Where They Are?

A tiny baby dollhouse doll,
A bunch of dominoes,
A puzzle piece, a stacking cup -
Where are they? No one knows.

The cover to some match-up cards,
The crayons in a box,
Three golf balls from the matching set, 
Assorted Lego blocks.

These items and a dozen more
Are AWOL and I'd bet
That I'm the only person
In the house who seems to fret.

A Shallow Excuse

A friend had booked a river cruise,
The Elbe the go-to river,
But got this message: “Sorry, but
This trip we can’t deliver.”

It seems that Europe’s waterways,
Due to a broiling summer,
Are much too low for ships to ply;
For tourists, what a bummer!

We’ve booked a cruise some months away,
Though I have got a notion
Hot weather won’t be quite enough
To drain away the ocean!

Through the Soot

When living in any big city,
The air might be sooty or gritty,
So many will lose
Their apartment’s nice views
Due to windows with grime – what a pity!

It’s cumbersome keeping them clean.
All New Yorkers will know what I mean;
For the sparkle I got
When I Windexed, will not,
By tomorrow, retain any sheen.

So my vistas are subtly skewed,
Since with schmutz all my views are imbued.
Yet somehow, through the soot
I might notice afoot,
On a terrace, a neighbor who’s nude!

The Smallest Shofar

The rabbi had a lot of trouble
Blowing the shofar.
The congregation waited
But the sounds were just bizarre.

Some strangled bursts of air came out
But music was resistant.
The notes he tried to play, I’d say,
Were pretty non-existent.

He tried three shofars – all were long,
The pride of any ram,
Including those who wandered
In the time of Abraham.

With children gathered at his feet,
The rabbi seemed distraught,
For with his biggest audience,
His efforts came to naught.

But then he grabbed, a last resort,
The smallest shofar yet.
Without a fancy curvy shape,
What music could he get?

He took a breath and we all smiled –
A golden tone emerged,
Outshining all those shofars
On which somebody had splurged.

That little shofar saved the day;
Its sound was strong and clear
And hopefully, it will be first
To have a chance next year.

*a ram’s horn blown on the Jewish holiday
of Rosh Hashanah (the highlight of the service)

Rosh Hashanah

Buy a challah - make it round.
Cook some kasha - lightly browned.
Bake a brisket, with a mound
Of onions on the top.

Lots of vino to be downed.
Honey cakes to add a pound.
Hugs and wishes to abound 
And smiles that never stop.

Hear the shofar's plaintive sound.
Links to childhood somehow found.
Ready now - we're New Year bound -
New sins to which we'll cop!

Wash Out

The art fair's planned way in advance;
The artists, grateful for the chance
To have their artwork on display,
Just hope that buyers come their way.

I'm sure today they weren't pleased;
The weather gods were not appeased, 
For pouring rain fell from the skies
And crowds were sparse, not a surprise.

I stopped beside each covered booth
To get a glimpse, although, in truth, 
I really wasn't out to buy.
(No room upon my walls is why.)

It seemed most vendors didn't bail
But likely some made not one sale,
But that's the risk of outdoor shows;
We bow to Nature, I suppose.

Quiet Resistance

An Op-Ed in The New York Times,
Anonymously printed,
States that the White House mood is worse
Than what the press has hinted.

The President’s “amoral,”
And “erratic,” it declares,
With “ill-informed decisions”
Catching staffers unawares.

The author, an official
In the Trump administration,
Is hoping that what he reveals
Will jolt awake the nation.

Asserting he and others
Are resisting from within,
He wants the world to know
That what he claims is not just spin.

The President is seething now
With Tweeting calls of “Treason?”
Denouncing, too, The Times, for holding
Names back for no reason.

As speculation builds, so many
Choices would make sense.
There’s even talk the writer
May be Trump’s VP – Mike Pence.

Whoever wrote the piece, though,
Is a brave and daring soul
And hopefully, he’ll shake
Some people up, which was his goal.