An 81 Year Old Driver

The driver somehow lost control

And caused a lot of grief.

He ran a light and witnesses

Looked on in disbelief.

 

Two people died with others hurt,

A terrible event,

The driver’s minor injuries

Belying the extent

 

Of all the havoc that he caused

By speeding through the light.

Though I admit it’s awful,

The reports just don’t seem right.

 

For every newscast mentioned

That his age is 81,

Implying that’s the reason that

There was such damage done.

 

If he’d been 57, say,

Or 62 or 3,

We’d never hear, on news reports,

Just what his age might be.

 

A little postscript – if we blame

His age on this brash speeder,

How can we trust (not that I do!)

Our 80 year old “leader?”

Upgrade

Traded our car in;

We knew it was time.

It no longer was 

In condition quite prime.

The mileage was high;

The A/C sometimes quit.

The front window got stuck;

The tire warning stayed lit.

So we got a new model

Much like what we had,

Although saying goodbye 

Was a little bit sad.

It looks just like the old one -

Same color, same style,

But the dashboard is loaded;

We’ll need a good while

To figure the screen out

And how it all works.

I wish we had fewer

Of tech’s latest perks.

Yet still, it will get us

Where we have to go

And maybe we’ll learn

All that we need to know.

Expect Delays

Construction on the road ahead

Or weather causing grief –

To get where you are going,

More and more, is a relief.

 

When traveling, you cannot count

On missing every glitch,

For every type of hindrance waits

And you can’t plan on which

 

Will be the one to hold you up

And make your trip run late.

There are no guarantees despite

A smooth start out the gate.

 

So when “Expect delays” signs flash,

With alternates advised,

You might be ticked, but really,

You should never be surprised.

Stairs

 A house with stairs encourages 

The residents or guests

To exercise a little

As the layout thus suggests.

The up and down momentum

Never registers a thought

As family members make their way

To rooms that they have sought.

But often people, as they age,

Have trouble with the stairs.

No longer can they race on up

Or they’ll trip unawares.

A move may be in order

To a nice one-level space

Where there isn’t any staircase,

Letting people age in place.

Though the stairs present no challenge

In my current fitness state,

Many others that I know will find

This hindrance out too late.

Needing a Release

Sometimes it’s better to open your mouth

And other times, maybe it’s not.

Deciding between them is tricky, but still,

They’re the only two choices you’ve got.

If speaking up helps you feel better, I think 

You should go right ahead; trust your gut.

Though you may be advised, “Keep your thoughts to yourself,”

You may want to do anything but.

I might agonize much about stating my case,

But I rarely regret when I do,

For to harbor a feeling that needs a release

Means you’ll not have the chance to go, “Phew!”

Autumnatic

The trees here are starting to change,

Which, since it is fall, isn’t strange.

Some are orange, some red

Or bright yellow instead,

A new wardrobe that trees rearrange.

To me, it’s a magical time;

For being outdoors, it is prime.

To take walks, I’m inspired,

Though a jacket’s required,

At least in this northeastern clime.

There is ice cream that’s pumpkin, as well

As the apples and gourds orchards sell.

Oh, I wish it could stay 

Just like this every day -

I love autumn! (In case you can’t tell.)

A Sukkah

For a certain Jewish holiday,

A sukkah is erected,

An outdoor booth whose shelter

Keeps inhabitants protected.

Religious people take their meals

And socialize and sleep 

In this temporary structure,

So traditions they can keep.

Each year, a sukkah somehow

In my neighborhood appears

By the efforts of a local group

Of Jewish volunteers. 

It’s very bare-bones, just enough

To signal its intent

And those of the religion know

Exactly what is meant.

The sukkah stays there for a week;

Its visitors are few,

But yesterday I passed it

And I noticed something new.

An unhoused man was stretched out,

Like the sukkah was his home,

A different way to use it,

But just perfect for a poem.

The Imaginary Invalid

In the seventeenth century,

The playwright Moliere

Wrote a satire that I saw today,

With the brilliant adapting

Bill Irwin can bring

In his very hilarious way.

 

What struck me the most,

Dazzling acting aside,

Was how current and fresh were the themes,

For though centuries passed

Since the play was conceived,

People fall for the very same schemes.

 

There is love, there is greed,

There are scams and the fear

Of both dying and being perceived

As a fool or a clown

Or a windbag or prig,

Plus the need to somehow be believed.

 

As the audience laughed

And the cast, tongue in cheek,

Played their humorous parts with delight,

I was grateful to witness

The words come alive

That on stage, long ago, first took flight.

