Playing Pottsy

With a piece of sidewalk chalk,
We’d set the game in motion;
For summer in the city
Gave us neither pool nor ocean.

We’d draw the board so carefully,
One number in each box;
And for our markers, we would search
For little twigs or rocks.

The rules were very simple
And were followed to a T:
Your marker had to land right in box 1 –
That part was key.

And then you had to hop around
From boxes 2 through 8.
If both feet landed in a box,
You really sealed your fate.

For doing so, or stepping on a line,
As we would learn,
Would cause your pals to let you know
That you just lost your turn.

The second toss required
That your marker hit box 2.
Of course, if it touched any line,
That simply wouldn’t do.

But if your toss was clean, you then
Hopped right up to the end,
Until, with hops and tosses
You’d defeated every friend.

Amazing just to think of how
We kept ourselves amused
With sticks and rocks and sidewalk chalk
On urban avenues.

The Downside

I know I’m getting older;
The calendar can’t lie.
The years of staying out all night
Have simply passed me by.

My clothing still looks youthful.
My energy’s not low;
Yet I’m not fooling anyone
And this is how I know:

As soon as I step on the train,
I’m offered up a seat.
It’s chivalrous, polite and kind
But also bittersweet.

For even though I will accept,
(A subway seat’s like gold.)
That person’s really telling me,
“Hey lady – you look old!”

Though courtesy is wonderful,
Please don’t misunderstand -
I’d rather blend into the crowd,
Quite happy just to stand.

Exit to the Rear

In the front door, out the back
Is how it ought to be;
On New York City buses,
Many people disagree.

The city’s added buses
With three doors instead of two,
In hopes that riders might just do
What they’re supposed to do.

Announcements blare reminders:
Exit middle doors or rear,
But still folks clamber forward,
Just as if they didn’t hear.

The lines outside get longer
For all those about to board.
They glare at front-door exiters,
But they are just ignored.

It seems a simple problem,
The solution very clear:
The front door is for entering;
To exit, use the rear.

But people do just what they want
So we are in a fix,
For even New York City can’t
Teach some old dogs new tricks!

Memorial Day

My father was a soldier
And he fought in World War II.
He never shared his stories
Of the battles he’d been through.

We looked at all his pictures
With his uniform and gun,
Just horsin’ with his buddies
And pretending it was fun.

Yet even though the years had passed,
It still was a mistake
If he dozed off on the couch
And it was time to have him wake.

For a tiny little poke and bam!
He’d jump up in alarm,
In his head back in a foxhole,
Fighting off impending harm.

We kids learned early on
That we should tap him and step back;
In seconds he would realize
That it wasn’t an attack.

It made me wonder ‘bout the war
And all that he’d endured.
Those pictures kept the truth at bay,
Reality obscured.

I think about my dad
And every soldier on this day.
We can’t imagine how it feels
To muddle through the fray.

So we can only honor them
For what they sacrifice.
Not every soldier perishes,
But each one pays a price.

Wisdom of a Weed

A dandelion crossed the line,
Announcing, "I'm no weed!"
A snooty jonquil tsked, tut-tutting,
And replied, "Indeed!"

The daffodils began to laugh,
The tulips joined their mirth;
For all the flowers knew their place
While rooted in the earth.

The gentle daisy, wild herself,
Took dandelion aside;
"No matter what the others say,
Your charms can't be denied.

Your golden yellow adds a dash
Of color to a garden
And if some snub your presence,
Answer back, 'I beg your pardon.'

Just tell them that your greens are used
To make a tasty dish,
And children pick your fuzzy forms
And blow to make a wish."

The dandelion straightened up
And nodded with delight,
For even if she was a weed,
Well, that would be all right!

City Birds

A seagull on the railing
And a pigeon on the ground
Were surveying their surroundings
And were pleased at what they found.

“I have the better life,” thought gull,
“For here, along the river,
I have a view and all the food
The river can deliver.

Poor pigeon has to scrounge and peck.
He’s on the grubby streets.
He has to dodge the moving feet
Of everyone he meets.”

The pigeon, on the other hand,
Was thinking as he strutted.
If he had heard the seagull’s thoughts,
He’d likely have rebutted.

“I love my urban habitat.
My world is rich with choice.
On sidewalks, statues or in parks
I burble and rejoice.

There’s plenty here for me to eat.
I’ve got a million friends.
With all the teeming humans,
People-watching never ends.

The seagull, sadly, must rely
On waterways for food.
His meals are raw, while I indulge
In morsels barbecued.”

The pigeon cooed and bopped his head;
The gull took to the sky,
Each convinced that his existence
Made him quite a lucky guy.

Siren Songs

Sirens sang seductive songs
In ancient myths from Greece.
When you heard their melodies,
You couldn’t rest in peace.

Modern sirens interrupt
The flow of our routine.
Danger! is what they announce
And we know what they mean.

If coming from an ambulance
Or fire truck, they say,
“I’m in a rush, so hurry up
And clear out of my way!”

When air-raid sirens blared in wars,
That meant to get inside,
So citizens out on the streets
Would quickly run and hide.

The sirens’ modern meaning
With the past we can compare;
In either case, a siren’s song
Is telling us – beware!