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a daily posting of poems of thoughts, observations and reflections on living
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A country music fan is not
A title I would claim
And yet today I visited
Its well-known Hall of Fame.
For here I am in Nashville,
In the south and far from home,
But I believe in following
That adage, "When in Rome..."
Surprisingly, I much enjoyed
The various displays.
The folks that made it happen sure
Deserve a lot of praise.
Though lots of boots, guitars and hats
Belonged to I don't know,
Still, I loved this fine museum
And think everyone should go!
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 pissed
'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.
I once was young
And now I'm not.
That knowledge gets
To me a lot.
My hair is thin,
My skin is lined
And if you ask,
Of course I mind!
My knee hurts when
I walk the stairs.
Complaining's useless -
No one cares.
Forgive my mood -
It's evident
That there are times
One needs to vent.
Your sound flew through the air,
A blaring auditory missile,
Though no one that I noticed
Seemed to cringe or even bristle.
The driver of the bus, however,
Waited just a bissel,*
Enough to let on board the man
Inspiring this epistle.
*little bit in Yiddish
The penthouse of Donald J. Trump
Has pillows quite plump for your rump
But it’s filled to the hilt
With the wrong type of gilt
Which is why I’ve been stuck in a slump.
If the guilt I’d prefer were displayed
Then I wouldn’t feel quite so betrayed
But the sparkle of gold
Even fake, I am told,
Is sufficient, at times, to persuade.
In the White House, perhaps we’ll be graced
With some glitz in Melania’s taste
And there’ll be no debate
Once America’s great
All that gilt will be warmly embraced.
Took my morning walk beneath
A slow but steady rain,
Protected by my new umbrella,
Carried not in vain.
Changed into relaxing clothes
At home and passed the hours
Catching up on reading, sheltered
From some piercing showers.
Packed my suitcase for a trip
And solved some crosswords, too.
A rainy day’s the perfect time
For things one needs to do.
I could accomplish just as much
If sunshine filled the sky
But in that case, to be indoors
I couldn’t justify.
Cyber Monday’s almost gone
So everyone at Amazon
Can take a minute and a breath;
(I’m sure they must be worked to death!)
But as the holidays approach,
Some frenzied shoppers will encroach
On all the patience of the clerks;
(For out there, there are lots of jerks!)
Let’s hope that stores and online sites
Help customers procure delights
For friends and kin without much grief;
(And after New Year’s – what relief!)
We married on this date, though then
It was Thanksgiving Day.
The meal, of course, was turkey
With all trimmings on display.
The family flocked together
To observe us say “I do,”
Though with the traffic, it’s amazing
Everyone got through.
So what’s the date to celebrate?
It is a bit confusing.
The holiday itself seems like
The day we should be choosing.
‘Cause each year on Thanksgiving,
I remember when we wed
And I wish we’d chosen any other
Day for that instead.
Yet tonight we’ll go to dinner
And reflect on our mistake,
Forcing folks to sacrifice the pies
To eat our wedding cake.
I’ve visited some writers’ homes
And what I love the best
Is not the room where they relaxed
Or ate or slept or dressed…
But rather where they sat and wrote –
Their typewriter and desk
And what their window framed,
Often a view most picturesque.
Today it was Pearl Buck’s estate
And staring at the keys
Of the Royal perched upon her desk
(She’d brought from overseas)…
I realized it won’t be the same
For authors of today.
To gawk at someone’s iPad
Will the fans come out and pay?
Perhaps I do romanticize
But there’s a certain charm
To a writer’s clacking which, alas,
A P.C. does disarm.
I don't like all varieties,
Especially the green,
But it's a treat to see them
On the appetizer scene.
My favorites are the Nicoise,
Very small and brownish-black.
I can polish off a bowl of them
And still keep coming back.
I'm up for trying other types
And, though, I won't throw fits,
My preference is very strong
That they retain their pits.
For I'll reveal a secret
That I've not before admitted -
I can't respect an olive
That has somehow gotten pitted.
We ate the turkey and the sides,
We watched the big parade,
Conversed with all the grown-ups
And with grandkids laughed and played.
A typical Thanksgiving
But quite special nonetheless
And as a guest, I didn’t cook
Or clean up all the mess!
Of all the holidays, this one
Unites both kith and kin,
Reminding us of where we are
In life, and where we’ve been.
When relatives and friends are
Much too far for face to face,
A few words through the ether’s
All you need for touching base.
Of course, that type of contact
Will not ever quite replace
A real-life meeting with a kiss
Or cozy warm embrace.
Still, when holidays approach
It is a saving grace
To have access to technology
Which helps us all touch base.
I haven’t heard the songs yet
But the trees are out for sale.
The autumn goods are off the shelves
And winter scenes prevail.
The stores are filled with ornaments
And ads are pushing toys.
Salvation Army bells will soon
Compete with city noise.
It seems that every year
The Christmas season gets here earlier,
Resulting in a population
Grouchier and surlier.
