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.

Only to the Point

My windsocks and my whirligigs 

All dance and spin around

And with wind chimes, there would also be

A sweet melodic sound.

The wind’s a great companion

When it’s gentle, with a breeze

That allows these things to happen,

Meant to lift one’s mood and please.

Even when the wind is whipping,

It’s a marvel to behold,

Though perhaps that’s only to the point

When it can be controlled.

Making Sure

The supermarket carries beer,

(I love my IPA’s)

But every time we buy some here,

We hear the same old phrase;

“You need to show us some ID,”

Which doesn’t make much sense

Since, speaking for my spouse and me,

There isn’t much suspense 

In guessing that we’re of an age

That’s legal multiplied

By 3 or almost 4, the stage 

Where we can’t be denied.

Yet still, our licenses come out,

As Pa. law demands,

Although there isn’t any doubt

Each cashier understands 

That our ID’s are far from fake;

It only takes one glance

To know it would be some mistake

To look at us askance.

All the Stuff

I look around at all the stuff 

I’ve purchased or created

To fill my home; it’s quite enough

That I’ve accumulated.

My husband lets my choices rule,

Especially my quilt work,

For he would have to be a fool

To share if some critiques lurk.

I never used to think about

Where all of it will go when

I’m gone, because, without a doubt,

There’s no way I will know then.

My children will not give a hoot

About my works of stitching.

My efforts they will not dispute,

Though that won’t stop them ditching

The pillows, hangings, tchotchkes, art,

Plus photo books and keepsakes;

All these tucked inside my heart

Will win the dumpster sweepstakes.

Since I will not observe it, there

Will be no tears or clashes,

But in my mind, it isn’t fair

To turn my stuff to ashes.

Us

My friends have very different lives

From mine in many ways,

From where they live to how they tend

To spend their holidays…

 

From what they eat and read and watch,

The exercise they do,

To how they dress and where vacations

Might just take them to…

 

From how they spend their money to

What culture they will track

And most of these relationships

Are ones that go ‘way back.

 

Yet still, despite our differences,

Our values are the same.

The feelings that connect us

Form the art within the frame.

 

And everything outside that core,

Though worthy to discuss,

Has nothing much to do with,

What, in friendship, equals us.

Contingency Plan

Quite possibly, where I reside

Might have a labor strike,

With building workers hoping

For a settlement they’d like.

An email let us know about

What we might soon expect,

Like no one taking packages,

No doormen to protect…

No maintenance in hallways

And no garbage down the chute.

Repairs will just be done

In situations most acute.

We’ve lived through this before

And it may not occur at all,

But the landlord has to let us know

In case the axe does fall.

Double-Take

There’s a woman I pass in the mornings

Who prefers not to nod a hello,

Not unusual for a New Yorker;

That’s the way that these things often go.

 

She seems close to my age, but walks slower

And her clothing is baggy and loose,

Unlike most of us out there with leggings,

Which she’d likely not wear, I deduce.

 

Yet this morning I passed her and noticed,

As I swiveled for a double-take,

That her t-shirt was very familiar

And quite certainly not a mistake.

 

For it once nestled, folded quite nicely,

In a drawer with the rest of my tees,

But I’d donated it to the thrift shop

Where I bring things that no longer please.

 

I was glad to see somebody wear it

Who’d appraised it with different eyes,

Yet I wondered why I hadn’t kept it

As an exercise shirt in my size.

Perfect

For something to be perfect 

Patience surely is required,

Especially for projects

You would like to be admired.

A recipe you’ve never tried,

A quilt that you are sewing,

Some pictures to be framed,

A garden that’s in need of mowing.

A painting you are working on, 

A home repair or cleaning -

You’re either patient or you’re not;

There is no in-betweening.

I am not a patient person;

Slap-dash is my stock in trade.

Behind each hanging on my walls,

Just count the holes I’ve made.

My quilting stitches don’t line up

Yet still, I do feel proud

When a project is completed;

Imperfection is allowed.

With my poems I’m much more patient

As I work on every line.

I would never call them perfect,

But most definitely mine.

Robes A'Flowing

Has your doctor ever treated you

When wearing robes a’flowing,

Gently laying hands while all around

There’s light that’s brightly glowing?

 

That depiction sounds more biblical

Than hospital-type care.

To post a picture of himself,

Like that, just one would dare.