If I Go to See a Concert

If I go to see a concert,

I want music that I like,

So what I expect to hear 

From a performer with a mic

Is a new or old song, maybe with

Some background to be shared

On the way the lyrics came about, 

In case somebody cared.

What I don’t want to experience

Is politics on stage,

Despite the fact the audience

Might want to so engage.  

A show with an agenda

Should be advertised that way,

So ticket buyers are prepared 

For what the stars will say.

Though some venues might be fitting

For performers speaking out,

At a music concert, that’s not what

The evening is about.

A Pessimistic Poem

A pilot attacked;

People pushed onto tracks.

A Central Park murder

And ICE men attacks.

 

Mistreatment of animals;

Internet scams.

Collapsing of bridges

And traffic-caused jams.

 

Polar ice melting

And water-drained lakes.

Deaths from narcotics,

Tornados and quakes.

 

Voting laws challenged

And prices that rise.

Wars being fought

For a leader who lies.

 

Turn on the news

And you’ll wish you had not.

Hope fizzles out

But it’s all that we’ve got.

 

Soon we’ll be facing

The reign of A.I.

Yet still, I write poems,

Though I’m wondering why.

In Paris Parks 1954

Today, for thirteen minutes,

It was 1954

And I found myself in Paris,

Mesmerized and wanting more.

 

Watching people, mostly children,

Interacting in a park

Was a pleasure to observe,

Thanks to a film by Shirley Clarke.

 

From the clothing (nothing denim!)

To the rides and carousel,

Life was captured in such detail,

By the faces you could tell

 

That the park was someplace special

Since an ordinary day

Brought so much to each expression

That each person did display.

 

A puppet show, my favorite part,

Caught joy and fear and glee,

The reactions of the children

Such a privilege to see.

 

I could have been among them

Had I been a child in France,

But today I was transported;

MOMA* let me have my chance.

 

*Museum of Modern Art, New York City

Peripheral

I feel like I’m peripheral

In everybody’s life

Except, of course, my husband’s,

With my closeness as his wife.

 

I suppose that’s how it should be

Once the kids have up and flown

From the nest that you created,

With your grandkids almost grown.

 

Siblings also have their families,

As do all my dearest friends.

Where I once felt integral to some,

My mind now comprehends

 

That I’m stuck here on the outside

And my entry’s been denied.

Still, for now, I’m front and center

When my husband’s by my side.

Memorizing a Poem

In school, we sometimes were assigned

To memorize some verse

And so, at home, in front of parents,

We would, thus, rehearse.

 

We then presented what we’d learned

In class or on a stage,

Without the benefit of notes

Or glancing at a page.

 

Amazingly, when thinking back

On rhymes that we had nailed,

We find them still intact; our teacher’s

Mandate has prevailed.

 

Though teaching’s changed in many ways,

For better or for worse,

It’s satisfying somehow

To recite a once-learned verse.

To Sit in a Recliner (to the tune of "Carolina in the Morning" as sung by Al Jolson)

Nothing can be finer

Than to sit in a recliner

When you’re reading.

Though this may be minor,

Not each furniture designer

Thinks you’re needing

 

Comfort for your tootsies

When you stretch your feet.

Horizontal footsies

Make relaxing complete.

 

Ottomans will let ‘ya

Put your feet up, too, I betcha,

When you’re streaming.

Don’t let nothing sweat ‘ya,

For an ottoman will get ‘ya

Close to beaming.

 

You don’t need an empire,

Just a living room space

To get unwound within your own place.

Nothing’s really finer

Than a foot rest or recliner

To start dreaming.

Pillow Picks

People have their preferences

For pillows, so much so

That many take their own along

When traveling they go.

 

Synthetic ones are all the rage

Or those with memory foam,

But I will always sleep with

Down-filled pillows in my home.

 

Ads proclaim it matters if

You sleep upon your side

Or on your back to help you,

When you’re shopping, to decide.

 

Hotel rooms often have a choice

Of pillows on the bed,

So you can pick from soft or firm

On which to lay your head.

 

No matter which type you prefer,

The costly or the cheap,

The pillow that you love won’t

Guarantee a good night’s sleep.

Inconvenienced When

Living near the mayor, 

I am inconvenienced when

A head of state comes through the gate, 

Which happens now and then.

The secret service and the cops

Block off surrounding streets

And if you try to get on by,

You’ll suffer some defeats.

