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by jeanne rené
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Image Credit: John Wreford
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Euphrates' Child
Wrapped in the moth-eaten garments of my youth
I slept on the banks of my mother, Euphrates.
Upon her sweet and fruitful bosom I dreamt,
gems of amber grain spilling from out the thresholds
of mud shelters swollen with plenty.
Beneath the sorcery of the heavens
I drifted in my fancy near the savage spit of flame
as it shaped the will of the bronze,
harkening back to hum of the potter’s wheel
I had passed in the marketplace.
As my father’s light opened above the Tigris
unfolding the day between the two shores,
I stirred, as bleat my brothers and sisters,
they whose warm blanket I had pressed in the dark.
From the softness of their pillow,
I rose to tend, with reverence, the flock who clothed me,
provided my sustenance.
Knowing still, it would come to pass . . . as surely as each year’s flood,
that on this day ordained, upon the banks
of Ur to the slaughter, I would walk my sheep,
that mine should eat,
that mine should be cloaked,
and that, for this, I would give thanks
washing my hands in the mouth the rivers.
I thirsted
before I traveled,
and waded into the mother, who offered cool drink;
I threw her water against my cheeks.
Abandoning my flock
I closed my eyes to her sweetness, her caress seducing my meditation.
Her tongue lapped about my ankles,
and I swayed, rippling, her movement intruding upon my senses.
~ I am here, child. Ever here, child,
under your feet. You walk on me with enchanted eyes.
I remain, bottom waters vigilant, muddied with the first and the last.
I spill onto your valley, upon the son, onto the daughter.
The father’s light is held fast, child. Held steady
above my constant shores. Even diminished,
I remain, my joy, my grief, washing the bitters of your vengeance.
But, I rejoice in the eternal,
binding your feet to rock deep within my waters.
Virtue will not wend, prudence will not pass beyond my shores.~
Opening my eyes, I was blinded by the embrace of the father
shimmering upon the river's surface.
Newly made, an immortal babe, bound by decree,
I stood upon waters made clear,
and saw cradled in her soft bottom,
the stone to which I was joined.
Ever wakeful,
I have stood the centuries, watching
the river carry the sins of Babylon upon her back.
Weary and sick,
I have covered my nose with a ragged sleeve
at the stench of belly-bloated enemies washed ashore,
spewing from my own stomach their intrusive bile.
I have numbered an endless drift of bone . . . and gem,
book and song, geometry and sheep
half buried in the silt . . .
But I remain, absolute,
my ankles shackled to the depths of the Euphrates,
longing for the resurrection of her kiss.
A phantom of the millennia. . . I await my release.
copyright jrw
The Euphrates River is still dying and predicted to be completely dried up by 2040. It is named in the Bible as one of the rivers of Eden and a border of the promised land, with prophetic mentions regarding its drying.
by jeanne rené
The Hay Fever Blues
Well I,
Get up outta bed,
Go straight tah the head,
My eyes are a itch’n,
And my nose is a twitch’n,
Man, it’s bewitch’n!
Cause I got . . . those hayfever bah - looze.
Lord so many ah - chooze.
I don’t know what tah dooze . . . ya see
Cause I got,
Cause I got . . . those . . . May fever,
Day fever. Say what fever?
Hay fever bah - looze.
Well I’m,
Up in front of the class,
Don’t give this teacher no sass!
My eyes are all leak’n,
My ears are ah tweek’n,
The tissues a seep’n . . . now . . .
Since I got these hayfever bah - looze.
Can ‘ford no tissue to looze
And I just don’t know what tah dooze,
Since I got,
Since I got . . . this scratch in my throat
Class, now don’t rock the boat!
Just let me emote. . . these hayfever blues.
Lordy, Lordy,
Well I,
Throw open my door,
Just can’t take no more,
Leave all that pollen behind
But, Lord, what do I find,
My man, he’s a itch’n . . .
And ain’t that his nose a twitch’n,
Guess we can’t be a fix’n
The sneeze’n and sniff’n . . . with these hayfever bah-looze,
We’re gonna die from all dem ah-chooze!
We don’t know what dah dooze . . .
Cause we got,
Cause we got . . . those May fever
Day fever. What you say fever?
Hay fever bah-looze.
Hey . . . Where you go’n with that box of tissue?
I may be your woman, but it ain’t all about that.
You come back here, now. You here me?
Now what I am I gonna dooze?
With these . . . with these. . .
Hay fever blues.
We're talk’n some serious ah-chooze here, baby!
copyright jeanne rené 2004
by jeanne rené
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| photo jeanne rené |
by jeanne rené
Daughters die
With our rising.
Copyright jeanne rené
*****************************************
To Give
They give their lives at nineteen . . . twenty.
Give their lives in years which do not hold the measure of evolution,
Lives that fly the course of intimacy with a definitive breath.
They give
years whose run will no longer chase a callow heart,
till that heart finds again a promised path.
To have
none but these unpolished days.
Faithful silence,
hold time before their sealed lids,
the measure of what road laid ahead before this hour.
arms wrap around
a chest pounds
trickle of water over lips
High sun blinds as he’s tossed into the air.
Wiggling,
laughing too loud
he lands in his father’s hands.
One more time Daddy. . . One more time.
sands sift through fingers
Give
Your tears.
