A Happy Medium

Sometimes nothing’s going on

And other times you’re busy.

Which is better? Being bored

Or stuck inside a tizzy?

That depends on whom you ask,

For some prefer relaxing

To any type of plan which may

Be, in the slightest, taxing.

A happy medium would work,

Though life will rarely let us

Have just enough to do

So that exhaustion will not get us. 

Quilting on Zoom

I take classes in quilting on Zoom;

Quite a challenge, you’d likely assume,

But we all seem to know

How to basically sew,

Which allows us to grow and to bloom.

 

Before Covid, we met face to face

At a spacious spread-out downtown space.

Now we’re all on a screen

With a weekly routine,

Each ensconced in her very own place.

 

Our instructor, who’s really the best,

Runs the class from her home way out west.

Several others have moved

But technology’s proved

That our questions are all still addressed.

 

So we sit and we stitch and we share,

Holding projects so we can compare

What we’ve finished, with pride;

The computer will hide

My mistakes, for which I have a flair.

Bob

He used to race 100 miles

And tell us all about it.

We always saw him running,

So we had no cause to doubt it.

 

The races that I entered then

Were 6.2 in miles

And mostly run in Central Park;

We differed in our styles.

 

I still get out and walk each day,

My racing days behind me,

And early morning, by the river,

That is where you’ll find me.

 

Yet he sits mostly on a bench,

His walker at the ready,

The river feeling far away;

His gait is too unsteady.

 

I used to marvel at the thought

Of hundred mile races,

But seeing where we’re both at now,

I’d not be trading places.

Maps

We used to keep maps

In our home and the car

To navigate when

We were traveling far.

 

Most were AAA issued;

We got them for free

For New York or wherever

Our next trip would be.

 

When planning a journey,

We’d highlight the route

So, aside from construction,

There’d be no dispute.

 

We relied on our maps

Until GPS came,

Then a voice gave directions;

It wasn’t the same.

 

With WAZE, there are updates

Of traffic, we’re told,

So our routes can be switched

With no maps to unfold.

 

Our stash, which once helped us

Avoid getting lost

Has, except for some strays,

Been, quite candidly, tossed.

Sunbathers on the Grass

People sunbathe on the grass

So everyone needing to pass

Can get a good view,

Which they’re likely to do,

Of, because of the thongs, lots of ass.

 

Since this spot is a park, not a beach,

Such visions should be out of reach,

But those choosing to bare

Derrieres do not care

And would likely resent those who preach.

 

Yet I wonder what pleasure they find

Having strangers admire their behind.

Even if I were young,

I would not be among

Those to whom such displays are inclined.

Such a Treat

Our grandson had a party

To attend near where we live,

So a place to stay with Uber rides

Was what we had to give.

 

At 12 years old, Bar Mitzvahs beckon;

He’s a busy guy.

It’s hard to understand how fast

The years are zipping by.

 

Yet it was such a treat for us

To have him come to stay,

For even just the shortest time

With him can make our day.

 

To see the city through his eyes,

The place his dad was raised,

Is the part of nana-ing that leaves me

Happy and amazed.

Today's Dance Recital

The dance recital featured girls

From 3 to high school age,

With choreography and costumes

Lighting up the stage.

 

Our grandchild in the hip hop group

Is old enough to know

The full routine with all the steps,

Her confidence a’glow.

 

The youngest dancers, oh, so cute,

Came out not quite prepared.

Should they be twirling? Maybe not,

But no one really cared.

 

Except for one who stood transfixed,

Like staring at a wall.

I couldn’t tell, but maybe

She was crying through it all.

 

I wondered how her parents felt

But I could surely guess,

Since oftentimes what we expect

Instead, is slightly less.

Heat

My apartment, this morning, had heat

Which, because it was cold, was a treat.

Though I really must say,

For the middle of May,

It’s a threshold we rarely do meet.

Now the weatherman strangely predicts 

That by Tuesday, we’ll be in a fix

Since the weather will - Jeez!

Reach to 90 degrees,

Which means Winter gets no more last licks.

If that happens, I’ll need the A.C.,

For the heat and I do not agree.