But it’s much worse for those who live

Or work near the U.N.,

For they are barred, which makes it hard,

From getting home again.

Between the protests and the police,

They’re sadly out of luck.

Like all the crews who film the news,

They’re flat-out simply stuck.

We city people know the drill,

But still keep seeing red.

We disapprove, but would we move?

We’ll suffer here instead.

The Cement

There’s usually, in every group,

And often evident,

One person who is not in charge,

But rather the cement.

 

The one who makes things happen

And who brings all factions in,

Assuring that each person’s there

And ready to begin.

 

The one the others turn to

When a problem might arise.

Who knows when someone’s out of line

And cuts her down to size.

 

It isn’t necessarily

The one with all the brains,

But someone with the people skills

To soothe disparate strains.

 

Without this member, groups would fade

In throes of discontent,

For gatherings won’t hold together

If there’s no cement.

The Receipt

Saw a friend for lunch; we meet

To talk of health and aging.

A cozy booth; we schmooze and eat,

Our changes up for gauging.

 

The negatives of age contrast

With pics of a vacation

So beautiful that they surpassed

Our senior state fixation.

 

Until at last, we split the bill,

The credit cards extended.

We signed our names and knew the drill;

Our lovely meal had ended.

 

I folded my receipt in two

And in the bag I carry,

I stuffed it, like I always do,

So very ordinary.

 

We said goodbye and headed out,

Where home for us both beckoned.

About the check, I had a doubt;

I’ll look at home, I reckoned.

 

An hour later, no receipt

Appeared, despite my searching.

I sadly must admit defeat,

A getting old besmirching.

A Waiting Path

Many children, likely most,
Don’t have the slightest clue
Of how their grown-up selves will be
Or what they’d like to do.

The childhood years, in school and camp,
Will open many eyes
And steer some in directions
That might startle or surprise.

Yet there are those who, very young,
Can see a waiting path,
Who know exactly what they want
And figure out the math

To get them ready to embark,
With tools that they might need,
In hopes that they will have support
And that they will succeed.

It’s satisfying when I read
Or hear of someone who
Accomplished what, in childhood,
Was the future that he knew.

A Slow Fast

For reasons that I do not know,

A fast is never fast, but slow.

I check, but still have hours to go 

And hope that I’ll get through it.

I missed the bagel that I’d eat,

The cheese and fruit, sliced up and sweet,

Plus cake to make the meal complete,

With coffee, once I’d brew it.

A yogurt here, some popcorn there,

Perhaps some grapes or, if I’d dare,

Dark chocolate, maybe just a square;

It’s tempting to say, “Screw it!”

But no, I’ll keep on with my fast 

And soon, my waiting will have passed.

When sundown comes, I’ll say, at last,

“ I knew that I could do it!”

What We Believe

We celebrate holidays,

Or we do not,

For personal reasons.

(That’s all that we’ve got.)

 

To some, it’s religion

That drives them to pray,

While others like following

Customs that they

 

Have observed since their childhoods.

For me, that’s the case

And certain traditions

I like to embrace.

 

To honor connections

With those in the past,

I’ll light special candles;

Tomorrow, I’ll fast.

 

The only true lesson

To me, on this eve,

Is it’s nobody’s business

What we each believe.

At the Street Fair

Police cars block the side streets;

The avenue’s car-free

To make the strolling easy

For pedestrians like me.

 

The booths hold clothes and jewelry

And crafts of every type,

But front and center is the food,

Deserving of the hype.

 

Most every nationality

Is represented by

Whatever meals the chefs at hand

Can chop or stir or fry.

 

Aromas fill the neighborhood

As people buy and munch

A snack to tide them over

Or a more substantial lunch.

 

Distilleries display their wares

Near smoothies packed with fruit,

The locals and the visitors

In purchasing pursuit.

 

A lovely way to spend some time

On a fall-like afternoon,

Succumbing to the urge to buy,

To which I’m not immune.

Cleaning the Windows

With paper towels and a spray,

I cleaned the window panes today.

It’s not a chore I like, but hey –

It’s what you’ve gotta do.

 

I wiped the window sills, as well,

Though, at a glance, you couldn’t tell,

But those who in Manhattan dwell

Know schmutz likes to accrue.

 

Of course, once cleaning had begun,

I dusted all the frames, each one

Just waiting ‘til they all were done

And propped back up to view.

 

Assorted bowls and vases, plus

Some tchotchkes that belong to us

Required, too, a little fuss

So they would look brand-new.

