Food for Thought

A fireboat goes zipping by;

A seaplane glides across the sky.

Not many folks around, but I

Am glad to be outside.

 

A group of sparrows swoop and fly

While joggers, on a runner’s high,

Race past, as, with a saddish sigh,

Some elders must decide

 

If they should sit or maybe try

To push ahead, no longer spry.

I understand their reasons why,

The past a faulty guide.

 

The ferry empties. Rules apply

For disembarking; most comply.

My time for heading home is nigh,

My food for thought supplied.

Watching the Parade

The Knicks parade was on TV

And that was close enough for me.

I cannot even blame my age;

I’ve hated crowds at any stage.

 

Yet for the celebrants, most young,

They loved it all, to be among

Their fellow fans, all there to cheer

Their favorite moment of the year.

 

To see their heroes and unite,

No politics, which might incite

Divisiveness, so very wrong

When fans all seem to get along.

 

The festive spirit will not last,

For from examples in the past,

We know it isn’t “if” but “when”

Hostilities will rise again.

Puzzling

Puzzles will appeal to me

When words are what you need

To solve them; then, most likely,

I’ve a good chance to succeed.

 

A tough crossword or acrostic

Sets a challenge I enjoy,

For it taps into the brain cells

That I often do employ.

 

Yet once numbers are involved,

I’m simply clueless and so lost

That it isn’t worth the failure

And frustration it has cost.

 

Give me Shuffalos and Spelling Bees;

I’ll take that letter path

But don’t try to steer me to the route

Which travels using math.

In Lane

Way back when, I learned to read

And I was super proud, indeed,

When, with my new-expanded brain,

I read the road sign, “Stay in lane.”

 

Of course, I didn’t get that sign.

I thought it should say, “Stay in line.”

My dad, the driver, set me straight,

An easy fix to navigate.

 

My reading’s helped me all these years,

But not so much when switching gears,

For in this world of tech galore,

I’m not as smart as once before.

 

There’s much I do not understand

And language not at my command,

So I am stymied when I try –

My reading skills do not apply.

 

I guess that long-ago advice

That I first read must now suffice,

For with computers, it is plain

That I have ventured past my lane.

Anchors

My husband vacuums; I write poems.

Both anchor us each day

And neither one is necessary;

That’s what most would say.

 

We all have our routines, though,

Things we really seem to need,

So we also daily exercise

And take the time to read.

 

That feeling of accomplishment

Is an important must

And it doesn’t matter what it’s from,

Including rhymes or dust.

The Knicks' Victory

I’m in a slight poetic fix,

For surely it’s expected

That I will write about the Knicks

Or else be disrespected.

 

See, for me, this team is local

So my loyalty is due,

Though no cheering, loud and vocal,

From my voice will come on through.

 

I’ll watch tennis games for hours

And some baseball here and there,

But it’s not within my powers,

Citing basketball, to care.

 

Still, to hear a drought has ended,

Fifty-three long years of thirst,

Revelry must be extended

As that pent-up joy’s dispersed.

 

New York City’s set and ready

For the ticker-tape parade

And the sky will rain confetti,

All poetic doubts to fade.

Query Theory

A query is a letter

And could be a starting step

To discover if an agent

Might become your writing rep.

 

It’s a process, I am learning,

Which takes hours of your time,

Often never making progress

Up the mountain you must climb.

 

The advice that I have gotten

Said, “Be patient and expect

Many, many more rejections

Than attempts that might connect.”

 

That makes sense, so I won’t wallow

In predictable defeat,

But my query theory lets me dream,

And fantasy is sweet.

The Jewelry We Wear

I don’t remove or change my rings;

All four I’ve worn for years,

Unlike my huge collection of 

What dangles from my ears.

My necklaces and bracelets 

I switch out and do with care,

Depending on the style of clothing

That I choose to wear.

Around my wrist’s a watch;

I own a few (one even winds!)

And when I’m sockless, on my ankle,

Chains of varied kinds.

My husband wears his wedding band

And that is the extent

Of jewelry he sports

(Though somehow watches came and went).

Displaying our adornments 

Is quite personal, it’s true,

But it’s also a reflection 

Of ourselves that others view.

