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.

The Traits That Define

People are the way they are;

You take ‘em or you leave ‘em.

They tell you things about themselves;

You do or don’t believe ‘em.

 

The one thing you cannot expect

Is that you’ll ever change ‘em,

For trying to might backfire

And, in that case, you’ll estrange ‘em.

 

We all have faults, though some are blind

To how some others see ‘em,

Yet most of us would never trade

Our faults for theirs, to be ‘em.

 

We must accept in those we love

The traits that do define ‘em,

The positives and negatives,

The way that they combine ‘em

 

And realize they must do the same

For us, when we’re beside ‘em,

Despite the fact we all believe

We take our faults and hide ‘em.

Wanna Bet?

The gambling apps are scary,

Though they don’t tempt me a bit,

For the ones who should be wary

Are the ones who’ll take a hit.

 

Just like every addiction,

There’s an obvious appeal,

But a gambling affliction

Is the worst kind of raw deal.

 

Those who really can’t afford it

Are lured in because the odds

Bring them one step closer toward it,

Feeling up there with the gods.

 

What once worked for only races –

Horses, greyhounds, cars that drag,

Now is found in many places,

Waiting for some saps to snag.

 

Who will score more in a ball game?

Who’ll be leading in the polls?

What will be the Royal babe’s name?

Who will land the leading roles?

 

Though it’s bad enough when older

Folks are drawn to such a con,

Younger people, sometimes bolder,

May find all their dreams are gone.

Understanding Why

I somehow keep forgetting

To adjust things for my age,

For things I once did easily

Don’t, at this current stage,

 

Let me bounce back quite as fast

So that I still feel the effects

Way beyond the time I did them,

Longer than what one expects.

 

Walking several extra miles,

Which, when walking, felt okay,

Has me totally exhausted,

Though it was the other day.

 

Sleeping less than what my body

Would prefer has its results,

Something that would never happen

To most younger-type adults.

 

Eating what I am not used to,

‘Specially if the food is rich,

Or an extra drink at dinner,

Might produce a little glitch.

 

Many older people fight this,

Since it’s easy to deny

That they need to take things slower;

Now I’m understanding why.

A Smile or a Nod

All I know are faces

With acknowledgements and smiles.

I do not know their occupations,

Hobbies, likes or styles.

 

With few exceptions, even names

Are mysteries to me,

As well as where they live or hints

Of personality.

 

I’m talking of my morning “friends,”

To whom I say hello –

The doormen and the other walkers

I don’t really know.

 

They add a bit of sunshine

To the start of many days,

Without the complications

Some relationships might raise.

 

A smile, a nod, a simple wave –

Enough to thus connect.

Any more might be a disappointment;

That’s what I’d expect.

Central Park

We often take for granted

What’s familiar in our world,

Without the need to wave the flag

We rarely have unfurled.

 

Yet tourists sometimes help us see

How fortunate we are.

By looking through their eyes we know

How high we’ve set the bar.

 

I spent the day in Central Park,

New York’s most precious jewel,

Though many locals get there

Not too often, as a rule.

 

Our visitor from out of town,

Amazed at all the trees,

Made me recognize the beauty

Landscaped perfectly to please.

 

The shady walks, musicians

And the turtles in the pond,

Plus the people-watching chances

Took us to a place beyond

 

All the urban sights we pass each day,

Infusing them with magic.

Taking Central Park for granted

Is not very short of tragic.

Remote Possibilities

Before remotes, we changed the channels

Right on the TV.

We got up from the couch to learn

What there was there to see.

When things got modern, we could sit

And use the new remote 

To flip from show to show, deciding

Which would get our vote.

But now, we have remotes galore 

And I can never tell

Which one to use and so I fiddle

‘Round for quite a spell.

My husband knows the magic trick

To find just what I need.

As long as he’s around

I’ll watch my program, guaranteed.

But at my son’s house, bets are off.

It really gets my goat

That to watch the U.S. Open,

Chances really are remote.

