my poem…

My poem

This poem shuffles out
onto the train
self-conscious,
looking both ways.

Its sunburn scalding
the starched pink dress
scratching the swollen skin-
tender pink and sore.

It makes me swoon,
and softly fall
to the filthy floor
below

crumpled by the faint
I melt: a pillow of pink
my eyes close
the door opens.

the crowd steps over me
eager to get on their way…
the car empties
leaving a pink burnt plop:

the fourteen year old
victim of the sun
on NYC subway’s floor
is left to ride alone.

a memory from 1955
Jeanne in the mountains
3/4/2021

tender

cartoon of Don by Jeanne

.

These days I have a tender Don
He looks up toward me, trustingly.

Defenses quieted.
Useless against my letting go
Of obsessive control.

The lady with the hammer
has been replaced.
Now the matriarch nods

At foraging
schedules
eating oysters from a can.

Procrastination
reset
to jive with energy surge.

No more push and pull;
toggle switch
to switch tracks

move from sound to image
desk top to mobile
human to divine.

Pattern #16 Wilderness

wilderness walk –
camouflage accompanies
tame tender tip-toes!

Riddle #15 Fruity

Fruity

Someone called me :
“Fruity”
today.

Did he see my core?
Or tender skin?
Reflection in the light?
Dwarfed stem?
Snappy bites to offer?
Juices flowing?
Sap?
Kinship with my seeds?
Fallen from a tree?
Or me: different?
An adventure in discovery?