Give
A prayer of evolution.
copyright jeanne rené
by jeanne rené
When
in this forever
in this perpetual thought
did Your monologue
cease to fulfill its purpose
So then
awakening Your desire
and setting forth
this
our dialogue into play
Understand me
my inquisition seeks
the lore
of Your impenetrable universe
to cease the divide
to consecrate our legacy
to lay my fingertip at last upon Yours
Where
is it
that You
lay claim to Your heritage
My bidding
peers into the formless
to reveal Your form
to trace the galactic molecule
impregnated by the unanswerable
Understand me
What
purpose thus
issued from
our birthright
Was
companionship
or artistry Your intention
could you not mold
one without the other
Understand me
Why
so exquisitely you spun
Your wonderings
sealing perfection
in Your heaven and earth
And we
Your children
of bone and brain
divided and departed
from our earth's ocean
formed in a plentitude of kinds
and given Your breath
first crawled upon our bellies
And why so ... we
birthing and rebirthing
in quest of the perfection
bequeathed Your sun and moon
but not our blood
remain blemished
And understand me
When ... I ask
are we
those who You stood upright
When
are we
those who harnessed Your fire
When
are we
those who heard You whisper "I am"
We
who have learned to love
who have learned to hate
who live but to die
We who seek
I who question
When
will we
will I lay my fingertip to Yours
[ASMR] Counting the Stars at Night-Yun Dong Ju (별 헤는 밤-윤동주)
Forward
Wishing not to have
so much as a speck of shame
toward heaven until the day I die,
I suffered, even when the wind stirred the leaves.
With my heart singing to the stars,
I shall love all things that are dying.
And I must walk the road
that has been given to me.
Tonight, again, the stars are
brushed by the wind
November 20, 1941
Life and Poetry of the Eternal Young Poet, Yoon Dongju
Reflections on June 21, 2025 ... by jeanne rene
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| Julien Bryan/WWII Photographer/invasion of Poland |
A Dead Drop to Hell
Lest we forget.
The sum
of our conceit,
encased in fear, suckled on greed
delivered by decree.
A dead drop to hell.
For the name
of each man, woman, child,
flesh to a cinder
from one flicker
of the flame.
For the beast
who dines
on the maggots.
A dead drop to hell.
For the land left
with no seed.
For the city
erased.
For the sons
and the daughters
left living,
bound by the sins of the fathers
I beg we shamefully bow.
Let us be humbled.
For we have harnessed,
understood
but a blink
of the truth …
And within our arrogance,
in our failure
to embrace a brother,
we package our gifts
for destruction,
attempting to reinvent
His law with a dead drop to hell.
I beseech thee,
Lest we forget,
the price paid
for our vanity.
******** ********
... to see what comes
A child
squats in the ash
listlessly fingering circles
Watching
Balancing on toes
dug into the dust
Circle over circle
Circle over circle
Circle
Over … Over …
Watching
his fathers falter
among the ruins
Beseeching the deaf stones for hope
Balancing on toes …
Circle over circle
She sees
her brothers
drowning in manhood
to devour the fathers’ rage.
Brothers vomiting stones heavenward.
Circle over circle
she watches.
Silence watches.
Watching
the mothers’ shadow
unflinching
cast over her shoulders
numb to its woe
Balancing on toes
lost in the dust …
And the wind exhales
casting the earth into eyes of the child
blinded by shields of furious locks
… and he stays, she stays
Unflinching
Toes digging into the unforgiving
They stay.
Circling in the rain.
They stay.
The children stay to see what comes.
by jeanne rené
Dad in the middle of both photos ...
when i was seventeen my boy friends went off to war
i wrote letters and sent rosary beads from the holy land
they sent me stiff, thin-lipped boot camp pictures
and later colored photos of ageless young men
grinning in front of a camera, arms over shoulders, tugging each other
posing for a group shot
while somewhere in country …
still, war was far from my reality
the children of war far, far from my comprehension
except for words scribbled and deposited
into the mail box with the red flag
from boy friends who continued to write
at home
i went to university but i did not march
and i did not wear black arm bands
perhaps because rudy asked me to keep
his track medals and 45’s
until
he came back
but, maybe i did not march
because my father had written letters to
girlfriends and his mother twenty-seven years earlier
while somewhere in country …
and, he shared with his daughter albums of ageless young men
smiling at the camera, arms over shoulders
pulling each other into a group shot
my boy friends all came home
i asked rudy for a boonie hat
which he never gave me
and he told me to keep his medals and 45’s
it was a yellow box
where the letters kept for many years
never re-read
until
i threw each one away
seventeen was a long, long time ago
these men were far, far from my reality
until
my husband hugs our son
who left
for somewhere in country …
i looked
at this ageless old man
as he sat down and reclined the lazy boy
staring at an awkward boot camp picture on our living room wall
i understood somewhere ever present in his reality
he stands in front of the camera, some buddy’s arm over his shoulder
dragging him into a group shot
and i …
i took out a pencil and some paper
Copyright jeanne rené 3.2014
Marty saying goodbye to Johnny ... joking ... making the best of the moment ...
by jeanne rené
... some memories on this Mother's Day
I miss
fabulous frogs
held up under my nose
to my cross-eyed astonishment,
. . . the snail parade on the patio steps,
and my disappearing pots and pans,
to brew the scrumptious dirt stew.
I miss
looking out the kitchen window,
watching the wind flapping the corners
of the old bedspread tent,
. . . the sound
of the bat hitting the cement ,
and new jeans with holes in the knees
from sliding into first base.
I miss
action figures with one arm,
shoe boxes of matchstick cars,
kissing puppy giggles,
chasing extraordinary pigeons,
and cries “I can’t get down from the tree!”
If I turn my hourglass over
can each grain of sand be etched
with the past . . .
I miss
two sleepy heads
bobbing in the back seat,
pulling up in the driveway late at night,
and gently disturbing their dreams,
. . . giving a kiss on each sticky forehead,
and turning off the lights with a prayer on my lips.
jeanne rené 10/04
