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!

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.

An Op-Ed in The New York Times,
Anonymously printed,
States that the White House mood is worse
Than what the press has hinted.

The President’s “amoral,”
And “erratic,” it declares,
With “ill-informed decisions”
Catching staffers unawares.

The author, an official
In the Trump administration,
Is hoping that what he reveals
Will jolt awake the nation.

Asserting he and others
Are resisting from within,
He wants the world to know
That what he claims is not just spin.

The President is seething now
With Tweeting calls of “Treason?”
Denouncing, too, The Times, for holding
Names back for no reason.

As speculation builds, so many
Choices would make sense.
There’s even talk the writer
May be Trump’s VP – Mike Pence.

Whoever wrote the piece, though,
Is a brave and daring soul
And hopefully, he’ll shake
Some people up, which was his goal.

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?

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!

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!

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.

Sitting on a shady bench,
I watch the people pass -
Every shape and color,
Strolling sweatily en masse.

Shirtless daddies, many fat,
With bellies hanging out,
Arms and legs and backs tattooed
(And other parts, no doubt).

Moms deciding where to go,
Cajoling tots in line;
Babies, toddlers, school-age kids
In every stage of whine.

Heat pours down and patience frays.
Wait! Here's a parade.
Cookie Monster, Ernie, Bert
And Oscar make the grade.

Then it's back to water slides
And one more carousel.
Squeals and shrieks of joy erupt -
It's fun! (or can't you tell?)

Hungry! Thirsty! Feed me now!
Nacho stand is closed.
See the stress within the smiles
Of pictures poorly posed.

Still, the fam's together
And we're mostly having fun.
I check my watch - 6 hours left
Until this day is done.

A movie’s like a novel
With a vista to explore
Which, assuming it’s a good one,
Leaves you wanting even more.

Yet I’ve recently discovered
Something else that quite transports –
It’s a genre that at film fests
Is referred to as “the shorts.”

Several films are shown together
For an hour and a half,
An assemblage that’s so varied
You may cry or scream or laugh.

Every subject matter’s different;
All the settings are, as well
And each film’s uniqueness feels
Like the director’s cast a spell.

Yet just like a full-length feature,
Each short gem seems quite complete
And, when viewed as a collection,
It’s a cinematic treat.

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!

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.

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 ***!)

You’re teaching a class
And in someone barges.
You want to protect
Both yourself and your charges.

So what do you do?
Grab your bucket of stones
And soon the intruder’s
A bucket of bones.

Your students can help
If they each grab a rock,
Assuming they aren’t
Immobile with shock.

Just think how effective
Such tactics can be!
We all can join in
On a stone-throwing spree!

Of course, if the trespasser’s
Wielding a gun,
The pupils (and you)
Might be tempted to run.

For certainly studies
(Most likely) have shown
A bullet’s more lethal
Than any thrown-stone.

And let’s not forget
There’s a lot here at stake.
An innocent guest
Could be ****** by mistake.

This foolish idea
A school district condoned.
Makes me wonder if they
Were in other ways ******.

Which train will come, I’ll try to guess
But that won’t really help my stress.
It’s building up as crowds surround
Creating quite the urban mess.

The tourists all must think we’re nuts
To cram on platforms where such gluts
Of humans stream without an end
To pack so tight we’re touching butts.

Announcements say the train is near.
We crane our necks; no lights appear.
Then suddenly the rumble sounds
Of braking by the engineer.

The subway’s stuffy, cramped and late.
It does its best to aggravate
But all that we can do is wait
And that is what we do; we wait.

(apologies to Robert Frost)

Right before a suicide
Might something have been said
To keep that person on this side
Of life, instead of dead?

We hear about the famous ones
Who seemed to have it made,
Yet even they succumbed despite
The talents they displayed.

Inside each person’s head there is
A privileged domain
Which holds a private treasury
Of suffering and pain.

I guess that when it overflows
Its owner cannot cope
And suicide is what takes place
When anguish crushes hope.

You’re out to stroll or on a bike,
A lovely day, a sky of blue,
When suddenly, a terror strike
And sadly, that’s the end of you.

We hear the news; we’re stunned and shocked.
The TV shows the blurry tape.
The perpetrator’s plan, half-cocked,
Did not allow him to escape.

Investigations start, but still,
The wounded ache, the dead are gone.
We’re horrified, but know the drill –
We move along and carry on.

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.

I wonder, as we near the 4th of July,
If the British take note, with a sonorous sigh,
Regretting the fact of the colonies lost
All those long years ago at a terrible cost.

In light of political forces today,
I think it’s more likely that what they would say
Is, “Whew! We were lucky we cut off those ties
And we thought that their accents were all to despise!”

The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.

On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).

The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.

Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.

Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!

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.

If Washington came back to life
I wonder how he’d feel
To be pictured on a quarter
And a dollar bill – surreal!

Abe Lincoln, too, would bust a gut
If he became alive,
To see his visage plastered
On a penny and a five.

And Alexander Hamilton,
If he could live again,
Would love the play about him
And his picture on the ten.

Had Andrew Jackson ditched his grave,
He’d likely argue plenty
About his image front and center
On our nation’s twenty.

