Lesser Talents

Billy Collins wrote a poem,
A roll call of the dead.
The TV brought their faces up
To match the names he read.

His paean was so poignant;
With simplicity and power,
He honored all the victims
Of our nation’s darkest hour.

I listened to him, mesmerized.
He conjured such a mood
That anybody watching
Would be somber and subdued.

My husband turned to me and said,
“Now that’s a top-notch poet,”
Implying I’m not in that league,
As if I didn’t know it.

I tip my hat to Billy.
To my husband I replied
That lesser talents still possess
Some purpose they provide.

And so I write my thoughts in rhyme
Which somehow satisfies,
Despite the fact my lesser skills
This work exemplifies.

Jumbo

New York’s mayor wants to ban
The sale of jumbo drinks.
This will cure obesity,
At least that’s what he thinks.

Those who guzzle sweet iced tea
Or soda by the gallons
Never thought they’d have to hide
From Mayor Bloomberg’s talons.

It’s a bit Big Brotherish,
For putting into law
A bill to limit what we drink
Can stick in someone’s craw.

I’m conflicted – though I know
These drinks can make you fat,
Government should not control
Our choice to get like that.

People most affected by
A strong, humongous thirst
Will simply buy two smaller drinks
And Bloomberg will get cursed.

As freedom slowly fades away,
It causes me to think;
And though I’ll use a smaller cup,
I really need a drink!

Watching the Tourists

It’s fun to watch the tourists
As they stroll around and gawk,
Their maps clutched in their fingers
For their first time in New Yawk.

They navigate the streets to get
To where the guide books say,
Pausing just to snap their photos,
Then they’re up and on their way.

I don’t offer any help unless
They come to me and ask,
For to butt in someone’s business
Shouldn’t be a native’s task.

But if they require assistance
To their chosen destination,
I’ll do what I can to counter
A New Yorker’s reputation.

For at times, I am the tourist
In a city I don’t know.
I appreciate the locals
Who direct me where to go.

Since the world is full of strangers
From an unfamiliar place,
We can welcome their arrival
With a smiling, friendly face.

Root, Root, Root

When you’re at a sporting venue,
You should have someone to root for;
And it’s necessary, also, to have
Somebody to hoot for.

An opponent you can root against
Makes watching much more fun,
And you have such satisfaction
If he loses, when it’s done.

But before the match is over,
You get caught up with the crowd;
Everyone is busy cheering,
Seeing who can be most loud.

Though if your contestant ends up
With the short end of the stick,
You should not regret the fact that
He’s the one you chose to pick.

Give due credit to the other
And remember – time will pass;
For the next time they compete, you know
Your guy will kick his ass!

Feathers

The Torah, sacred to the Jews,
Is written with a quill.
They wrote it that way long ago
And write it that way still.

That feathers from a turkey,
Once its proud and glossy coat,
Could be penned for such a purpose
Seems a usage quite remote.

Yet the ancients tended to their tasks
With what they had at hand;
And turkeys must have strutted,
Unaware of their demand.

My feather musing happened when
I noticed on the street
Two pigeon feathers, blocks apart,
A rather strange conceit.

I wondered if a pigeon plume
Could take a starring role
And substitute for turkey quill
To ink a Torah scroll.

Perhaps if such a circumstance
Would come to its fruition,
There’d be a Torah tiny as
A paperback edition!

Blimp

A city sight I sometimes spy
Floats, barely moving, in the sky.
It seems cartoonish in its shape
And causes everyone to gape.

It circles slowly, like a shark,
To locate what it’s meant to mark:
A football game or tennis match
Or clash its cameras hope to catch.

Its mission’s not a mystery;
It’s up there strictly for TV,
In silent slither through the skies
To search for scoops with raptor’s eyes.

Reporters on the ground bring news
But they don’t have those sky-high views;
For aerial’s the way to go
When you are putting on a show.

And we who watch, indoors or out,
Enjoy its journey, there’s no doubt.
I’m glad the networks do not skimp
When they have access to a blimp.

Monet's Garden

I’ve been privileged ‘cause I’ve seen
The paintings of Monet.
One museum near my house
Has many on display.

The gardens of Monet provided
So much inspiration,
His palette came from Nature
More than his imagination.

I never knew how true that was
Until I paid a visit
To Monet’s garden, re-created,
Looking most exquisite.

The experts horticultural
Of New York’s main Botanical
Did such a bang-up job I’m sure
Their research was fanatical.

The water lily ponds are filled
With plants as flat as platters
And such purple-petaled flowers
Standing next to them just flatters.

There’s a copy of the famous bridge
From Monet’s house in France
And surrounding it, a swirl of blooms
The colors of romance.

A vacation to Giverny
Isn’t something I have planned,
But the New York imitation
Made me start to understand

That the genius of Monet was more
Than paintings that enchanted;
For the magic he created
Was inspired by what he planted.

(written after visiting The New York Botanical Garden’s exhibit)