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

Asking Alexa

My grandchild and a friend

Were making posters in her room,

With tape and markers, for a project,

As you might presume.

From time to time, somebody asked

The spelling of a word,

And I should not have been surprised 

At all by what I heard.

“Alexa, how do you spell this?”

Or “How do you spell that?”

It’s good to have an answer ready

In your habitat.

When I was young, our choices were

A dictionary or

A shout-out to whatever mom

Was near to call out for.

I guess there was another choice,

Which would work then or now -

To sound it out and take a chance

You spelled it right somehow.

Scaffolds

The city’s filled with scaffolds;

They remain in place for years.

They’re ugly and at night they might

Increase somebody’s fears

For they provide some shelter

From the elements for those 

Who don’t have a place to live;

Hey, that’s just the way it goes.

They block the sidewalks, making it

Too narrow to walk past

When someone is approaching

If you both are going fast.

The smell of urine’s often strong -

That shelter thing again.

I guess the ease of access is

Too tempting for some men.

I think most urban dwellers

Think that scaffolds are a pain,

But with one exception - if you’ve no

Umbrella in the rain.

Moving Out

When I moved from my parents’ house,

I really couldn’t wait 

To start my life; the leaving was

A cause to celebrate.

A memory occurs to me:

When I approached my mom

To tell her of my plans to move,

I’d not expected calm.

I’d practiced in my head the things

That I had planned to say

When she would protest, practically

Demanding that I stay.

Instead, she offered me my bed 

And dishes, pans and pots.

To realize she was ready, too,

Well, just connect the dots.

I liked my folks; we got along,

Yet it was time to split.

I had a job and never

Second-guessed things, not a bit.

Today it seems that, more and more,

Kids don’t renounce their claim

On their childhood homes and that, to me,

Is really quite a shame.

Handy Randy Redux

If you’re very lucky, you may find

The type of handyman

Who can take care of the problems

That you now no longer can.

Climb a ladder to the roof? No prob -

It’s what he likes to do 

And while up there, he will clean

The cloudy skylights, just for you.

Clogged up gutters? With some gloves

He’ll scoop out leaves and dirt and gunk,

Staying cheerful through it all.

(I know that I’d be in a funk.)

When he’s finished, he will lowball

What he thinks that you should pay.

Do you know of anybody else

Who’d act in that same way?

Handy Randy is this person

Who is capable and fair 

And reliable and really nice,

These attributes so rare.

My Hedge Clippers

I do not have a garden

And my thumb is far from green.

The plants I’ve managed not to kill

Are few and far between.

But when I’m at my country house, 

Where things grow out of whack,

I take my trusty clippers

And I cut the darn things back.

Unwanted weeds and bushes

Get their branches quickly snipped,

Unprepared for the attack by that

With which I am equipped. 

The next time I am here, I’ll have to

Do it all again,

But at least I made a little dent

Until I don’t know when.

A LEO

If your birthday’s in August,

Your horoscope sign 

Might turn out to be Leo

And that would be fine.

But that isn’t at all

What this poem is about,

For my LEO at breakfast,

Without any doubt,

Really jazzed up my morning

And if you’ve no clue 

What I’m talking about,

I’ll explain it to you.

There’s an acronym here 

And the L is for lox,

Which is salmon that’s cured,

Found in most deli stocks.

Now the E is for eggs,

Scrambled just to my taste

And the O is for onions,

Sautéed without haste.

Not all people will like this,

I’m not gonna lie,

But if it’s on the menu,

Please give it a try.

A Phone Call

What used to be simple’s

No longer the case,

With AI and tech leaving

No human trace.

 

A phone call reverts to

The state of “On hold,”

The music appalling,

And not ‘cause I’m old.

 

The customer rep keeps

Repeating each fact,

But sends you an email

He failed to enact.

 

So after an hour,

Which soon becomes two,

You hang up the phone

And you haven’t a clue

 

If he did what you asked

To provide what you need

And you have no idea

Just how you should proceed.

 

I miss the old methods

Of making a call,

When a pencil and paper

Recorded it all.

For Jeff Spurgeon

 For years our radio’s been tuned

To 105.9.

The music, for the most part,

With our preference does align.

Jeff Spurgeon is our morning guy

And, with his soothing voice,

He’s just the host we’d choose ourselves 

If we had had the choice.

From Know-It-All-New-Yorker

To his daily repartee,

We wouldn’t want to spend our mornings

Any other way.

When QXR announced that Jeff

Would take his final leave,

We must admit to feeling sad,

But know he will receive

The accolades that he deserves

From all his loyal fans,

With hopes that he finds joy

In all his many future plans.

We’ll miss you, Jeff; nobody will

Connect with us so well

For, except when you played opera,*

At your job you did excel!

*just never got into it…

My Great Grandmother’s Parrot

It’s rare to hear a story

That you haven’t heard before,

Especially when memories

Seem locked behind a door.

But yesterday I heard about

A parrot who could talk

And when my dad came home from school,

It would begin to squawk,

“Georgie’s home!” repeatedly.

My aunt, who told the tale,

Said that’s the only name it yelled,

Each school day, without fail.

I don’t recall my father

Ever mentioning this bird.

Perhaps it was a memory 

That somehow got deferred.

Yet as my aunt recalled this,

She laughed hard and so did we,

The image of a boyhood George

As clear as it could be.

Watching Groucho

The heat is overwhelming here,

So we’ve been trapped inside,

Except for walking to the car,

Where cool air does preside.

With time to kill, my husband found

Old movies on TV,

Some Groucho films without his sibs,

Not known to him or me.

We still found him hilarious,

A genius at his craft.

I’d be suspicious of a soul

Who watched and never laughed.

The film that followed had the other

Brothers, which just means 

More chances to crack up

In many other crazy scenes.

Though people go to Florida 

To loll around a beach,

I’m glad, when weather’s Venus-like,

These films are in our reach.

Ninety-Eight

Today my aunt turns 98

And for her age, she’s doing great,

So we came down to celebrate,

The least that we can do.

We schmoozed a little yesterday 

With snacks we picked up on the way 

And brought an ice cream treat today

(Since I had craved one, too).

Then on to mah jongg in a place

Where seniors gather, face to face,

To play a game they all embrace

(The rules of which I knew).

Two hours flew by and then back where

Three huge bouquets were waiting there,

Plus cards and phone calls, all to share

Her birthday, right on cue.

Tonight, there’ll be a dinner out;

That’s what a birthday’s all about,

And at that age, there is no doubt

Best wishes sure are due.

An Acrostic on a Plane

We’re strapped in seats and to our left,

A dad, a mom, 3 tots;

And how much noise did they produce?

You know the answer - lots!

Before we taxi, it’s announced

There’ll be a slight delay.

Mechanics have to come on board,

And so begins our day.

They check us out; we’re good to go,

But traffic in the air 

Means there will be some extra time 

To take off. Don’t despair!

The whole time this is going on,

With pencil in my hand,

I’m working on a Times acrostic,

Just as I had planned.

It really is a tough one;

I’m oblivious to time.

The minutes tick away until 

We’ve left the ground and I’m 

Just finishing the puzzle.

I’m a genius! But what’s best

Is by doing the acrostic,

I was shockingly unstressed.

Breakfast Out

I rarely eat my breakfast out

But, as a special treat,

We took our guests to Effy’s,*

Hoping that we’d get a seat.

 

It’s half a block from where we live

And breakfast gets a crowd.

We took a chance, though, and lucked out.

(Reserving’s not allowed.)

 

Surprisingly, the outdoor spots

Were filled, despite the heat,

But in the room inside, we found

A cool and calm retreat.

 

A varied menu let us choose

From middle eastern meals

To pancakes, wraps and sandwiches,

All with their own appeals.

 

We ate, we drank, we chatted

In a pleasant atmosphere,

The buzz of fellow diners

Adding to the Sunday cheer.

 

A break from a routine

Can often bring about a smile

And a state of satisfaction,

Even if once in a while.

 

*Effy’s Café on the upper east side of Manhattan

On a Birthday

It’s nice on a birthday

To hear from your friends

And celebrate where

A warm feeling transcends

 

All the stress you might feel

On an average day.

Just a few special people

Can make it that way.

 

A meal that you share

With a candle and cake

And a car ride with singing –

That joy you can’t fake.

 

The space to spread out,

Watch a movie, relax

In a place where the elements

Cease their attacks.

 

Though this birthday’s not mine,

So far I can thank heaven

It’s going so well –

And the reason? Six seven!

Snack Food

Whatever people eat for snacks, 

At home, when they can just relax,

Depends on what their diet lacks

Or what they love to taste.

The salty types, like nuts or chips,

Or pretzels, maybe paired with dips, 

Will often find their way to lips 

Which end up greasy-laced.

While candies, chocolatey and sweet

Or gummies, quite a different treat,

Might help a craving feel complete 

And will not go to waste.

Of course, some snacks are healthy kinds,

Like fruits with pits or citrus rinds,

Or veggies, to convince our minds

Good habits we have chased.

It’s personal what you prefer 

And, though my choices may concur

With what you have a craving fer,

My hopes might be misplaced.