Instead of a holiday host, be a guest.
Believe me, it’s so much less taxing.
In lieu of the shopping and cooking and such,
You’ll have plenty of time for relaxing.
You don’t have to make your home sparkle and shine
For no one will come to inspect it
And you needn’t despair if the food isn’t good;
It’s not yours, so let people reject it.
Of course, you’ll contribute some wine or dessert
And will offer to help clear the table
Since the hostess will be so exhausted by then,
She might feel that she isn’t quite able.
There’s only one drawback which needs to be said
‘Cause, despite the great meal and the laughter,
You get to go home to a fridge that reflects
Not one leftover for the day after!
The snow came swirling down last night
And blanketed the trees in white.
The whipping wind blew wild and free,
Obscuring visibility.
We didn’t have too far to drive
And made it, glad to be alive.
The house was cozy, snug and warm,
The perfect place to watch the storm.
The morning beckoned and the sight
Of sparkling trees brought such delight,
Their charm enhanced, to some degree,
By Nature’s wrath, I guarantee.
A member of the cast
Of "Hamilton," addressing Pence,
Implored him to do right by all,
On both sides of the fence.
With knowledge of how he believes,
It made a lot of sense
Although, from some reactions,
Seems the Veep-elect was tense.
Advice to other bigwigs
In Trump's inner circle, hence -
When in New York, prepare yourselves
For cries of recompense.
P.S. The only bone here,
And of course I need to pick it,
Is how, to "Hamilton" was Pence
Allowed to snag a ticket!
I steal some time to write a poem
Though other chores are waiting,
For when I have a moment free
There is no hesitating.
I grab my pencil and my pad
And hope ideas are flowing.
Of course, at times, I have no clue
Just where they’ll end up going.
The papers waiting to be read,
What I need from the store,
The emails, dishes, floors to clean
Will have to wait some more.
‘Cause once my poem is written,
Other chores I will attack.
I can take the time I’ve stolen
And begin to pay it back.
Would-be actors read for roles
And give it all they’ve got,
Hoping that their name will fill
A vacant casting slot.
They gesture, pace, project and still,
Some don’t get any part.
Rejection hurts; it’s very hard
To not take it to heart.
Though confidence is needed
Just as well as some ambition,
Determination is the key
To face the next audition.
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!
A group has a dynamic
That gets set as time goes by,
But sometimes something changes;
Then we sit and wonder why.
A member of the group departs
Without an explanation
Despite the history of
35 years of duration.
We can’t expect to stay the same
For people grow apart,
But it only takes one apple
To upset the applecart.
I watch the news on PBS
The rare times I’m inclined,
For their reporters are, to me,
Well-spoken and refined.
Election times are when I turn
To listen to their panel
And there’s no need to ever feel
I need to change the channel.
Gwen Ifill was an anchor there,
As classy as they come.
The news of her demise has left me
Sad, surprised and numb.
Her absence from the station
Led, as far as I could tell,
To some viewer speculation
That she wasn’t feeling well.
For I’d bet the chance to talk
After the candidates debated
Would be one she’d never miss unless
She’d had to be sedated.
I’ll not soon forget Gwen Ifill
With her funky specs of blue.
She performed in brilliant fashion,
Which is what she’d meant to do.
A sunny Sunday afternoon
With family in the park
Is one that on a calendar
You wouldn't think to mark.
Yet out among the leaves of gold,
The weather crisp and bright,
Our kids and grandkids by our sides,
Things start to feel all right.
The recent news recedes a bit
And not at all too soon,
For hope can be restored on such
A sunny afternoon.
Let's agree to disagree
When differences arise
For every person has some traits
Which really might surprise.
To focus on the things we share
Is what we ought to do.
Relationships can last
When commonality's the glue.
We can't expect to be in sync
On every point in life,
So keeping quiet might be
One sure way to keep out strife.
But sometimes reaching out a bit
Seems like it's worth a shot.
It may convince or change some minds,
But also, it may not.
The bottom line, though, is to try
To not allow a rift
To develop in connections
Which have given us a lift.
Last week I saw a shooting star,
A rare and wondrous sight.
Inside our car, my spouse and I
Reacted with delight.
I made a wish, remembering
Instructions I'd once heard.
My husband missed his chance,
Believing such a thing absurd.
My wish was for a future time
But since Election Day,
I wonder if I could have helped
Turn things a different way.
Perhaps if I had wished for help
Electing You-Know-Who,
The outcome of the race just might
Have switched from red to blue.
For the second time in memory,
We’re faced with the ironic
When we look at an election
More divisive than harmonic.
Though the states made their decisions
And Republicans can gloat,
Seems the Democrat, the loser,
Won the “popular” (ha!) vote.
Something’s wrong with such a picture.
If the population’s voice
Does unite in its selection
We should, thus, respect that choice.
So we end up with a president,
Unpopular at best,
Leaving more than half the country
Pessimistic and depressed.
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