Mother Nature, I find,

Cannot make up her mind

So we suffer, to varied degree.

-

Eggplant

The eggplants at the fruit stand

Were on sale for just a buck.

My husband’s eggplant-picking rules

Inside my head were stuck:

 

You want one that is firm but light.

I didn’t question why,

But hefting two, the heavy one

I therefore didn’t buy.

 

It seems I made the perfect choice,

For, sliced up very thin,

Then bread-crumb topped and fried in oil,

The taste just made me grin.

 

I’m married to a man who cooks

And gears things to my taste.

That eggplant filled a platter high,

But none will go to waste.

 

To think, a meal with plenty left,

With pasta on the side,

At a cost of just a dollar,

Left me more than gratified.

Breakfast on Broadway

When a friend’s in Manhattan,

Amid all the din,

A breakfast on Broadway’s

The way to begin.

 

A place near the theater

Where she has to go

Means a leisurely stroll

Will lead right to her show.

 

The food will pass muster;

The booths will be large.

The waiters won’t rush you,

So you’ll be in charge.

 

The crowds won’t be there yet,

If early you meet,

Making it much more civil

When crossing the street.

 

Then after your breakfast,

Once she gets on line,

You’ll stroll north on Broadway

To Arts and Design.*

 

The day’s just begun,

But your stomach and heart

Will be filled with the comfort

This meal will impart.

 

*Museum of Arts and Design

Dannon Coffee Yogurt

I’ve been eating Dannon coffee yogurt

Oh, so many years,

So learning it’s been discontinued

Didn’t quite bring tears…

 

But a wave of disappointment

Since it’s hard to fathom why

It’s no longer waiting on the shelves

For customers to buy.

 

I Googled it and found it was

A “marketing decision,”

A reason which will surely meet

With clucks of pure derision.

 

A number* seeking feedback

Linked me to a friendly voice

Who took down my information

On my lack of coffee choice.

 

Maybe if they’re inundated

With a thousand calls like mine,

Those in charge will reconsider

Pulling coffee from their line.

 

*877-326-6668

Our Expectations

Our expectations rarely match

Reality, it seems,

For it’s not possible to snatch

The dazzle of our dreams.

 

The same applies to dreaded fears

Which cloud a coming date.

The truth, when it at last appears,

Proves we can’t speculate

 

About what hasn’t yet occurred;

Such attitudes waste time.

Our future’s either dark or blurred

And changes on a dime.

 

So whether outcomes fall quite short

Or drastically exceed

Whatever we’d envisioned

What is always guaranteed

 

Is that no one ever knows for sure,

Including every sage,

If our hopes or fears are premature,

Until we turn the page.

On This Day

Do you celebrate yourself today,

Remembering the birth

Of your child or children when they first

Drew breath upon the earth?

 

Or, instead, do you reflect upon

The one within whose womb

You developed ‘til the day your body

Craved a bit more room?

 

Or possibly, it’s neither

And your thoughts are drawn to those,

Like an aunt or grandma, whose embrace

Did tenderly enclose.

 

No matter whom you think about

When Mothers’ Day rolls ‘round,

I hope the spirit of the day

Within you does resound.

In the City

In the city, theater beckons,

As museums do and parks.

There are restaurants and monuments

To set creative sparks.

 

There are streets that teem with tourists,

Gazing goggle-eyed around,

As they navigate by foot or bus

Or subway underground.

 

There are fields where sports are playing;

There are ferries on the river.

Yet if quiet’s what you’re seeking,

There are spots that can deliver.

 

Benches nestle hither thither,

Just awaiting their next guest,

Who might find that it’s the perfect place

To get oneself de-stressed.

Two Cardinals

Saw two bright red cardinals fighting,

Or that’s how it did appear.

Maybe ‘twas a mating problem, 

Though to us it wasn’t clear.

Wonder if a nearby female

Had a stake in who would win,

Or if she’d reject both fighters 

For what was a cardinal sin!

Hummingbird Cake

I came upon a recipe

That wasn’t a mistake,

Though it was for something strangely called

A hummingbird (huh?) cake.