 

Now I am not a Christian, but

That image does offend.

How can true believers ever

Such idolatry defend?

 

But chalk it up to just another

Way to lose more hope,

Right alongside the insulting,

Made in public, of the Pope.

 

The bar can’t drop much lower

As the world can only mock

Words and actions of one so deranged

We can’t absorb the shock.

Meeting for an Early Lunch

In our younger days we met for dinner;

Now it’s mainly lunch.

We needn’t rush; since we’re retired,

Time slots we don’t crunch.

 

We pack up meals we’ve ordered,

For we’ve barely eaten half

And when waiters ask, “Dessert or wine?”

We shake our heads and laugh.

 

We stop a stranger, asking if

He’ll snap our photo please.

He sees four senior citizens

So he, of course, agrees.

 

But what he cannot understand

(No reason that he should)

Is that, though we look old to him,

There is the likelihood

 

That we’ve lived through so many things

He’s only read about

And though he’ll have his own adventures,

There is little doubt

 

That we add up to so much more

Than what his pix reveal –

Four smiling alte kakers*

Clutching what’s left of our meal.

 

*a Yiddish expression meaning old farts

A Smattering of Seeds

A bagel worth its salt should have

A smattering of seeds,

‘Cause sesame or poppy

Is what every bagel needs.

 

A pumpernickel, though, requires

Caraways mixed in

And those that we call “everything”

Most always score a win.

 

To anyone who orders “plain,”

I have one thing to say:

(And do not get me started

On blueberries in the way)

 

I understand some seed-o-phobics

Think that they deserve

A bagel in its purest state,

But what you might observe

 

Is most New Yorkers find that seeds,

And more than just a smattering,

Are what, with New York water,

Make our bagels really mattering.

The Artemis Splashdown

The auditorium was filled

With every class in school.

On stage, a small TV set sat –

For sure, too miniscule.

 

The year was ’61 or 2,

A spaceship set to go,

With either Alan Shepard

Or John Glenn; I do not know.

 

But we’d been prepped and we were psyched;

We watched in silent awe,

Though only those in front were sure

Of what they really saw.

 

I though of that last night as I

Was fixed on my TV

To watch the capsule slowly drift

And plop into the sea.

 

To many younger folk, this wasn’t

Much of a big deal.

They couldn’t quite experience

What those my age did feel

 

Remembering so long ago

When space was the frontier

We thought we’d conquer, but that was

A different atmosphere.

Reading Reviews

Before an online purchase

Often I read the reviews

To gather some opinions on

An object I might choose 

Or a hotel or a restaurant 

To which I plan to go;

There might be helpful info

I would really like to know.

The problem with reviews is that

They’re all composed by those

Who are strangers with a lifestyle

I might very well oppose. 

Of course, the opposite might be

The truth; I must decide

Whether what they’re recommending

Would be worthwhile as a guide.

I still like reading others’ thoughts

On things they have inspected,

Though likely their advice will get

An almost-sale rejected.

Acknowledgement

We all have some things we do well,

Which bring us pride and pleasure,

That sense of true accomplishment

Which no one else can measure.

 

For even if we only please

Ourselves, that is sufficient

To even out the ways in which

We find that we’re deficient.

 

It’s nice to get acknowledgement

For something we’ve completed,

But even if we don’t, there is

No need to feel defeated.

 

Of course, that’s what we’re meant to say,

Yet I am not deluded,

Since everyone would benefit

From praise, myself included.

Blooming

Today was thirty-five degrees,

But cherry trees were blooming

And daffodils have opened,

Right on time, I am assuming.

 

The sunshine helped offset the temps

So blossoms felt that yearning

To cover all the branches

As the season’s slowly turning.

 

Most folks were bundled up and yet,

Some short sleeves started showing,

On those who did not mind the fact

That biting winds were blowing.

 

Since springtime has arrived, it doesn’t

Matter if it’s chilly,

For Nature’s plan does not let

Sprouting happen willy-nilly.

 

Occasionally, there’s a frost,

But most plants keep surviving

And soon enough, some warmer days

Will keep them gaily thriving.

 

The city looks so pretty now

And it’s just the beginning,

Yet everybody out there

Couldn’t stop themselves from grinning.

Ingrained

Certain habits are ingrained

From when you were a kid,

So though you’re grown, they’ve been retained

For things you always did.