 

If You Love Where You Live

If you love where you live

That’s a wonderful fact,

But you can’t expect others

To always react

 

To your choice of address

With a positive spin,

Especially if

It’s a city you’re in.

 

Oh, I’d never live there –

All the crowds and the noise!

The hustle and bustle

Which no one enjoys.

 

The subways and traffic,

The homeless, the rats;

The crime – have you noticed

The murder rate stats?

 

It’s useless explaining

Your opposite view –

The people to look at,

So much you can do.

 

The buildings, the plantings,

Museums and shows,

The shops and the restaurants

Everyone knows.

 

No matter how hard

You may try to convey

How you feel in the city,

There isn’t a way

 

To convince those who hate it

The reasons you’ve got.

It’s either inside you

Or else it is not.

Empty Seats

I’m watching the Open,

(To me, such a treat!)

Surprised to see every

Unoccupied seat.

The weather is iffy -

There’s been lots of rain.

Perhaps that is why

Empty seats still remain.

Of course, it’s a work day,

With kids back in school,

And sneaking away

Maybe isn’t so cool.

But I don’t regret

That I’m watching from home,

A comfortable place

To be writing this poem.

It’s nice to see sports

Where the action is made,

Though the travel and cost

Make TV a fair trade.

Rumbles of Thunder

There are rumbles of thunder,

Yet, outside, a bird

Is chirping; I wonder

If he has not heard.

For rain clouds have started

Ejecting some drops

At Nature’s imparted 

Commands; movement stops

In the trees, where each leaf

Hangs there quiet and still

For it is my belief

They’ve a job to fulfill,

Which is follow the lead 

Of what Nature decides.

To survive, they must heed

Their instinctual guides.

As the raindrops increase

There is no other sound 

Than the cloudburst’s release;

Not one bird sticks around.

Planting Evidence

To help nail drivers using a phone,

To which everyone seems to be prone, 

A cop in disguise

Used the trick of surprise 

To create quite a ticket-time zone.

To be honest, each ticketed schlub

Joined the “What the heck?” questioning club,

For the officer was,

In his role as the fuzz,

Dressed, alongside the road, as a shrub!

Where They’re Headed

Where do all the people go,

The ones who share the road?

For certainly not everyone

Is in vacation mode.

Are they visiting a relative 

Or dropping in on friends?

Maybe off to work or out to shop?

The traffic never ends.

I wish that I could stop each car

And take a little poll,

But certainly such action

Would exact a heavy toll.

For the last thing that is needed

Is to interrupt the flow,

So as far as where they’re headed,

Well, I guess I’ll never know.

My Earrings from Skye

My earrings from the Isle of Skye

Got complimented twice

And though I wear them for myself,

Acknowledgement is nice.

 

A local Scottish artist

Finds the sea glass on the beach

And forms it into shapes, at prices

In most tourists’ reach.

 

The ones I bought are silver

And they look like dangling fish

Filled with colors to resemble

What they’d look like as they’d swish.

 

But the best part when I wear them’s

Not attention to their style;

It’s the memory of being there

On that delightful isle.

Entitled

It sounds pretentious if I claim

The title of a poet.

Though people know I write in rhyme,

A whole lot more don’t know it.

 

If I am asked what job I do,

I say that I’m retired,

For teaching was my livelihood;

No details are required.

 

My poetry takes precedence

In my post-teaching years.

A poem a day is what I write,

Yet I’ve not changed careers.

 

If I had, I’d be a poet

And would say so if you asked.

Maybe in the recognition

Of my prowess, I’d have basked.

 

I’ll acknowledge it’s a hobby

Which takes up a lot of time

And within my soul, I’m proud

Of what I get to say in rhyme.

 

Yet, unlike the average doctor

Who must be addressed as such,

I’m uneasy using titles

Which don’t matter very much.

10 for 10

The supermarket had a sale

On hummus, which I buy.

The price, though, was peculiar

And I wish that I knew why.

