A famous quote by Gertrude Stein
Is one I can abide.
It says that, “We are always
The” (exact) “same age inside.”
A film on Leonard Cohen I saw
Embraces this belief,
For age and all its facets
Is a dominant motif.
Performances of famous songs
Are featured back to back
By Cohen in youth and middle age
And on the senior track.
His passion never waivers;
He retains his slender frame
And his voice and repartee remain
Remarkably the same.
We can’t explain to someone young
That what our age does hide
Is all that makes us who we are,
Tucked, safe and sound, inside.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
Overheard outside the store,
Mother to her son,
"If it ain't a dollar..."
That's the sentence she'd begun.
You can figure out the rest,
Knowing what would fit -
"If it ain't a dollar, well,
Then you're not gettin' it."
Was the kid upset? No way;
He'd heard that line before.
He shrugged and went to check it out
Inside the dollar store.
I guess in this economy,
There'd be no risk in bettin'
That many things for lots of bucks
A lot of kids ain't gettin'.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
A building used to stand where now
A vacant lot exists,
Each scattered brick a remnant
Of the past that still persists.
Inhabitants were once ensconced
Within the phantom walls,
Who climbed the stairs each day and
Trudged along in dim-lit halls.
Aromas of assorted meals
Would waft from twice-locked doors,
Occasionally drifting
Up and down to different floors.
The blare of old-time TV shows
Would mingle with the noise
Of conversations or the thumps
Of raucous girls and boys.
But all is still and quiet now;
The vacant lot’s been sapped
Of all the lives that it once held,
Their joys and worries scrapped.
It bides its time, for very soon
Construction will begin
And walls will rise exactly where
The former ones have been.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
Yesterday I was in Rome,
The end of a vacation.
Today, though, I awoke at home,
All thanks to aviation.
I tracked my flight upon the map,
The little arrow moving
And didn’t take a single nap,
The choice of films improving.
They served two meals, a snack as well,
Plus drinks for our imbibing.
The hours slipped by, as you can tell
From what I’ve been describing.
The flight was smooth, the hassles few;
No turbulence or rocking,
Though sure enough, and right on cue,
Some jet lag’s come a’knocking.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
Here’s a start: a candy heart
Or long-stemmed bright-red roses;
Lingerie, to make her day
Romantic, one supposes.
Not too hard to find a card
With sentimental saying.
For a treat, go out to eat
(And naturally, you’re paying).
Better yet, go into debt
And buy a sparkly trinket.
Dim the lights, so appetites
Include champagne – then drink it.
Or, don’t fuss and be like us –
With years of love behind us,
We’ve agreed, we do not need
A token to remind us.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
Two penguin parents and their chick
Are bringing people ‘round
To ogle at their lifestyle
And the happiness they’ve found.
Australians are delighted
At the airing of this tale
For the parents, Sphen and Magic,
Are both penguins who are male.
Their obvious affection
Led their keepers to decide
To entrust them with an egg
Neglectful parents did provide.
They built a nest and alternated
Sitting ‘til it hatched,
Each spending near a month, a time
No other penguins matched.
Though humans often battle
Over whether gays should wed,
They should look to Sphen and Magic,
Seeing what their love has bred.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
The Holland Tunnel’s gussied up.
Its holiday display
Made some commuters angry
And they finally had their say.
Two wreaths were boldly planted
On the “O” and on the “U,”
So “Holland Tonnel’s” what appeared
To people driving through.
A Christmas tree was mounted, too,
On top of Holland’s “N.”
The “A” would be a better match,
The critics voiced again.
The ones in charge arranged a vote;
Results were tallied fast,
The decorations switched around
From the opinions cast.
The tree was moved, one wreath is gone;
There’s now a happy aura,
Which would be perfect if they had
Included a menorah!*
*symbol of Chanukah, a Jewish holiday
celebrated at this time of year
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
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!
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Other poets write of love
Or beauty, anguish, death;
Of yearning, angst or pity
Tangled up in every breath.
Other poets use their words
As weapons or as shields,
Gauging by reactions
All the power writing yields.
Other poets elevate
Their subjects way up high,
Seeking truth or explanations,
Answers to their aching “Why?”
I, though, on the other hand,
Just write what I observe –
The daily challenges in life
We do or don’t deserve.
Other poets’ lofty thoughts
May, more than mine, be read,
But I’ll continue rhyming
Like I always do, instead.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
I am a curled up comma
When I sleep, so give me pause.
I’m sentenced to insomnia
Which grips me in its clause.
I’m subject to a poor night’s rest;
That’s predicated on
The fact that I have tossed and turned
Each night that’s come and gone.
Don’t question if I’m in control
Or I’ll get out of joint
And answer very forcefully
With exclamation point.
The night’s a restless period
And though I barely sleep,
My colon and its semi-friends
My secrets somehow keep.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC