Oh, trusty eraser,
You error replacer,
I thank you for clearing the way,
Preventing disgrace
When I cannot embrace
Words I’ve chosen which do not hold sway.

Just one swipe of your being
Gives way to me seeing
A blank where a blunder has been
So I’m once again free
To discover the key
Which will help me again to begin.

On computers, “delete”
Is a method discreet
To remove words that don’t make the grade
But eraser, you meet
All my needs as you greet
What my pencil has wrongly displayed.

Times Square was once a ****** place;
You wouldn’t go alone there.
When darkness fell, you held on or
You’d lose all that you owned there.

Today, though, it’s like Disney World,
With tourists, loud and surging.
There’s not an inch of space unfilled
Since everyone’s converging:

The families from Idaho,
The hawkers giving passes,
The Elmos and the messengers,
The bused-in high school classes…

The lunch-break workers, homeless dudes,
The theater geeks and shoppers,
The food carts, cabbies and the cops
And all the teenyboppers.

I love New York; don’t get me wrong
But oftentimes I wonder
If gentrifying Broadway
Might have been a whopping blunder.

The thing about a scarf is that
I know just how to buy one
But I don’t do it often ‘cause
I’m clueless how to tie one.

My friends look chic and classy
With a scarf around their throats.
For hiding saggy skin like mine
That style gets all my votes.

A neck stays warm when breezes blow
If it is scarf-protected
And sometimes boring outfits,
With a scarf, can be corrected.

Yet somehow I have never learned
The skills that are required
To knot a scarf so that my neck’s
A place to be admired.

We’re either born with savoir-faire
And everyone can spot
That stylishness so cool and hip
Or else, like me, we’re not.

The earth is flat. We'll never die
And unicorns exist.
Olympic athletes never cheat;
Decorum won't be missed.

The sun did shine when Donald Trump
Took office; folks all bowed
Because they formed the largest yet
Inauguration crowd.

When Colbert talked of "truthiness,"
He meant it as a joke.
When lies disguise as facts, our dreams
Will all go up in smoke.

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'.

(to the tune of "Love and Marriage")

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
Both seem oh-so-very highfalutin,
With such praises gushin.'
(Though who knows what was said in Russian?)

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
When you see them, you should start salutin.'
Since they both love power,
Admiration we should shower.

Why, why, why then do we hate them?
Just pick a reason.
Lie, lie, lie to us until we think
It must be treason.

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
If you think they're bad, you're right, **** tootin.'
Hawks of likewise feather
And I would bet that their duet
Has no Nyet yet - Bullies together!

Some folks follow all the rules;
Others like to bend 'em,
Feeling like it's only fools
Who staunchly would defend 'em.

Which way that you lean begins
When you're just out of diapers.
Followers fear that their sins
Will make them pay the pipers.

Benders, though, might get a rush
From tempting fate and winning,
Even if they have a brush
With blame at the beginning.

We each know where we belong
When rules are in our faces
And since we all hate being wrong,
We never will change places.

A terrorist’s a criminal and also a fanatic
Who gets his kicks by killing and creating quite a panic.
His hatred makes him dangerous but fear’s his only goal
And crowded places let him play a tragic leading role.

Our president, in his attempts to be a tough accuser,
Must think he sounds impressive with the label “evil loser”
But loser is an epithet from junior high school days
And such a term deserves derision, though he’d longed for praise.

The world will turn to leaders in a horrible event
In hopes that their response will calm things down and thus prevent
More dread and malice from their ranks, with words that will inspire,
Yet “loser” is the best to which our ruler can aspire.

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.

While on the bus, he tapped my arm
And asked me for a pen.
I gave him one and realized
I would not see it again.

He looked to be a homeless guy;
The pen was old and cheap
And had he asked, I would have
Told him it was his to keep.

A few stops later, pen in hand,
He found another seat
And never glanced my way again,
Our interchange complete.

I don’t give coins or dollars
When a beggar makes a plea
But the pen request resounded
With the writing part of me.

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

When you walk into my classroom
Man, you'd better be prepared.
If your poodle ate your homework,
You might be a little scared.

