notebook, keys

And thought that I was finished,

Until a sudden thought did seize.

(My brain’s not all diminished!)

 

I didn’t have my little case

With credit card and money.

No way for me to thus replace

My member card. What’s funny

 

Is that I’d felt proud of my plan,

Combining art and mission,

Forgetting that my brain cells can

Reject so much ambition.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

A Brett in Your Life

If you’re having a birthday,

You’re lucky if you

Have a Brett in your life

Who will know what to do.

 

He will greet you with music

Right when you arrive

And so many balloons

You’ll forget the long drive.

 

A slideshow of mem’ries

Will play on a loop,

As will songs by your favorite

Singer or group.

 

A birthday tiara

And pin will appear

With some sparkly leis

To create festive cheer.

 

Brett will barbecue sausage

And burgers with cheese

And his mom will add so many

Fixin’s to please.

 

Of course, there’ll be presents –

Too many to name

And a beautiful cake.

(If you miss it, a shame!)

 

The Brett in our lives

Met our daughter at camp

And for 25 years

He’s come through like a champ.

 

We are grateful to know him,

So glad that they met.

Wish that you had a Brett

In your life, too, I’d bet!