Walking in Someone's Shoes

Other people's problems
May be worse than yours or not,
A question of perspective
Which those outside haven't got.

It really isn't possible
To walk in someone's shoes 
Because the paths they follow
Wouldn't be the ones you'd choose.

We're stuck with our own hurdles 
Which we'll either crash or clear,
Struggles harder to surmount
Than how to others they appear.

The Bug Carousel

Henry picked a ladybug;
Hadley chose a fly.
Mine was striped but not a bug
I could identify.

Up and down and round and round,
With music jangling on,
We rode the carousel until
The time we had was gone.

Grandpa took the photos;
Nana thought up rhymes
And had to ride, on different bugs,
With Hadley two more times.

Closed

So many local stores have closed
It’s not the way that I supposed
The neighborhood would look today;
It feels more like I went away

And landed in a different place
Where unseen beings did erase
Familiar shops and theaters, too,
Replacing them, at least a few,

With chains you can find anywhere.
The local flavor isn’t there,
Yet brand-new tenants in the ‘hood
Will flock, as builders knew they would,

To shop there, spending endless hours
Furnishing their tall glass towers.
Time flies on, but more and more
I miss the way things were before.

New York Fast

I go to bed early;
Can’t drink too much wine.
They offer me seats on the bus.
(I decline.)

But when I’m out walking
I am unsurpassed
And proud that my gait
Still remains New York fast.

I zigzag past tourists
And step off the curb
When someone’s slow pace
Right in front does perturb.

I’m not in a rush
But the way that I move
Is how New Yorkers do it
When they’re in the groove.

So outta my way
And prepare to be passed
For as long as I’m able,
I’ll be New York fast!

Tuesday Evening

The barbershop is buzzing;
My guy is running late.
At home, my dinner’s waiting;
I am hungry, which I hate.

The traffic out the window
Zips by quickly, heading home.
I sit and watch the city breathe
And write my daily poem.

Grandiose Ideas

In the middle of the night
When I can’t get back to sleep
All these grandiose ideas
In my wired brain do creep.

I will clean out all my closets.
I will rearrange each drawer.
I will freshen up the furniture
And spiff up the décor.

I will organize my poetry
To fit into a book
And the children’s tale I’ve started
Will get more than just a look.

I will sit and read the travel guides
I’ve purchased for a trip.
I will self-impose some discipline
And really crack the whip

In the morning, though, reality
Comes crashing with a thwack.
The enthusiasm 2 a.m.
Inspires won’t come back.

This Isn't the Poem

This isn’t the poem that I wanted to post –
I wrote that one while in a huff.
I meant every word of it, held nothing back
But there’s no need to hear all my guff.

Perhaps “oversensitive” is how I am
Though as years pile on up I’m convinced
That the way that I feel is so rightfully real
That describing words need not be minced.

We all have our own methods of blowing off steam
And some happenings seem to ignite
Deep inside me the need to explode just a bit
In the way I know best – so I write.