'Cause I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
My Colt is on my hip
And my trigger finger's itchy
So it's time to get a grip.

Better not be disrespectful
And forget it if you cheat.
No one messes with my lessons
'Cause I pack a little heat.

Yes, I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
But do not be alarmed.
See they're paying me a bonus
If, inside my class, I'm armed.

It's a crazy world we live in
But I thank the NRA
And our president, for making me
What I've become today.

That's a pistol packing pedagogue.
You shouldn't be too shocked
For at least my gun, like this idea,
Is less than halfway cocked!

If I wanted a reminder
That my life is far from bad
Then I got one when I walked right by
A boy out with his dad.

He was sitting in a stroller,
Looking old for where he sat,
When his father, very gently,
Made adjustments to his hat.

It was then that I took notice,
With the parent’s tender care,
That, most likely, chemo had deprived
The boy of any hair.

How can I complain of problems
When confronted with such grief?
From another man’s perspective,
We face ours with much relief.

Once in a while I wish I could dial
The day back to right where it started.
I’d then reconcile with things that did rile
And left me despondently-hearted.

It isn’t the norm but some days just swarm
With episodes rank and annoying
And in such a storm, it’s hard to transform
A dejection into something buoying.

Still, all things must pass and greener the grass
We will spot on our side of the fences.
We’ll relinquish the crass and begin, smooth as glass,
With a fresh start when morning commences.

A topic that’s still on the table
That we should discuss, since we’re able
Is whether or not
The prez that we’ve got
Is really a genius that’s stable.

A stable is also, of course,
A place that’s a home for a horse
And perhaps there, indeed,
Is a very smart steed
That’s a genius who grazes on gorse.

But that’s not what our leader, alas,
Meant when he let those famous words pass.
He was doing his part
Proving he is, like, smart
Like a horse (or that animal’s ***!)

Going to a wedding -
We will watch them tie the knot.
It’s nice to know that younger folk
Still give this thing a shot.

I’ll get myself all gussied up
(That word is proof I’m old),
Although I’m not the dress-up type
Most times, if truth be told.

The ceremony’s out of doors,
A garden the location
And then we’ll head inside to dine
And dance in celebration.

Originally weathermen
Predicted it would rain.
The sun decided otherwise,
The worries all in vain.

I’m sure it will be lovely
But the main thing that I think
Is, with all the preparation,
It’s all over in a blink.

Not everyone does it, but how I adore
A generous person who works in a store;
Specifically, one who's behind in the deli,
Who slices the meats and the cheese for the belly.

Today, for example, I ordered some cheese
And turkey, my grandson down next to my knees,
His hungry impatience apparent to all;
But just as it seemed he'd resort to a bawl

The counterman offered some turkey, a taste.
Disaster averted and hunger erased.
The guy was a stranger who sized up the scene
Or maybe, to him this was strictly routine.

It doesn't take much to connect with a smile
Yet to many, such actions are not in their style.
The deli employee, for such a small price,
Can improve someone's day just by cutting a slice.

I'm sitting on the terrace
Of the condo of my aunt
And trying to enjoy the breeze
But sadly, I just can't.

For next door there's a neighbor
I can't see, behind the wall,
Yet his smoking habit somehow seems
To permeate us all.

He obviously steps outside
So all his inside air
Stays relatively clean; at least
The smoke won't hover there.

But what he doesn't think of
Is about the smoke he blows,
Or when it wafts exactly
Where it is that vapor goes.

If he would ask, I'd answer
'Cause no matter what he thinks,
It's invasive and intrusive
And to top it off, it stinks!

I'm ready for some music;
The radio's all set,
But begging me for money
Is all that I can get.

The pleading is relentless,
Yet does beseeching serve?
For constant supplications
Really get on my last nerve.

To turn off their entreaties,
Subtle as a striking sledge,
I simply switch the station;
No allegiance will I pledge.

In Hamlet’s famed soliloquy,
“To be or” (maybe) “not to be,”
He questions life – is taking breath
A better deal than choosing death?

Another quote, among a slew,
Is this: “To thine own self be true,”
A brilliant and perceptive thought
Which few obey, though most are taught.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
Actors cry on stages played on,
Which refers to both the play
And also to our lives each day.