For I would rather choke down soil 

Than eat the seaweed made with oil,

With sea salt so it will not spoil,

My grandkids have embraced.

Sad and Numb

Temperatures are sizzling;

Fires burn and spread.

Salad sales are fizzling.

(Eat grass-fed beef instead!)

 

Immigrants are terrified;

Deportations rise.

Flat-out lies are verified.

Drones invade the skies.

 

News reporters get the boot.

Algae grows and blooms.

Secret deals to prosecute

Are made in private rooms.

 

Institutions once revered

Are shuttered or debased.

Everything we’ve always feared

Has happened, in such haste

 

It’s almost inconceivable,

Yet somehow it is real.

We know that it’s believable,

For nothing can conceal

 

The way the world is crumbling

And only those in charge,

Despite their shameful bumbling

And greed are living large.

 

I do not see a way to fix

How bad things have become,

For nature’s tricks and politics

Have made me sad and numb.

The Writing

A poem about the seasons

Or a pet gets people reading,

Though only on occasion

Is that what the poet’s needing.

 

Thus, many verses go unread,

The price of being selfish,

Preventing possibilities

Or writing going shelf-ish.

 

A journalist strings words on topics

Given on assignment,

With facts and research intertwined

For print or e-alignment.

 

But poets have a great big world

From which to choose a topic,

Their vision open to it all

Or sometimes plain myopic

 

And if those other subjects

May prove somewhat less inviting,

They may not find a readership,

Yet still enjoy the writing.

"Alice of Wonderland Visiting New York"

In the children’s ward of a hospital,

Through the W.P.A.*

A 16-panel mural

Was, for patients, on display.

 

The artist, Abram Champanier,

In 1938,

Took the Lewis Carroll characters

From “Alice” to create

 

A tale of Wonderland’s whole cast

As they visited each site

Of the city of New York

To fill the children with delight.

 

So there on Lady Liberty,

The subway and the zoo,

The Empire State and Steeplechase,

Are Alice and her crew.

 

The building was abandoned

After years and it was marked

For a renovation, so a group

Of volunteers embarked

 

On a plan to save the murals,

Which they managed to preserve.

Our gratitude is not enough

To give what they deserve.

 

The restoration took some years

And now they are on view.

A museum** in New York is where

I saw them; so can you.

 

How wonderful to have a chance

To see each vibrant scene

And to reinforce the joy of art

And how much it can mean.

 

*Works Progress Administration

**Museum of the City of New York

Missed!

His dog was on a grassy field

That clearly said, “No Pets!”

Entitlement in every way,

As awful as it gets.

 

For adding to his flagrant

Disregard of that one sign,

He puffed on a cigar, when smoking’s

Also out of line.

 

What really got to me, though,

Was his bag of doggy poo,

Which he clutched and looked around,

Unsure of what he next would do.

 

Beyond the fence and out of reach,

A trashcan on the street

Sat waiting for deposits

So the sidewalks would stay neat.

 

Too lazy to walk over,

He reached back and made a toss,

Knowing that, most likely, he could get

That doggy bag across.

 

I watched it sail and with a plop,

Land, not inside the can,

But on the ground right next to it,

Not following his plan.

 

I stopped myself from yelling out

A simple message: “Missed!’

Since those entitled might be

Unpredictable when pissed.

 

The way the world is nowadays,

You have to watch your back,

For those who get away with things

Are likely to attack.

The Thing About a Leash

In the park was a man

With a stroller, as well

As a dog on a leash,

Which he tried to compel

 

To begin the trip home,

But the dog wouldn’t budge.

Having neither at hand,

I guess I shouldn’t judge.

 

First the man gave a tug

In a joking-type way

As the dog flopped down flat,

Showing he meant to stay.

 

Then he flipped on his back

With his paws in the air,

Which is when I moved on,

So though I’m unaware

 

Of the outcome, I’d bet

Not a minute more passed

‘Til the leash got a yank

And they went home at last.

Energy Levels

Your energy level’s

Related to age,

Though not everybody

Is on the same page.

 

Most babies and toddlers

Need hours of sleep

And after some playtime,

Fall down in a heap.

 

Yet others run circles

Around those routines

And when sent for a nap

Make the loudest of scenes.

 

Often as you grow up,

Those proclivities stay

And the sleep you require

Will keep holding sway.

 

However, when reaching

Those senior-type years,

Your energy lessens

Or plain disappears.

 

So, just like a baby,

Your pep seems to sap

And, although you may fight it,

You’re needing a nap.

 

The circle of life

Brings us back to the start

Where the young and the old

Aren’t too far apart.