Opening Your Mouth

Sometimes it’s better to open your mouth

But on other occasions, it’s not,

For declaring opinions may often go south,

So decide if you’re taking that shot.

 

There’s a certain relief when your views are expressed,

Yet it could lead to some confrontation

And you might then regret not just letting it rest,

Thus avoiding a bad situation.

 

How to know what to do is a balancing act -

Neither spewing nor stewing’s ideal –

Though perhaps, with finesse and a sprinkle of tact,

You can calmly explain how you feel.

A Coveted Bench

A coveted bench in the shade,

In my world, means that I’ve got it made,

For tomorrow will be, I’m afraid,

Much too hot, so I wouldn’t have stayed.

 

But today, I can watch the parade

On the river, as boats are displayed

And attention, of course, must be paid,

To the pigeons, who visit, dismayed

 

That I offer no crumbs in a trade.

Still, I hope, as my rhymes start to fade,

That my writing has somehow conveyed

Just how peaceful is all I’ve surveyed.

Very Disappointed

 I’m very disappointed

The remaining 3 won’t quit,

Since “60 Minutes” took a real

Below-the-belt type hit.

The correspondents who are left

Gave reasons I found lame,

Because we know that long-loved show

Will never be the same.

Presenting a united front

Would make the message clear,

But who am I to give advice

On somebody’s career?

I’m sure they talked amongst themselves*

Though I could only sputtuh 

When I heard what they’d decided,

Which was very unlike buttuh.

*Couldn’t resist the Linda Richman reference

(Google her on old Saturday Night Lives)

My Skeleton

My skeleton has brittle bones;

That’s what the test reveals,

Another prime example of

What aging often steals.

I could take some injections or

A course of daily pills

To build my bones back, just in case

I suffer any spills.

Though if I manage not to fall,

My bones are working fine.

Still, if I trip and break my hip,

I’ll know the fault is mine.

The quandary I am in is like

A coin toss - tails or heads?

To trust my balance not to fall

Or cave and take the meds?

Right now it’s 50 - 50.

Will my osteoporosis 

Leave my no-meds skeleton in peace

Despite my diagnosis?

The Tree Man

The tree man toured my property,

Which was at my request.

I wanted some dead branches gone 

And figured he knew best.

He put some ribbons ‘round the trunks

Of trees he thought should go,

One big one next to my back door; 

I’ll likely tell him “no.”

That tree’s been here before my house;

It’s sturdy, tall and strong

And where it started growing first 

Is where it does belong.

Yes, twigs and leaves fall on the roof,

But I don’t have the heart

To have it ripped out from the ground

Where life, for it, did start.

My husband disagrees; he says

To trust the tree man’s eye,

But someone else can hire him

To do it, when I die.

 

Buying Something New

I’m sure I have enough to wear

To last until I die,

Yet still, I buy new clothes at times

And you might wonder why.

 

Though it feels good to dress oneself

In something fresh and cool,

It also makes the time ahead,

So tightly wound, unspool.

 

Since no one buys a shirt or pants

Believing it will last

For just a few appearances

Before one’s time has passed.

 

So purchases become a way

To guarantee (or hope)

That life will keep one on its path

And not death’s slippery slope.

What Parents Teach

What parents teach their children

Mostly isn’t what they say,

But the way they live their lives 

Those children witness every day.

If there’s kindness or there’s anger,

Lack of interest or support,

Kids learn quickly how their parents

May excel or come up short.

Offspring emulate behavior

In their folks that they admire

Or reject some ways of being

They’d be glad to see expire.

As they grow, without their knowing,

They absorb or let dissolve

Certain customs that they live with 

As their grown-up selves evolve.

And as they approach adulthood,

They might find, with some surprise,

They’ve become their parents or

The opposite, in their own eyes.

Riding on the Ferry

I am very, very, very

Fond of riding on the ferry.

There’s no traffic on the river,

So it’s easy to deliver

 

All the riders when expected

From the boats they have selected.

Up on top, the ride is breezy,

But in any seat, it’s easy

 

To gaze out at your surroundings

While the vessel’s leaps and boundings

Take you all around the city

For a taste of nitty-gritty.