Some Shakespeare gems to celebrate
His birthday, which was on this date.
Though some believe that’s all a sham,
I don’t! Am I a fan? Iamb!

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.

Today the Queen of Soul has passed
And all the fans she has amassed
Feel saddened by this latest news,
Since she was one we hate to lose.

As listeners, we did rejoice
When hearing her distinctive voice
And she's the person, I suspect,
We think of with the word "Respect."

For R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Shouted out, we'd all agree,
Says it all, what we all need
In life, in order to succeed.

Aretha sang it loud and strong.
She made an anthem of that song
And no one has improved it yet;
In tribute, we will not forget.

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.

The passengers were in their seats
When something was announced –
Employees had to fly and so
Four people would be bounced.

Requests with compensation
Met with silence, so United
Chose some “random” ticket holders
To deplane and thus ignited

Quite a controversy, since one man
Just out and out refused.
His ****** removal left him
Furious and bruised.

The gentleman, a doctor,
Had some patients to attend to.
United workers didn’t care;
Nor did they pretend to.

Of course, the scene was filmed
And now those so-called “friendly skies”
Will be filled with cancellations
As the rage intensifies.

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!

We took a risk; it worked out fine
But not without some stressing,
For everything in life requires
A fair amount of guessing.

Without such chances, we remain
Upon an even keel,
A little bored, perhaps, but hey,
Quite safe – that’s the appeal.

I’m usually risk-averse
But sometimes I get shaken
From my comfort zone and afterwards,
Feel glad it was forsaken.

Here’s to the mothers who sit there alone –
No flowers, no candy, no calls on the phone.
Here’s to the moms in a hospital bed
Who would rather be anyplace other instead.

Here’s to the soldier moms, hoping for smiles
On a screen or an I-phone, connecting the miles.
Here’s to the mamas locked up in a jail,
Convinced that their cards just got lost in the mail.

Here’s to all mothers and nanas and aunts
United today by just one circumstance –
They have shared in the life of a child in some way
And deserve recognition, somehow, on this day.

Oh, to be a person who
Stays cool, calm and collected,
Instead of one whose jangly nerves
Has stressing-out perfected.

To be the one who never sweats,
Whose heart won’t race on faster,
Anticipating something wrong,
From trifle to disaster.

I’d like to feel relaxed and not
Stretched taut with fret and worry
And take my time without the need
To feel that I must hurry.

To rationally make a choice
And never second guess it;
To analyze a situation,
With no need to stress it.

Oh, to be that person!
What a joy that it would be!
The only drawback is, of course,
That it would not be me!

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.

We teach our children not to stare
But human nature bests us
For seeing someone not the norm,
Despite our efforts, tests us.

The wheelchair-bound, the little folk,
The scarred and the tattooed;
To all who differ from the rest,
Our eyes get drawn and glued.

Of course, we quickly turn away
(Except the rude, who don’t)
But even just that little glance
Reminds us that we won’t

Be able, from our fragile perch
Upon the status quo,
To understand how life must feel
When people view you so.

Some noises startle, jolt or jar
While others soothe or soften.
We perk up for the new but tune out
Those we hear quite often.

To locals, city sirens make
The tiniest impression
But visitors consider them
A barbarous transgression.

The hum of traffic rolling by
To urbanites equates
With cricket chirps or chickadees
In countryside debates.

The noises that surround us
Are as varied as our homes
Or the subjects and the wording
Of a plethora of poems.

Berlin's a place that contradicts -
It's vibrant, but it's haunting,
The paradigm of hipness, with
A history most daunting.

The damage done in World War II
Reduced it to a rubble
And then the famous wall went up,
Which led to years of trouble.

You can't forget (and never should)
The **** reign of terror.
Memorials abound atoning
For that awful era.

Yet everything has been restored.
You won't see ancient buildings,
But modern takes of what was lost,
Replete with domes and gildings.

This is a city worth a trip,
With coolness overriding,
Defiant that to all the world
Its past will not be hiding.

It’s mounted in my neighborhood,
A market’s one-time lure
To coax a customer with kids
To shop inside the store.