 

The average cost, $3.99,

Or thereabouts, I’d say,

Was down to just a dollar,

But expressed a different way.

 

“Try Sabra Hummus! 10 for 10,”

The second 10 the price.

But who would purchase 10 of them

When just one would suffice?

 

In days gone by, such offers meant

You had to buy all 10

Or else the price went back

To what it should be, once again.

 

But that is not the case today –

I bought one for a buck,

A discount so unusual

It must make shoppers cluck.

 

Yet still, I just don’t get it.

Though the sale sign did entice,

If it said, “Today – one dollar!”

It would sound, to me, as nice.

Preserving the Past

At a history museum, 

Main Street, Milford, in Pa.,

Is a giant flag with blood,

That may be Lincoln’s, on display.

Aside from that, ephemera 

And lots of local lore

Wait for patrons who are visiting

To take time to explore.

I marveled at the hand-sewn quilts,

Their stitches small and neat,

And the menus from hotels, where lunch

Was forty cents to eat.

A woven cradle, clothes and hats,

Old irons, plus the boards,

And uniforms from soldiers 

Were just some of the rewards 

For visiting a building 

Which preserves life in the past.

Who knows how long collections,

Like this treasure trove, may last?

I must admit, though, that what I

Liked best that I did see

Was the dog of the director,

Just as friendly as could be.

Just You Wait

Those of us who’ve reached the age

Of “senior” status know

That many things are different from

The days of long ago.

Yet we remember how it felt

To be a child or teen

Or young adult or middle-aged

And all the years between.

For looking back is easy; we had

Energy to spare,

Youthful bodies, unlined faces 

And a head of healthy hair.

Those of younger age, however,

Cannot ever comprehend

That they’ll lose the version of themselves

On which they now depend.

They are rooted in denial,

Thinking they won’t ever be

Someone looking in a mirror

And not liking what they see.

So the “wisdom” of the old, then,

Is you can’t avoid your fate.

Aging’s guaranteed to happen;

Don’t believe it? Just you wait!

My Grandma’s Genes

My grandma hid her feelings

So by looking at her face,

You couldn’t pinpoint anger

Or if something was off-base.

If she were hurt or worried

Or perturbed, you couldn’t tell,

For her emotions she kept

Tucked inside so very well.

Though I am quite the opposite, 

Since all I feel’s unfurled 

And plastered on my face

So anybody in the world 

Could take one look and wonder

Why I’m ticked off as can be.

I wish my grandma’s genes 

Had gotten passed along to me.

The Snail

Early morning, Carl Schurz Park,

And something caught my eye.

Right near my foot, a snail was 

Inching forward, my oh my!

For surely someone on the path

Would crush his lovely shell;

Protection-wise, it really didn’t

Serve him very well.

I found a leaf and hoped he’d crawl

Upon it; what I’d planned

Was to move him to a place both safe

And on some grassy land.

A stranger saw me crouching down 

And asked was I okay.

I pointed to the snail and thought

He’d soon be on his way.

But “Let me help” was what he said.

He lifted up the leaf

And found the perfect placement 

Which, to all, was a relief.

He asked my name and shook my hand;

Our goodbye smiles agreed

That, by noticing the small things,

We’d both done a real good deed.

Music to All Our Ears

The Summer Arts Intensive,*

Just in session for a week,

Put on a concert which was both

Amazing and unique.

 

The students, playing instruments

From brass and winds to strings

Or vocals, had the chance to shine

And test their new-found wings.

 

My grandson, one of the trombonists

In the group for jazz,

Performed with lots of confidence

And plenty of pizzazz.

 

Eight various ensembles

Got to show what they could do,

Their joy onstage (and those of the

Instructors) there on view.

 

To hear the music that they made,

With so much drive and skill,

Was proof such opportunity

Provides the means to thrill.

 

For, much as we, the audience,

Felt delight we could not hide,

The faces of the ones on stage

Revealed their hard-won pride.

 

*Held at the Conservatory of Music

at Purchase College of New York