I hope you enjoy!
now. . . to baghdad and today’s violence
my mind lingers on the boy
defined in the lens of prosperity
a sparrow
I imagine with mutated crook
circling the infusion
of metal and flesh
his movement
animated
indecipherable to my media vision
it seems his body twitched
as he peeks into the sculpted hull
cast most recently
in the art of hostility
he flutters
turns
cock-eyed at the camera
releasing an impish grin
I sit so far away
the winter sun
finding a path through my window slats
my shoulders warm
my chair inviting
and now . . . today
the litany of circumstance
seems a displeasing patter
as I balance the remote in my hand
for what has this distant boy
to do with my world
but try as I may
though my cushion is plush
I simply cannot rest easy
his ill-suited smile
drifting
inside my darkness
God forgive us all
forgive us all
copywrite jeanne rene 1/05
The Cruel Account of My Monsieur Feuille de Papier
Monsieur Feuille de Papier
you gawk at me
aloof and empty
blank
you mock my passion
these eyes prisoner
to your harsh and penetrating countenance
it sends chills
down my elastic spine
and i grovel
sup on the terror of your dismissal
my lucid sight grown transfixed at the hint
my red blood boiling
at the suggestion of making love to you
My Monsieur Feuille de Papier
i cannot exist without this making love to you
my lips to your pale face
give a barrage of manic kisses
writhe as i move you to my tango
my rhamba
my minuet of eloquence
of time
of place
of empathy
of the disgraced
Mon Monsieur dance
and laugh and drink this contemptible wine
i dare to spill
how you anger me
so fickle your affections
how you torture me
walking out
walking in
hours to days
when you abandon me
shriveled in some despairing universe
soused with only my disheveled name
then again
to return bounding into my quarters
just to kick my protruding stomach
i grow weak
mais ce soir
ce soir
une page blanche . . . blanche
your face offers no clue
come
i beg, Mon Monsieur
come
dine on my fever
fulfill my rapture
prepare for me
a warm bath tapped with words dripping
from my severed vein
copywrite jeanne rene 11/04
The fathers' winter path . . .
As I begin my autumn, I see their footsteps spent ahead of mine.
My fathers turn and look backward, resting on their winter path.
They give a melancholy wave, and smile at me now, pensively.
"You walk alone from this point on. Enjoy the colors of the season."
A sundown walk, past his house
I have glanced before.
A pristine lawn, trimmed and tidy,
adorned in patriotic praise,
little red, white, blue tributes
speak his mind.
Garden windmill miniatures,
amid posy flowers bright.
And he,
the old man,
sitting customarily
on a garden plastic seat.
I summon my fathers on their winter walk. Not yet is the time, sirs?
"We stand by the side of our precipice, daughter, with no call to walk,
But stay and talk with us this while, and consider our moment.
Let us offer you one last banquet and a toast to the occasion."
I fashioned a private smile,
as he rose to fiddle with a flag askew.
After all the chances forsaken
it was time to say hello.
"Cooled down, finally," I risked.
A soft, sweet, southern voice
returned with a smile,
"Yes, it's real nice, now."
My steps kept their pace,
but his neighborly door now opened,
he keenly invited me in.
His slow, but sure step
inched in a direction toward me
"Other day, my flags were stolen.
My daughter went and bought
me some new ones."
"I'm sorry to hear that.
Must have been some kids."
"Funny, been here since 1962,
never had a thing stolen."
There was no anger,
just a simple observation.
Is it so deserted on your winter path, that you often look back?
"This path is forged by yesterday's scattered seeds and we must harvest."
An hour slipped by
of cool evening, sidewalk talk,
of far away daughters and sons,
love found amid war, and
coupled fifty-eight springs.
And again of war ... a father's war,
a son's war... and grandson's
mid sacrfice and doubt,
of measures witnessed,
and long to be forgotten.
And as the evening wanes -
of the town grown to a city,
the childhood missed,
and the living of eighty-four years,
within the Grace of God.
His still ever blue eyes
spoke of so much more to be said,
and of not wanting to be passed by
with the evening sundown.
And now I weep as my fathers traverse their definitive days,
Remembering they held my hand as I stood up from my crawl.
Lessons learned, good and ill, were written with their words.
They'll pass all, as he, who's child I am, passed slowly in the night.
"When you walk by this way"
he smiled, "please say hello."
Dedicated to the memory of my dad, Eugene W. Rose, my father-in-law, Dwight W. Watson and to my neighbor, Mr. McClure.
jeanne rene 7.03-11.08
moth wing
I am as the dust on moth wing,
releasing
upon a moments outburst
my muted pigmentations.