Ben Franklin, though, would be real proud
If he came back to earth,
To find out that a hundred dollar bill
Proclaims his worth.

McKinley’s portrait graces
Money that we rarely use.
(I’ve never even seen that bill –
Five hundred smackeroos!)

Poor Jefferson, despite his wealth
And all he got to do,
Unfortunately got his mug
On the elusive two!

The pictures on our currency
Have long been set in place.
Thank goodness or our current prez
Would swap ‘em for his face.

I watch the morning people
Freshly showered and caffeined
As they head into their day
While somewhere all the fates convened…

Deciding who would sink or swim
Or who would rise above,
Whose health or job would suffer
Or who’d find that one true love.

Each daybreak holds such promise
But as hours tick away,
We realize most of life takes place
Where we have zero sway.

I watch the evening people
Trudging slowly home from work.
There they’ll prep to face tomorrow
Where the fates already lurk.

Obama makes a speech and earns
Four hundred thousand bucks.
Of course he is entitled but
The whole world sighs and clucks.

I frankly don’t think anyone
Deserves that kind of dough
But obviously that’s the rate
For people in the know.

It saddens me a little bit
For such a fee seems greedy,
Especially for someone who
Once championed the needy.

Ideally he should give his talk,
Accepting what they pay,
Then find a worthy charity
And give it all away.

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.

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

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.

The tix are free so people wait
For hours, sitting on the grass,
But we are old; to compensate
There is a bench to plop one’s ***.

By half-past eight, the benches filled,
The ticket-seekers settle in
While late arrivals, not too thrilled,
Allow the side-show to begin.

They make us move so they can squeeze
Their bodies on a proper seat,
Without the courtesy of “Please”
(Ticked-off, no doubt, at their defeat).

A flutist sets his stand and plays;
A grouchy woman bids him cease.
He grumbles when nobody pays,
His music, though, a sweet release.

The conversations ebb and flow.
We people watch (the pickings fine).
I bond with folks I do not know;
That happens on the senior line.

The hours pass; we get our tix.
We’ll meet again when it gets dark
To share in summer’s yearly fix
Of seeing Shakespeare in the Park.

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!

What I enjoy might very well be
Something you despise.
The things that light me up may be
Unpleasant to your eyes.

But that’s what makes the world go round;
Variety’s the spice.
What you find unappealing
Could, to me, be paradise.

There are no rights or wrongs when you
Account for someone’s taste.
Endeavors at persuasion,
In most cases, are a waste.

It’s best for all to nod our heads,
Accepting as a fact
That what one finds repellent
May another thus attract.

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.

In London, the crowds got to swoon
At a 20-foot orange balloon
Of a baby, quite plump,
Looking very like Trump
As he often appears – a buffoon.

His huge mouth is agape with a scream,
Surely spouting a foul-sounding theme
And his little hand grasps
What inspires some gasps –
That’s his phone, with its Twitter-type stream.

So the “welcome” the planners conceived
And that Londoners thereby achieved
Was a slap in the face
Bringing Donald disgrace
And the chance to see how he’s perceived.

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.

This poem doesn’t want to get written.
It’s fighting with all that it’s got.
Apostrophes, commas,
Their daddies and mamas
Are joining to give it a shot.

I’m dragging each word that’s resisting
And plunking it down on the page.
So every letter
I’ve forced, with a fetter,
To take its place up on the stage.

This poem didn’t want to get written.
Its protests were ***** and loud
But the pencil I wield
Made hostilities yield
For the poet’s compulsion’s unbowed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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!

She stands there in knickers,
A cap on her head,
Looking tomboyish, truant and tough
And a cigarette dangles
From unsmiling lips
To warn all she’s not taking their guff.

It’s a sepia snapshot,
The 20’s, I’d guess,
The photographer long in his grave,
But the girl is my grandmother
Though I’ll admit
It’s an image she’d choose not to save.

All the years that I knew her,
So quiet and prim,
Don’t quite match with the face in the frame.
That’s the reason I treasure
This photo of old,
‘Cause both Jennys were one and the same.

The railroad ride was smooth as silk
Though it was ten degrees.
The train was just a minute late –
No time to feel the freeze.

We passed through towns of snow-topped homes
While sitting warm and snug,
The ticket taker’s attitude
As friendly as a hug.

But at Grand Central, we got off
And had to make a switch
To ride the city subway;
Let’s enumerate each glitch:

The crowded platform packed with people
Cursing the delays;
The trash-strewn tracks accruing more
On which the rats will graze.

Announcements stating that all trains
Are locals, not express;
Yet finally, we cram on board
As all those bodies press.

We go one stop and then the doors
On certain cars won’t close.
We’re ordered off and stumble out –
Well, that’s the way it goes.

We grab a cab and make it home
And think of those two trains –
Whatever calm the rail provides,
The subway quickly drains.

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.

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.

You see them perched in windows
Of so many types of stores
But really, they don’t blend at all
In anyone’s decors.

They range in size from tiny
To those taking lots of space,
All with the same expression – blank!
Imprinted on each face.

One waving paw moves up and down
Ad nauseam, to me,
I guess to greet the passersby
In perpetuity.

It blows my mind how such a fad
Gains traction and persists.
My hat goes off to every shop
With keeper who resists.