Recent Poetry

~she

floats
to the edge of the pool
with her own pomp and circumstance,
and we squint
even behind the darkest of sun shades

snickers skew tight lips,
potatoes chips held suspended over clam dip
crumble between our fingertips
and we shiver under the heat of our own dementia

with arduous sigh I follow
the slant of her smile
and the ageless bounce of bosoms,
the ornamented red of cheek
still the burn of her maidenhood

the dip of her toe into water,
the breezy dismissal of time under weightless chiffon
cast away with a giggle
and we twitter, but no one rushes in to save an old woman

perhaps, she is mercifully blind to the color of melancholy,
never touching the texture of wrinkle, the blemish of crease . . .
simply lost in an euphoria
too fragile to deny her bed fellows
age and heartache


jeannerené 07.09 

And so it was, but tomorrow ...

Perhaps … perhaps … to drift
as I catch sail upon the last autumn leaf.
To waver above the earth, flitter and fly
in uncharted locomotion,
upward and round the bend of time
until the snap

until the crush, resounding step
digging deep into the dust
and I, to mingle with the sands,
to catch in the eyes of new lovers
on an uproarious wind.

Perhaps I waft … I wind down
breathless and often wayward
never knowing,
never quite understanding by which road I travel,
but humbled that I traveled well at all.

Tomorrow,
can I captain one final turn
with no intent nor direction,
but only a moment to linger above saffron fields
and twist aside the whirlwinds,
or pass through the echoes of my children?

Can I ride this autumn orange
with brilliance on a slow leisurely wobble?

May I just drift?

jeannerené 10.08

The Rowan

Late August
the Rowan guard
at the entrance of the school
begins to show its red dress.

The morning thrush flits
branch to last berry,
as ruddy leaves rustle against
the spirits,

and the bird
stops its drunken revelry
to begin the Rowan’s song
“Oh, children,”

then winging atop, it flees.
“Oh, children,” the whispering trees
return the melody.
“Pass under me.”

At noon I hear
a chorus of play
drift over fences into my open window.
“Oh, children,” the heart murmurs. 

jeannerené 10.08

~the whistle

the whistle sings in lyric note,
beckons the lady follow, to lay down upon its rifts
lost in the swirl and twirl of melody
drifting,
bound for yesterday’s memory, drunk on love
and bent with laughter

a breathe leaves a sigh within the whistle
to call upon desire unspent,
to sing … to sing
come, lady rest upon my song,
so pale, worn your dreams,
that I may wrap you in gowns of sweet, sorrowful crescendo
come, drape regret around my music
and I will carry your name to the warbler’s nest

the whistle lifts its poem,
in ribbons of voice sharp and shrill,
and the lady rides aside her loneliness
above the barren path, above the gentle brush of grain
along the silhouette of hill and precipice
lost in the billow of passing clouds


jeannerené 03.08

Unmerciful, Because We Loved

A little scar cuts across her upper lip, Cupid’s Bow interrupted,
the thought sometimes slipped into my mind, a phrase to write
a poem upon, as I fixated midway through
conversations on front lawns of days
and ways of memory, and futures still within our reach.

Our woman songs undulating, in accents usual or syncopated,
we rung our hands of worry,
lifted our bosoms heavy with motherhood
and strutted round bottoms for all to envy.
Jingling our bangles, bobbles to rhythm of chatter
on breezy porch doorsteps,
driveways reaching over the distance of our sisterhood
with a quick and neighborly wave.

How’s the kids? How’s the kids? How’s the kids . . .

We aged on our front lawns,
standing ankle deep in plastic swimming pools,
the winds slapping our cheeks raw with yesterday’s promises,
and we braced ourselves for the unmerciful, because we loved

…the kids

All these years we’ve loved the kids
and nothing else has really mattered.

And all these years

Her meztizo contour has held its bold and rich design,
a beauty maturing within its own smooth dark skin.
She and I have moved our hips with slow, slide-to-slide satisfaction,
the phantom impression of side slung babes forever seen in our nakedness.

September afternoon,

She bits the scar across her lip. Lip quivering,
unprotected by all her love.
My hands could only cup her face
to hold this treasure of living life just as life is

. . . so unexpected

My baby
A mother cries

My

baby
Her tears,
weigh my palms with insatiable sorrow


jeanne rene 09.07

Love Song for September

September sits upon the gates,
holding hostage summer’s still, sultry shadow
under arms of evergreens, and lazy old dogs
who have forgotten how to bark at strangers

She waits with wayward affection outside our fences,
puffing little whispers through knot holes
and stirring the hues of dreamy deciduous,
awakening the brilliance of autumn’s brush

And so ….

September winks at me,
As I sit beneath umbrella’s shade.
I hear her impatient rustle rush up against the window pane
and watch her toe-tapping in little gusts across the dust.
She teases with the sweet scent of rain
old dog and I, languishing in lazy inhalations,
as we keep company in weary expectation.

Leaving only the thought of her cool fingertip
pressed against my lips,
she perches once again on the season’s threshold
and recites her calendar, in voice welcomed by me.

“September!” I call. “Let summer slip between
your days. Come kiss me with wilted rose petals.
Love me ‘neath a blanket of yellowing leaves.”

jeanne rené 08.07

Winter is my favorite season . . .

Winter
~ San José !

Tonight . . .

Winter is cruising First Street,
strutting, zoot-suited down Santa Clara,
unreliable guest at its own seasonal party.
Tonight, El Invierno comes teasing
mediterranean America . . . gazers and gawkers,
kissing their lips and the tips of lazy palms
with ice chips and artic slushies.

Cheeks puffed, he holds the wind,
ready to giggle in bursts of uproarious mirth
round corners, slapping the face of sleek high-rise
gods and goddesses.
Flirting with bare-armed lovers,
elbows latched, hip-to-hip step
gathering speed,
seeking the genius of warm mocha lattes and sushi bars.

Esta noche . . .

Winter contemplates, hovering above Orion,
who sleeps over orange grove and vine.
Seizing the Hunter’s bow; the arrow, feathered fletching spun to ice,
and under neon madness, melting,
flushing the pavement of its exhaustion,
painting petroleum prisms,
reflected in the headlights crawling route 101.

He comes . . .

El Invierno, commanding respect,
slapdash he parades lightening and thunder,
pushing summer dreams
and autumn memory off sidewalks,
beating down on the hoods of Mercedes
and muscle cars with tears of righteousness.

Ah . . . Winter inhales. Hah . . . He exhales.
¿Me recuerdas mis amigos, San José,
San Francisco y Monterey?
Soy el hijo precario de la Tierra de madre
. . . y he vuelto, Petaluma y Los Gatos.
Tonight I will bang at your pretty windows,
tomorrow return to your sandals and sun shades.
All will be forgotten.


jeanne rené 02.07

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2010-03-06

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