Blue of swift faith,
orange-brown penetrations of desire,
abiding season of green,
powders
of cyclic metamorphosis
in tawny and ivory tones,
shed from membranes in frantic flight.
I flutter,
my resting-place tenuous
on life's capricious threads
spun in temporal looms,
but weighted by thickness of body
I remain
never barren.
Never remiss of direction
I absolve
all remorse
sip the nectar
of immutable destiny,
approaching from within the obscurity
to fly into the light,
dream iridescence
as this dust scatters from my moth feather,
its miniscule mark
settling on landscapes tomorrow foreseen.
copywrite jeanne rene 5/05
The child
Squats in the ashen dust
Listlessly fingering circles
Watching
Circle over circle
Watching
Her fathers falter
Among the ruins
Beseeching the deaf stones for hope
Circle over circle
She sees
Her brothers
At once bound into manhood,
So devour the father rage
Vomiting the stone heavenward
Circle over circle
She watches
The mothers shadow
unflinching over her
dumb to it's woe
And the wind breaths
Casting the earth into the child eyes
And she stays
Unflinching
The children stay to see what comes
copywrite jeanne rene /03
bird in my corner
cross-legged
on high pile carpet
deep in my bungalow air
where was I then
where was I when pretty boy
bounced off my walls
hyped-up hopped-up
psyched-up
tripped-out
wasted
waded way deep in love loft
mattress matrimony
hey hey hey
i was there man
tip toeing on the typewriter
pounding the words out
hammering my heart flat
their hunger idioms
blew in thru my window
all the pretty boys
cleft-chinned opiates
singing high notes in my melody
one two three four
knocking at my door
damn
and charlie parker
he was cool
just kept playing in my corner
set himself up at my table
sat down to my music
running his fingers up and down so sweet
pumping his manhood into the tune
must
slide the lattice down on the shutters
dim the day
one more eulogy to write
where was I then
where was I when words fit in two packs a day
choke on my smoke
dine on my dance
hey hey hey
devil loved my laugh man
and The Bird . . . .
he went on spinning his sax
in my corner
smiling
loving my laugh
just like the devil
and crying me one more riff
he told me
its gonna be alright girl
copywrite jeanne rene /04
On a blanket with my baby....
he licks
the bead of nehi orange
resting in the corner of her lips
sweet
he smiles
shivering sweetness up
shivering down
a spine tingleling kamikaze rush
craving molotov cocktails of powerful emotions
on this sundown
slowed downed
seashore
sea shine stroll
all the time
she's tossing beached driftwood
back into the shallow sea
and drinking nehi effervescence
laughing
popping slippery sea flowers
can you catch me
in tempestuous silence
want some
one last sip
he wraps his lips around the bottle
sweet
he drinks
zigzagging round sand castles
they amble the beach walk
caress the beach talk
submerged in thought waves
the ebb and flow of speaking foreplay
carelessly
tickling the under bellies
of panicked sand crabs
kicking up sea foam
that make her legs glisten
in the amber glow closing the day
the blue nylon shorts
kiss the inside of her thighs with salty dampness
and he asks - with a wink
are you cold enough yet
unbuttoned shirt
slips off of his shoulders
he offers his apology
with warmth
truce granted without a question
as well as the kiss
slowed down
sundown
the cool sand tugs at bare feet
up to the boardwalk
still spinning with low-lit carousels
but empty of spandex beauties rollerblading
past hard muscled hormones
slouching on benches
or hare krisna barkers for salvation through mantras
otis redding sits in heaven and knows
they are shivering
and too young to consider
looking back
in solemn faithless retrospect
much less
coming up to the surface for air
copywrite jeanne rene 11/03
Flash Back in Neon
He was the flash dance on the floor;
a wildcard from the bottom of the deck,
a maverick with a slow hand and fast tongue.
He was trouble,
tears and a time bomb,
in a body beautiful wrapped package.
He made me breathless,
and he sucked my sanity with the rhythm of his roll.
He'd empty me with his kiss, and I'd come up for air;
need to shake myself back into reality.
He panhandled my heart for the bucks, not the change.
He was the impossibility that made control a homicide victim.
And he loved me too many days for the
morphine dream to keep dripping.
He leaned on me,
and bent me.
I crawled out just to run in any direction, high stepping;
Looking back at the charms he wore
like a neon sign blinking blue "Open-Cold Beer."
I stayed for too many drinks after last call.
He is the memory, painted in the torn corners of my mind.
He is the rush in the night, that still rides his way into my dreams.
