Outside Ballet

I'm waiting here outside ballet
And while my grandchild twirls away
My pencil gets to do its thing;
Some thoughts to paper it will bring.

The little girls, all dressed in pink,
Adorably are on the brink
Of leaving toddlerhood behind;
It goes so fast, it blows my mind.

And I, though, on the other hand,
Have somehow managed now to land
Instead of at a door marked "Stage,"
At one that boldly says "Old Age."

My ballerina days have passed;
The lots are in, the die's been cast
But lucky me, I can enjoy
My most delicious girl and boy. 

Anyone Can Write a Poem

Anyone can write a poem
And think that it’s fantastic
Though often others may be slightly
Less enthusiastic.

For inner critics sometimes fail
To note that something’s missing
And few admit their efforts
Might, in fact, be worth dismissing.

And so the world is filled with poems,
Most internet-inspired,
Where talent is an asset
Neither looked-for nor required.

Of course, since I am one who writes,
You may think I’ve concluded
That I’m just like all the others
But then you would be deluded!

Busy or Not

Certain weeks I’m busy
And I run around a lot
So I’m either in a tizzy
Or I’m wondering why not.

For when plans are sometimes lacking
You might think I’d just relax
But I sent those calm genes packing
And I’m antsy to the max.

Though, with age in the equation,
Staying home at times appeals
And I don’t need much persuasion
If the cold nips at my heels.

Yet it’s balance I am seeking,
Busy interspersed with not.
Too much either way I’m freaking
(Which I tend to do a lot).

To and Fro

He couldn’t fit his shopping cart
And suitcase through the door
And screamed at the conductor
(Quite a challenge to ignore).

Once seated, he spread out and then
Removed his socks and shoes.
Assessing just how nuts he was,
This added to the clues.

I glanced his way and sorrily,
I somehow caught his eye.
He then began describing
That the air was awful. Why?

The radiation on the train
Was there to make us sick,
But only some could feel it –
Those intelligent and slick.

I transferred cars while he still raved
And finished out my ride
In uneventful fashion
‘Til the trip home did provide

Another whacko, eating fries
And blaring on her phone
A news report in which
A screeching baby had been shown.

Incessantly, that baby wailed;
She played it on a loop.
I hoped that some brave soul
Would to the rescue somehow swoop.

But no – I had to listen
For we urbanites pretend
That it’s normal on the subway
For the crazies to offend.

Itching

It might be the climate
Or maybe the heat
Which blasts our apartment
And will not retreat…

But every winter,
My skin starts to itch
And nothing relieves it.
(I’ve heard every pitch.)

I’ve tried every lotion
And many a cream
Yet still I’m so itchy
I just want to scream.

It’s not a disease
But a seasonal woe.
When spring rolls around,
It will vanish, I know.

Still, three months of scratching,
Which no one condones,
Will leave me near skinless,
A bucket of bones!

The Alphabet

We teach our kids the alphabet
When they are very young
And pretty soon, its singsong tune
Just rolls right off the tongue.

Those letters lodge inside our brain,
Immovable, unless
Some injury occurs to cause
That organ some distress.                                                   

If that takes place, all info stored
Gets jostled to and fro
And we may not recall so much
Of what we used to know…

And that includes the alphabet.
Amazing as it seems,
The basics may be out of reach,
Just like the stuff of dreams.

Those ABC’s that dangle
Right beyond the injured’s scope
May be grasped with perseverance
And a healthy dose of hope.

Opening Gifts

When we open a gift
We have somehow acquired
The skills to pretend
It is something desired.

But it may take some time
And some patience to teach
Little kids that the truth
We must now and then breach.

Yet before that occurs
Children often will blurt
How they really do feel,
Though their statements may hurt.

With some guidance and practice,
They’ll earn by and by
That where gifts are concerned,
It’s much better to lie.