I haven’t seen it used but once
But patiently it waits
Until it’s fed the money
That the coin slot indicates.

And then I guess the gears kick in
To simulate a ride,
Quite thrilling for the city child
Who’s happily astride.

Yet much more time’s spent frozen,
Looking lonely and forlorn,
Its fading paint a testament
To all the butts it’s borne.

A remnant from another age,
This pony was designed
To entertain the children of
An era left behind.

I believed Anita Hill;
So did all my friends.
History repeats itself;
We know how it ends.

Watching makes my stomach turn
For loyalists won’t budge
And thus the Court will have on board
Another suspect judge.

It really isn’t a surprise
When those in our regime
Distort the truth with consequences,
In this case, Supreme.

My husband bought some skinny jeans,
The kind **** Jagger’d wear,
Which cling real tight from ankle
To the thigh and derriere.

They came today, from Amazon;
He couldn’t wait to try them,
Especially to prove me wrong.
(I’d told him not to buy them.)

I must admit that they look great
And so I couldn’t scoff
But it was pretty funny
When he tried to take them off.

It took a few attempts with lots of
Tugs and yanks and wiggles,
Providing me with quite a bout
Of told-you-so-type giggles.

I’m sure to him he’ll get rewards
In compliments a’plenty,
But he would have it easier
If he were more like 20!

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.

You don’t need fancy toys or food
To entertain your friends or brood,
Just lots of real attention paid
To reinforce connections made.

For love is felt when it goes deep
And every kinship that you keep
Will thrive when nurtured like a plant;
Indifference, though, will disenchant.

Forget the showy gifts and treats.
Affection paired with time completes
Attachments goods cannot replace;
The truth in this we should embrace.

Across the street, on scaffold rigs,
Construction workers hover
And if they’d glance my way, this is
What they just might discover:

A bedroom filled with books and pictures
All in frames of black,
A quilted bed and clutter
I’ve been meaning to attack.

And then, of course, upon a chair,
The other sight they’d see,
With pad and pencil, jotting words,
A rhyming poet – me!

My grandson traces in a book
To build up pencil skills.
From one car to another
Every wavy line instills

A feeling of accomplishment,
Preparing him to write.
He's like a nested fledgling
Not quite ready to take flight.

I watch him growing; with each step
That baby he replaces
And soon enough, his childhood
Will exist in merely traces.

We get there with the kids asleep,
Too early for the sun.
We have some coffee quietly,
To not wake anyone.

When Hadley wakes, my husband goes
To scoop her if she cries.
I hear her giggle with delight
From tickles he supplies.

But Henry, ever since the time
He moved into a bed,
Gets up and lifts the shades to greet
The day that lies ahead.

He flips the light switch, turns the ****
And opens up his door,
Then sits himself right by the stairs
Upon the hallway floor.

He knows on Fridays I’ll be there
But doesn’t make a sound,
Just sits and waits most patiently
Until I come around.

Of course, I listen carefully
To hear a telltale clue,
So he’s not waiting long before
We both come into view.

His face lights up and so does mine;
I scamper up the stairs.
We share a great big hug-a-mug;
Nothing else compares.

The time will come, as Henry grows,
And much to my regret,
That he will tire of this routine
Though I will not forget.

Within my bags of quilting stuff
Are lots of little scraps,
The remnants of some projects
Which I saved, thinking perhaps…

I would use them in the future
Like they once did long ago
When they gathered snips of fabric
And a patchwork quilt they’d sew.

It was done then from necessity
So nothing went to waste
And I’m sure that many beds
With scrap-made blankets have been graced.

But realistically I realized,
Without patience or privation,
I should ditch these scraps for my idea
Was just a fabrication.

I learned to type the proper way
Instead of hunt and peck,
Most often on a manual.
(Electric was high tech.)

But nowadays when texting
I’m pathetic as one comes
For I seem to be incapable
Of writing with my thumbs.

So every message I compose
My pointer finger taps,
The right one only, I should add –
No tangled overlaps.

I marvel when observing
All the mainly younger folk
As they thumb their words so quickly
While I, turtle-like, do poke.