 

Like if you’re sloppy or you’re neat,

Your age won’t likely change it

And if your diet leans towards sweet,

The years won’t rearrange it.

 

If you’re quiet, maybe shy,

It’s rare that you’ll outgrow it

And once a bully, you might try

To change, but you will blow it.

 

We learn when we are very young

From others we are seeing

And those we closely live among,

The varied ways of being.

 

And slowly we adapt and find

What self we’ll be presenting,

How others see what in our mind,

Which we can’t help preventing.

Unbleeped

The New York Times won’t print the word;

It’s bleeped on every station.

Yet somehow, now, the “leader”

Of this once-respected nation

 

Can read and post a message

There for everyone to catch,

With a F**K YOU and a B***ARD

Written out in ALL CAPS, natch.

 

What a shining fine example

For our kids and grands to follow!

Correcting their obscenities

Will come across as hollow.

 

Yet this is what we’re stuck with,

Every awful trait unfurled.

It’s no wonder we are mocked

In every corner of the world.

On Easter

I let them all pass over me –

The cheery Happy Easters!

Assuming I will be among

Today’s hot cross bun feasters.

 

But no, I won’t be eating lamb

Or ham with all its glazing,

Although I’m sure the Easter pies

My friend makes are amazing.

 

For I’m observing Pesach,*

So what I will eat instead

Will be matzoh or its relatives,

All with unleavened bread.

 

Of course, there’s meat and chicken,

Lots of veggies, eggs and fruit

And special cakes and cookies,

Made with matzoh meal, to boot.

 

I used to set those people straight

Whose greetings had no clue

That Easter’s not for everyone,

But I no longer do.

 

When people offer me a wish

For a Happy Easter day,

I smile and say, “The same to you”

And send them on their way.

 

*Passover

A Driving Trip

A driving trip to someplace new,

Complete with water views,

Made my birthday very special,

Just the weekend I would choose.

Included was a mansion tour,

A river walk and meal

At a lovely local place, which had

A cozy, warm appeal.

Of course, throughout the day were lots

Of texts and calls for me,

Plus an ice cream stop to make the time

As happy as could be.

The weather held, the sun came out,

Our room, adjacent to

A marina, with its bobbing boats -

All better than we knew.

Today we drove past wineries

And farms with cows and sheep,

Enough to fill my dreams

When, one year older, I will sleep.

At a Vanderbilt Mansion

At a Vanderbilt mansion,*

Two bathrooms surprised,

With features too modern

For me to’ve surmised.

In the owner’s own shower,

One handle controlled

A foot-facing faucet;

If too hot or cold,

You adjusted the temp

‘Til you felt the right heat

Before water would hit you,

Just touching your feet.

Only then, when correct,

Did you turn on the taps.

Maybe otherwise, those 

Really rich would collapse.

In his wife’s room, a scale

In the floor tiles was sending

Her weight at eye level,

Preventing her bending.

These accoutrements really

Allowed me to see

That the rich are quite different

From you and from me.

*William K. Vanderbilt’s mansion,

built between 1910 and 1936.

Millions and Billions

Four hundred million dollars

For a ballroom for the prez,

The funding from some private sources;

Least that’s what he sez.

 

A billion dollars daily

For the conflict in Iran.

You’d think there could be better things

To spend that money on.

 

To people who can’t pay the rent

Or have to sometimes choose

Between food or medications,

It must seem they always lose.

 

Since the government is more concerned

With how it is perceived,

Though the way things are presented,

It’s more mocked now than believed.

 

I try to block these stories

But when mentioned in the news,

All these million billion numbers

Make me want to blow a fuse.

Old Familiar Recipes

Today I measured, chopped and baked

And all from scratch, with nothing faked,

From old familiar recipes

I know, to varying degrees.

 

The matzoh balls I shaped, as well,

(The soup, however, made by Mel*)

And last, charoses** was prepared

With not one nut or apple spared.

 

The kitchen’s not my natural spot,

But on the holidays, I’ve got

The need to potchke*** so I feel

Connected to this ancient meal.

 

My husband asked me why I fuss,

A question worthy to discuss,

Yet all that I can say, for me,

Is this is how it has to be.

 

For even if nobody cared

About these dishes I have shared,

I’ll keep traditions up, unbowed

And know my grandmas would be proud.

 

*my husband  **a dish for the Passover meal

***fiddling or messing around, especially regarding cooking