 

Passengers of all persuasions

Ride for various occasions –

Workers heading to employment,

Tourist seeking pure enjoyment.

 

People-watching is rewarding.

Check out strangers while they’re boarding.

Hear the accents from their nations;

Eavesdrop on some conversations.

 

Ditch the subway, bus or taxi;

Turn your mini journey maxi

And your mood from tense to merry.

Hop on board a New York ferry!

The Final Minute

The final minute’s ticked its last

For “60 Minutes”’ time has passed.

A word of warning should suffice –

Its murderer was Bari Weiss.

 

First Anderson announced he’d leave;

His absence will make many grieve.

Then double axes heaved a chop,

Letting 2 reporters drop.

 

The Sharyn and Cecilia bust

Removed 2 women I did trust

To tell the stories, blow by blow,

The public has a right to know.

 

When Ms. Alfonsi spoke her mind

About a cancelled show, she’d find

The bigwigs didn’t like her nerve;

Her canning she did not deserve.

 

But worst of all was letting go

Scott Pelley, who, as we all know.

Was “60 Minutes”’ heart and soul

And perfect for his starring role.

 

He pulled no punches and did speak

With well-placed anger; his critique

Cost him his job. Ms. Weiss sure botched

A show we eagerly once watched.

Senior Mind

I realized what I’d left behind

When I was almost there,

But with my brand new “senior” mind,

I didn’t quite prepare.

 

The Met* was where I’d headed to,

About a mile away,

My membership renewal due;

I’d visit and I’d pay.

 

To make things lighter, I’d switched bags,

For when it’s summer weather,

My spirit and my shoulder sags

When weighted down with leather.

 

I’d moved my phone, my notebook, keys

And thought that I was finished,

Until a sudden thought did seize.

(My brain’s not all diminished!)

 

I didn’t have my little case

With credit card and money.

No way for me to thus replace

My member card. What’s funny

 

Is that I’d felt proud of my plan,

Combining art and mission,

Forgetting that my brain cells can

Reject so much ambition.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

A Brett in Your Life

If you’re having a birthday,

You’re lucky if you

Have a Brett in your life

Who will know what to do.

 

He will greet you with music

Right when you arrive

And so many balloons

You’ll forget the long drive.

 

A slideshow of mem’ries

Will play on a loop,

As will songs by your favorite

Singer or group.

 

A birthday tiara

And pin will appear

With some sparkly leis

To create festive cheer.

 

Brett will barbecue sausage

And burgers with cheese

And his mom will add so many

Fixin’s to please.

 

Of course, there’ll be presents –

Too many to name

And a beautiful cake.

(If you miss it, a shame!)

 

The Brett in our lives

Met our daughter at camp

And for 25 years

He’s come through like a champ.

 

We are grateful to know him,

So glad that they met.

Wish that you had a Brett

In your life, too, I’d bet!

An Idiom in the Flesh

You’ll never believe this,

But truth you are owed –

This morning I noticed

A fork in the road.

 

Well, technically, just

The top half of a fork,

Yet still a strange sight

On a street in New York.

 

‘Twas made of white plastic,

Quite easy to break it.

Since I couldn’t use it,

I chose not to take it.

That Blasted Name (to the tune of "The Ants Go Marching")

They’re taking down that blasted name – Hurrah, hurrah!

That only J.F.K. should claim – Hurrah! Hurrah!

Let’s hear it for that gutsy judge

To order removal of that smudge.

Maybe things will start to crumble and crack,

Helping life to go back…

Boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom boom

 

We’d need ten billion ants to march – Hurrah, hurrah!

To scale that planned horrendous arch – Hurrah, hurrah!

The public hates it; so do I

And even Abe Lincoln is heaving a sigh.

Maybe Dems will block it.

We do not need such a sham to proceed…

Boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom boom

 

And next the ballroom should be stopped – Hurrah, hurrah!

The funding from the Feds has flopped – Hurrah, hurrah!

The private donors, in cahoots,

Will chip in as they lick his boots

And the gilt will glisten,

Losing us class when the guests will amass…

Boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom boom

 

The bottom line is we are stuck – Hurrah, hurrah!

