*Poem: "Strawberry, Unselfconscious"

Strawberry, Unselfconscious

Exposed, vulnerable to the expert tooth
of every unselfconscious,
the strawberry seed, much imitated part
in embroidery stitches, dabs of paint,
king berry al dente,
rides atop the mother fruit
for the coup, holding fire,

clings unselfconscious to the shiny skin,
sonar by the heart of stitches,
rides on the tongues of the
strawberry, passes its flesh through
ten other rabbits and men, dependent on
unselfconscious shortcake taker,
the patch green crew, portable,
part of the delicious strawberry experience.


Knolls exposed, vulnerable,
holding firm, unrinseable,
strawberry of paint nosh in embroidery,
strawberry barren, flesh tender or tart,
elves only ride atop,
dependent on picking
the shiny skin, woodchucks cling,
portable orgy, seasonal strides.


The strawberry passes itself on,
takes rages, meant through discount,
green crewcut hulls for handles,
raw berry equal to ides,
aces, unafraid (yikes!), no channel
through us, through the rabbits and woodchucks,
seeds on a tear, equal to the patch,
unafraid of electric discouragements.

The tracing knife, seeds on the outside,
one owl, alms freed of cream,
one on the counter, freed by the slicing knife,
plumber, some left in another,
several in the bowl, returned to other.
Under a memory of cream and sugar,
sun's harried heart, summer's tongue of straw,

some left in the farmer's palm,
shortcake or luscious stone,
returned to earth another spring,
the uncut hull, sun's harvest,
inseparable orgy, berry skirt,
another summer's harried heart.


CAR 9/13/07

*Poem: "Superstitions"

Superstitions

Say "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" on the first of every month for luck,
or hold a buttercup under your chin.

If it reflects back yellow, you like butter.
Salt over the shoulder we brought to the table from Bugs Bunny,

and the fantasy that stale pepper from a tin could make you sneeze.
A bruise from a pinch could bring on cancer,

and dandelions gone to seed, then blown apart
could carry a wish to completion.

The first robin seen in spring had the same magic ability
as the first star each night, to grand any desire.

I never saw shooting stars until I laid among the rocks at Cragsmoor,
far from the expressway, the malls and international airports.

Over Ellenville, perched at the edge of the Borscht Belt,
faded to a TV test pattern, all that was left there were the stars

shooting like marbles across the play yard of the night sky.
An occasional plane below teetered into the landing field

where LBJ once landed, civil rights in his left pocket.
Blueberries at Sam's Point, sweet stars of June,

fenced in for safety now, on posted lands surrounding town,
bad luck no rabbit triplets can dislodge.


CAR 4/13/08