 

I glanced at the ingredients –

The list was far from brief

But there weren’t any hummingbirds,

Which was a huge relief.

 

With pineapple, bananas,

Sugar, cinnamon and flour,

Eggs, vanilla, oil and pecans

It sounds great, but gets its power

 

From its cream cheese butter frosting,

Which must add the perfect touch

To a sweet dessert that many people

Must like very much.

 

The cake is from Jamaica

So its name, from what I’ve heard,

Is a tribute to, you might have guessed,

The nation’s namesake bird.

 

Maybe someday I will try it,

But I know when that day comes,

I’ll be grateful knowing there was no

Ingredient that hums!

I Write a Poem

I write a poem because there’s something

In my soul that needs it,

Despite the fact that there are times

When maybe no one reads it.

 

We all have things we do to help

Us feel a sense of pride,

Though oftentimes that treasure

Nestles, tucked away inside.

 

Of course, acknowledgement is nice,

But it is not required.

I do not write in hopes that I’ll

Be famous or admired.

 

Yet setting down my daily rhyme

Is what I do for me,

My thoughts spelled out and posted,

There for all the world to see.

 

And if I never hear a peep

About what I may say,

I’ve taken care of that myself,

With words to lead the way.

Not a Match

My spinner’s simply not a match 

For when the wind is rough.

I reinforce its pole with stones 

But that is not enough.

The ground is hard and rocky

So it’s tough to hammer in,

Though as soon as it’s erect,

The slightest breeze will make it spin.

I’m on the back porch writing

With the wind chime’s tinkling sound

When, with one big gust, that spinner

Tipped and fell upon the ground.

I’ll head outside and stand it up

And it will work, I trust -

At least until the next time

There’s a more insistent gust.

The Met Gala

Tonight’s the Met Gala;

I wasn’t invited

And here, in my jeans,

I don’t feel at all slighted.

I don’t wear couture 

And the funds that they’ll raise

Are a little beyond

What my pension fund pays.

I’ll read in The Times

What celebrities wear

And no one in the crowd

Will take note I’m not there.

At a recent Met visit,

I gazed at the art,

Much better than fashion

That sets folks apart.

Though some chairmen who took

Over Venice to wed

Think the world would prefer

Seeing them there instead.

Dilemma

I bought a new wind chime,

A for-myself treat

And think it looks lovely,

Its melody sweet.

But where should I hang it?

It’s windy today

So it will sound dulcet

As tree branches sway.

Yet when I’m in the house

And it’s dangling outside, 

I won’t hear it at all

So I have to decide

If perhaps I should hang it

Indoors, where I’d swat it

To hear its sweet music,

‘Cause that’s why I got it.

Still, that would defeat

Its true purpose by name,

For chiming in wind 

Is its one claim to fame.

That settles it! I’ll find

A branch on a tree

Where, when coming or going,

That sweet sound will be.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

In 7^th grade English, my class got to read,

With Mrs. Kaminsky, my first

Taste of Shakespeare, the dream of “A Midsummer Night”

And for weeks we were fully immersed.

 

We couldn’t have done it alone, without help –

The language and style, to us

Was a challenge and yet with our teacher to guide,

We sailed through it without too much fuss.

 

I’d need a refresher to dig out the plot

From the recesses deep in my brain,

Though the love of the language and what it inspired,

Front and center, to this day, remain.

 

My grandson just told me (he’s 7^th grade now)

That in school, with his class, he’ll soon start

The very same play, his first Shakespeare, as well,

And that knowledge tapped into my heart.

 

I hope I can find my old copy from school,

Which is scribbled with jottings I wrote

When, to 7^th grade me, the idea of a grandson

Was more than remotely remote.

The Saturday Crossword

I finished a Saturday crossword,*

The hardest one offered each week.

It took me a while

But earned me a smile 

And the constant reminder I seek

That my brain cells, although I am aging,

Are still functioning well enough to

Fill in all of the squares

That some person prepares

So we solvers can track down each clue.

It’s a sense of accomplishment, truly;

Other puzzlers know just what I mean.

Though we do it alone,

We are, each of us, prone

To a chance to internally preen.

*last Saturday’s New York Times puzzle,

solved today