With a person in charge who’s run amok – Hurrah, hurrah!

And my fingers are crossed that his would-be crown

Will, along with his name, soon be taken down

And we’ll march and cheer and

Fill every street to applaud his defeat…

Boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom boom

In the Sun

The sun feels good;

It warms my skin

And gets me ready

To begin

To write some lines

Of rhyming verse.

I’m tired, but

It could be worse.

I’m at the age

When things slow down.

My hair is white;

It once was brown.

The years have flown 

And my career

Is over now,

But I’m still here.

I’m lucky that

I’m not alone.

I see some loved ones 

Or we phone.

My waning phase

I know’s begun,

Yet I’m at peace 

Out in the sun.

A Thwack

On the bus we heard a thwack;

The driver kept on going.

I couldn’t really see out back,

But soon, the bus was slowing.

 

The driver stopped and went to check.

A vehicle, parked double,

Had had his mirror hit the deck;

Our ride could be in trouble.

 

One woman left the bus and yet,

The rest of us just waited.

No one began to moan or fret,

Our outcome not debated.

 

A minute passed and he returned

And shrugged, “That car skedaddled.”

If there’s a lesson to be learned:

New Yorkers don’t get rattled.

My Sister's Birthday

Today’s my sister’s birthday.

We are 16 years apart

And very different, even if

We’d had a matching start.

 

There are 2 brothers in between;

Our family had been 5

For 10 years plus, before my sister

Even was alive.

 

And yet her smile gives her away –

It’s something we all share

And when we get together

There is laughter in the air.

 

Our tastes in many things don’t mesh –

In music, travel, food

And how we look – my hair’s gone white;

She’s blond and she’s tattooed.

 

She loves the heat and I do not;

We live in different climes.

She’s quite the chef and I don’t cook;

I spend my time on rhymes.

 

So on her birthday, I reflect

On traits we each can claim,

Though we both began our lives by sharing

Parents and a name.

A Big Fat Groundhog

A big fat groundhog crossed the road,

While waddling, quite fast.

I watched him in surprise

At so much speed as he ran past.

Perhaps he found me threatening

Although I never knew

A person who’d attempted

To cook up some groundhog stew.

Still, every creature’s instincts 

Will kick in when danger’s nigh

And even big fat groundhogs

Waddle quickly to get by.

A’Twitter

The birds are a’twitter;

The leaves are a’flutter.

Some early moths flitter

And I am in utter

Contentment while sitting,

Absorbing the quiet,

Which seems only fitting

Since noise is my diet.

I live in the city 

With traffic and sirens.

Some think it’s a pity

To have those environs,

Yet mostly I love it - 

The hustle and bustle.

I hover above it,

Ignoring the tussle.

Though once in a while,

The country will beckon 

And I’ll change my style

To rural, I reckon…

Until I start craving

That urban alluring.

Then I’ll go back, braving

That citified roaring.

Washout

A holiday weekend

With nothing but rain

Gives so many a solid

Excuse to complain.

 

All those outdoor events

At a park or a beach

Will, because of the weather,

Be way out of reach.

 

Those who rented a cottage

Or booked a hotel

Might be bummed that their plans

Won’t be going so well.

 

Yes, the roads may be flooded

And temps much too cool

To show off your new bathing suit

Down by the pool

 

Yet, there’s tennis to watch

Or there’s reading a book

And, aside from the grill,

There are more ways to cook.

 

Still, it is disappointing

When plans that you’ve made

Have to change because Nature

Rained on your parade.

To Celebrate a Birthday

To celebrate a birthday

Some want candles and a cake.

To others, a display like that

Would be a big mistake.

 

There are people who will travel

To a far-off special place

For a festive celebration

That a birthday can embrace.

 

Others want a quiet dinner

In a restaurant they know,

Maybe followed by an evening

At a concert or a show.

 

Many more would be quite happy

With an in-home favorite meal

And a T.V. show or movie,

Birthdays being no big deal.

 

We all choose our ways of marking

One year’s march around the sun,

For each birthday’s a reminder

A new older year’s begun.

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.