Best Foundling Poems
They found it/him, hidden, feeling
Sympathy and fascination.
Clothing and makeup appealing --
Save for a grotesque castration.
There were growths all about its skin.
They found it/him, hidden, feeling
Revulsion with a steadfast chin --
To be raised as male, concealing.
School days carried much revealing;
But, not enough to shock or faint.
They found it/him, hidden, feeling
A constricted clothing complaint.
Growing spent of this life to be,
On top of all things displeasing,
He pondered becoming a she!
They found it/him, hidden, feeling....
A mark of scarlet was the first,
Fitting of inferior character.
He was associated of plagues,
The name given of a tragedy.
The dead made a bottomless pit on him,
Rendered executed, the title of foundling.
Do you think if I went out back and stood,
Where the clean green lawn meets the wood
And whispered softly in the night air
I’m not afraid and I know you’re there.
If I wished hard enough, do you think
The fae would steal me away with a wink?
And take me up with them to the sky
That blue abyss where fairies fly?
I’ve had enough of the human planet,
I’m ready to eat the pomegranate.
When they ask my name, I’ll tell them straight
and accept my role as a foundling playmate.
I’ll swim in a puddle and dance on the moon
My dress is a gossamer cocoon.
At the end of the day when I’ve had my fill
I’ll go to sleep in a daffodil.
Will the fairies come? My wish was earnest,
But the waiting leads me to despair.
I’ll have to finish my mortal quest
If they leave my Earth-bound body here.
THE TEACHER AND THE FOUNDLING
Dirty raw face
Lost in a vicious
Dog-eat-dog world ,
His tears washed rivulets
Into my chalky hand .
Dissolving into
My soft inner soul ,
He sensed mother
And clung to the skirts
Of my conscience.
My home’s warm respite ,
Another world of gentle feeling ;
Before the return to darkness
And bruised cold fingers
In beer bottle bedrooms .
When verses
run dry
do you hide
in despair
When the Muse
is on fire
only ashes
you’ll bear
With silence
embedded
on each
empty page
Your fear
is the foundling
that kindles
— the rage
(Ronald McDonald House: May, 2025)
Severed from a
knotted past
the future’s line
went slack
Denying what
the morrow feared
refusing to
— look back
(Dreamsleep: June, 2024)
poor little foundling
alone in a white basket
left on auntie’s steps
she was always a meanie
could you soften her?
in eighteen years you sure did
you both needed each other