Traveling can be a pain,
Particularly on a plane.
You plan, you pack, you park, you wait
Until you find the proper gate.

You clutch ID and boarding pass
Then zigzag through the lines en masse,
Removing coats and belts and shoes
And pray you're not the one they choose...

A "random" check - you're patted down
By someone surly, with a frown
That's meant to let you know she's ******
'Cause you might be a terrorist.

You make it through and grab your stuff
And find a seat. There aren't enough
So some folks stand 'til they announce
The boarding call; all flyers pounce.

The goal's to make it so your case
Will squeeze into a vacant space
And then you sit, your legs all squished -
Not quite as stress-free as you'd wished.

And yet - some time away awaits,
Well-worth whatever aggravates.
A change of scene, some treats to find
And all the humdrum left behind.

This little break is like a gift;
Your spirits get a needed lift.
The days will pass, the time will fly
And soon again, you'll surf the sky.

Some poems don’t get written
For the consequence might be
Rejection or dismissal
Of my thoughts or else of me.

I do not have the courage
To express the way I feel
When there may be questions raised
Of what my writing might reveal.

I can dance around the subject
With a vague and subtle clue
And I must admit I’ve done so
In a couple or a few.

But for certain topics there is just
No way to even start
So I keep the hurt inside me,
Tucked in tight inside my heart.

I’m riding the subway (the 4)
Where you never know what is in store.
A character stood
Ranting loudly he should
Have a seat, which I tried to ignore.

His ravings got louder until
Someone rose to accede to his will.
Though he sat with a plop
His harangue didn’t stop
And we passengers’d all had our fill.

But the woman who sat to his right
Started cursing with all of her might,
Saying either he’d quit
Or she’d have such a fit
That she’d slice him to bits in a fight.

A Samaritan did intercede
So we never saw anyone bleed.
When the doors opened wide
He stepped quickly outside
With the ranter, a very cool deed.

The female, though, kept up her shtick;
Her anger was what made her tick.
I questioned the stars
Thinking, with all these cars,
Why was this one the one I did pick?

Plan on online purchase?
Well, just click on the reviews.
It helps to hear what people say –
What have you got to lose?

Your mind, perhaps, for you’ll find out
Opinions vary widely,
From those described most glowingly
To others penned most snidely.

The bar graph gives percentages
Of how the ratings fare
So follow the conclusions
Or reject them, if you dare.

For everyone’s impressions
Will be different and distinct
And those who thus ignore them
Will be very soon extinct.

Outside the confines of our homes
The world just barrels by.
Events from news reports
Are far away and don’t apply.

We watch them from our bubbles,
Witness sorrow and despair.
The sadness fills the screen
But we are here and that is there.

Unless, of course, we’re visiting
Or living in the place
Where destruction, death and anguish
Have descended, face to face.

Only then are we reminded
That, though victims may be reeling,
Not a soul who isn’t in it
Can imagine what they’re feeling.

Across the street, on scaffold rigs,
Construction workers hover
And if they’d glance my way, this is
What they just might discover:

A bedroom filled with books and pictures
All in frames of black,
A quilted bed and clutter
I’ve been meaning to attack.

And then, of course, upon a chair,
The other sight they’d see,
With pad and pencil, jotting words,
A rhyming poet – me!

It’s brilliantly sunny but blustery cold.
The branches are heartily swaying;
And though I grow older, I’m younger than old
(Though I still try to cover the graying).

There’s plenty to time left to savor the days
No matter the sky or the weather,
Though I cannot be sure if a crystal ball gaze
Might reveal myself snapped from my tether.

The future’s a question mark, there’s no debate
So I guess I should live in the now
And delight in the dance that the branches create
For as long as my time will allow.

This is how you write a poem:
Let your feelings flow.
Follow what your mind pours out
Wherever it may go.

Choose your words most carefully;
Try to not repeat.
Watch the rhythm but don't fret
About iambic feet.

Rhyme if rhyme is what you love
Though dangers sometimes lurk;
If your rhyming words sound forced
Your poem will just not work.

Anyone can write a poem;
Trying has no cost
But reality assures
We're not all Robert Frost.