 

At last, my windows, nice and clear,

Caused my apartment to appear

Like it’s all good until next year

When guilt will bubble through.

How Much Time

We cannot know for sure

How much time we have left

And there isn’t a cure

For the loved ones, bereft.

 

Death may sometimes arrive

Just the way you’d expect,

But for those who survive,

There’s a real disconnect

 

From the world that they knew

Where their loved one drew breath

To what they can’t get through,

Which is deal with a death.

 

It has always been so

And it always will be.

When the time comes to go,

There’s no bargain or plea

 

That can change the harsh fact

Of a person’s demise

Nor step in to distract

From what hope now denies.

U-Turn from Obscene

If his name’s not on the building,

No one gets to go inside,

For to have someone else honored,

Causes damage to his pride.

 

He attempts to rule the country

Like a bully from the block

And the fact that some enable him

Leaves normal folk in shock.

 

I am tired of his tweeting

And I’m sick of all his lies.

He’ll be listed in the books as one

Most voters did despise.

 

But to end this on an upbeat note,

A U-turn from obscene,

It’s a special day for Henry,

As my grandson turns 13!

A Class on Zoom

A class on Zoom, as you’d assume,

Attracts its share of crazies,

But in your room, no need to fume;

Just rearrange your daisies

 

Or fill a grid your camera hid,

Completing Sunday’s puzzle,

If the teacher did not place a lid

On some who need a muzzle.

 

With mic sound shut, if every nut

Must jabber with a story,

You tune out, but, your tsk and tut

Won’t dampen someone’s glory.

 

The time will pass and soon your class

Will come to its conclusion

And then, en masse, you leave; the brass

Believing the illusion.

To See a Grandchild Shine

To watch and see a grandchild shine

In a performance is to feel

Like shouting, “Yes, that one is mine!”

Of course his talents do appeal.

 

It’s hard to be objective, but

We want our grandkids to do well.

Still, if they aren’t great, my gut

Would let me know. (Though, would I tell?)

 

Not everybody who performs

In sports or some way on the stage

Will rise up way about the norms

And with the audience engage

 

Except within subjective eyes,

Which always think that they’re the best.

The future, though, holds the surprise

Of who will leave the world impressed.

Canvas Booths

The outdoor art fair has displays

In canvas booths that zip.

When setting up for two days straight,

I guess it saves a trip.

 

I don’t know what security

Is there for overnight,

Though thieves could slice the canvas,

Even if it’s zippered tight.

 

The booths provide protection more

For rain-related times,

The artists likely worried

About damage more than crimes.

 

Today, the second of the fair,

Was raining from the start.

I walked past many zipped-up booths

And couldn’t see much art.

 

Predictions were for sunny weather

In the afternoon.

I'm sure for all the artists

Sunshine couldn’t come too soon.

 

I’m sure some picked up all their work

And didn’t stick around,

While others waited, hoping that

Their business might rebound.

Texts Will Fly

On holidays, the texts will fly;

Good wishes will begin.

There is no need to wonder why;

That’s how it’s always been

At least since texting was a thing;

Before that, cards were sent.

The mailman was the one to bring

Somebody’s good intent.

It’s strange it takes a holiday 

For people to connect,

But that’s become the common way

And what you would expect.

Yet still, it’s nice to hear that ding

And see upon the screen

A greeting that your phone does bring

From one you’ve hardly seen.

That Day’s Events

Today’s a date you can’t forget,

When evil had its way.

To all responders, there’s a debt

We never can repay.

The world may mourn, but locals feel

A different kind of grief.

For here the shock was all too real;

We watched in disbelief.

For months we read the flyers

Of the missing and we woke

To the smell of all the fires,

Sadness mingling with the smoke.

In the classrooms, they’ll be teaching 

Versions of that day’s events,

But, for most, it won’t be reaching

What that horror represents.

Pulling the Plug

To honor someone’s talent

While excusing certain views

Which the world may deem offensive

Is the stuff that makes the news.

 

For a well-endowed museum,

With a Costume Institute,

Planned to showcase a designer

Who’s the face of ill repute.

 

Known for comments that disparage

People different from his type,

Nonetheless, his output thrives

With many drawn into the hype.

 

Yet the show for Galliano,

With Ms. Wintour’s staunch support,

Raised the hackles of some donors

And those critics got to thwart

 

What, to me, was recognition

That should surely be reserved

For designers with both talent

And integrity observed.

 

Sometimes those with too much power

Make decisions which, I’d bet,

Turn the tide to flow against them,

Though they harbor no regret.