He is the smooth smile come across my lips . . . out of nowhere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finding Our Horizon
Can I stand beside the bushmen,
humble this lineage to the magnificence
of the hunter's will?
Join them, as eye upon track,
nostril flared to the scent,
I become the heartbeat of my prey.
Can you take me back to the grace
of the gatherer?
To find me
falling in homage on beds of grain,
and dancing triumph in pools of elixir.
Can I hold the artistry of the storytellers,
and draw upon rock in faithful colors,
to paint my history with strokes of integrity?
I would, my vision be simplified
to find each solid canvas
holds the secret to a boundless journey.
How can I be inspired to create without pestilence?
Can we wipe our face clean of arrogance?
Look upon the sky without ownership . . .
Take a quantum leap backwards,
falling into our steps once traveled in unison.
Let me be immersed in my birth water.
Can I speak with my brother in melodious tongue
and clicks of memory washed over the continents ?
Now let me take my home on my back.
Have me offer,
my reverence
my devotion
for all horizons that lay before me.
Show me how to consecrate
the sand that lies beneath my feet at any season.
Let me be immersed . . .
Wash me,
in the heat of the primordial fire.
jeanne rene 8/04
The Last Sip
Warm and fragrant eggnog latte
slips down my throat,
Nutmeg satisfies so sweetly
this nod for simple reflection.
An entourage of features
sally forth before my repose,
A full regalia of nations
and their generations,
coexisting within this faux pas
and sky lit edifice with a modicum of normalcy
. . . . . while outside
horsemen hold snorting visionaries at bay.
To my right a bill board is alive
with flashing magic and fashion.
A curious smile balances on my lips
for having been propelled into the eventual
with the turn of my head,
and staring at the mode o' day rotation
. . . . . somehow
my mind wonders to the elfin mystique
of Audrey Hepburn on the cover of Life Magazine.
I hate the last sip of my tepid latte
And heave a regretful sigh
As the milkman in dress whites and centered cap,
Presses a single chime to the doorbell . . .
The icy bottles having been deposited on the porch.
The snappy refrain of the March of the Toreadors
calls in hushed tones from my book bag,
and with the adept acuity of modern man
I flip open my line of communications.
Tossing my reflections along with the paper cup
I merge back into the parade,
but my step hides a lingering sadness
. . . . A realization of the last generation
to snap an honest bottle cap.
copywrite jeanne rene
His Picture Perfect
Now if I was a photographer,
A flash of life catcher,
I would have taken a bundle of wonder shots.
Close up captures,
Zoom in and out raptures
In high resolution
Of His high inspiration.
Rainy day babes
In pure innocent manifestation,
All hand-in-precious hand,
Came crossing my path
Making perfect my thought-tossed day.
Came crossing my path
This bright sassy caravan,
Yellow, minty green, lavender
Pink and baby blue slickers
Parading down stormy weather sidewalks.
Little city trippers,
Stomping rubber ducky boots,
Curious wide-eyes
Peaking out of matching pastel caps.
A pint-sized rainbow of giggles and awe
Bearing testimony to the miracles of the world.
And if I was a photographer,
I would have stopped my day
In the middle of this photo flash fortune,
Framing picture after picture
Of His rainy-day delight.
Children as honest as God's nature,
God's nature reigning
From season to season,
And I would have been humbled to display
His handy work on my wall.......
copywrite jeanne rene 3/04
Playing Hide'n Get Hostage
Cannot rewind the split second,
Cannot kick dirt in the face of chance
and run for yesterday.
I wait in the sweat of terror.
My breath bludgeoned and prostrate
I sit.
I must
in the reserve of my bosom
force my lungs to rise.
Inhale once more the world,
my nostrils flared to catch
the lingering vapors of humanity.
Inhale once this tangible moment.
Take in the child.
Take in the son, me.
Smell the father, me.
Draw in the man of my name.
My voice bellows up from my belly,
a hideous, petrifying yowl.
Mind pacing this cage, I roar,
eating my humiliation.
Madness caught at the barrier of my lips,
words sliding through even and heavy.
Words pumping my heart.
Thoughts running to catch an open boxcar home.
I can catch the train.
I can catch the train,
if I could only run.
If I could only run
I'd lay back on the couch
and watch a little TV.
We've got time,
Darlin' come lay next to me.
The loathing crawls like cockroaches,
red ants at the back of my neck.
I am their meal.
I am the milk they will gorge upon
that bloats their heads.
This table,
this tableau set for mine.
My eyes blinded, but not to truth.
My hands bound, but not from freedom.
My image smeared, but not my dignity.
Blind metal, fired in revenge,
Let fall into my bone.
Only my bone.
I wail.
You don't really understand
what it is to scream.
I cry.
No time to know my own death.
copywritejeanne rene 6/04
The Prizefighter's Garden
Under his arbor ~
Plump passionate
Fuchsia bells spill
Moss painted terracotta swaying
Pushed by butterflies
In heavy hands
He'd take my face to their flesh
To dream sweetness
The grace of the flower
The grace of the man
Here beat the heart along with time
Papa walked me round his garden
In stages of my bloom
In his arms ~
To the loquat's
Dusty fruit
Breaking its amber meat
For my anxious fingers to my lips
Spitting seeds into the fish fountain
Strolling me over the flagstones
From bud to blossom
Laughter lifts his heavy brows
And monster bee
Hides me in the warmth of his neck
Until he sets me down
With well picked mums
With his hand ~
Papa walks me round his garden
To the swoon of the gardenias white
A skip ahead and turn around
Twirling sour grass on the tip of my tongue
Every Sunday to the rose path
Near the window sill
Sauces stewing for the evening meal
Blend with beauties bittersweet
Papa hums the old man river
Of life
Of love
And in my hands four quarters fold
Behind my ear a sprig of thyme
By his side ~
Papa walks me round his garden
Slow in the evening
Sweet song of elder days
Hushed in the beauty of the peony
Who needs reveal its secrets before the fade
By the fish fountain as the wicker rocks
He whispers now in harmony with the breeze
Of every cut and bruise held in his glove
To say I've been
You will be
Time to listen
Under the shade of the cherry tree
~And
The stray leaf that falls against my cheek today
Perhaps his kiss
copywrite jeanne rene 4/04.........for Papa
AXUM-ancient African Capital http://www.ethiopiatravel.com/Axum_eng.htm
AWLIYAW -- oldest and largest tree in Ethiopia http://forests.org/archive/africa/awliyawa.htm
One Seed
I found Axum.
I ran upon the maiden path.
I found the father's seed.
I found the mother's cradle.
I walked its highlands,
And God's obelisks drew my eyes
To the heavens.
Granite prayers rose to shepherd me;
Stone kings that harbor
His promise.
Blood gaunt altars
Asked me
For my sacrifice,
So long denied.
I found Axum.
I beat an ancient drum.
I suffer at their request,
Passing over these roads,
Where my feet turned
Two thousand yesterdays;
Breathe into the lion.
Embracing this burden,
Bound in serpent's peel,
It falls at my heart.
I will walk to my destiny
Eating the sandstorm.
Winds, north and south,
Swallow my fear.
Winds, east and west,
Bare shields to my faith.
Out of Axum,
In shadows of monoliths,
I abandon all roads.
Dew on my neck;
The breath of the mother.
Fire in the silence;
The voice of the father.
Winds;
Brothers of my heel.
This Blue Nile tumbles from the mouth of Tana.
I fall; I quake upon my knees.
Brothers, hear my heart.
Hear my heart beat
A prayer,
To become the smoke-water of the Nile.
Out of Axum,
I will find the bones before time.
I will find the hours before thought.
The bed rises.
The hour wakens.
Bones must be cleansed.
The dry earth must be thrown.
My brow must sweat.
My cry scatters the foul at the mouth of the Blue Nile,
And they will not return to eat.
My brother of the north has given a spade.
I throw the earth with a fever,
For the hourglass empties.
My brow rains with my toil.
My brother of the east has given water to flush my eyes,
And pours sugar for my thirst.
In the breeze of the Blue Nile,
My body lacks strength to be steadfast,
My body lacks the bread.
My brother from the south has given cake.
Hold now, the serpent purses.
The sun catches
The bones
Undisturbed.
Forgive
My affront to your sanctity,
My desecration to your perfection.
I come in reverence.
Out of Axum
In the shadow of the promise I come,
With bitters on my tongue.
And from the surpents fold I take one seed
Of the Awliyaw
To place on these bones;
Rebuild the cradle.
Forgive,
Our departure from our legacy;
The enigma of the seed.
To their knees brothers bend,
And crawl to the remarriage of man and earth.
Their spit anoints union.
In the breeze of the Blue Nile,
I quake upon my knees.
Brothers, hear my heart beseech.
Hear my heart beat
A prayer.
The hourglass is broken.
My brother from the west gives a blade,
That I plunge its coldness into my heart.
As I descend
Atop my father and my mother
To consecrate their altar,
I see the winds
North, South, East, West
Fly
Enraging the Nile into flames.
copywrite jeanne rene 11/03
