I painted a portrait of my mom shortly after her passing.  She was a lovely woman and a wonderful mom.

The Light of the Moon ... by jeanne rené

 

 

Thinking of my mom and aunt who both passed away this year.

The Light of the Moon


The moonlight held its breath
in patient vigil outside her cross-paned window.
She seemed to sense its warmth,
and looked beyond me to glow and glimmer
waltzing upon the lake’s surface, dancing,
skipping between the ripples,
smiling at the ease of time’s merriment.

It came that she closed her eyes,
and with a gasp took in and then refused age
with a lingering hiss. She lay quiet.

~ from the window I watched the merry current
lap against the lake shore. I was not deceived
by the illusionary randomness of sway and swell
of wave, but looked into precise measure,
understood the mathematics of each whitecap,
and yet I knew tonight
the moonbeam held her slender waist,
swept her across the waters.

Thought slipped through the open window
and her hands grew cold. The present encircled
my head, a dark, vaporous nimbus of reflection.
I pondered, suspended above my own cloud …
If my last breathe were to linger with wavering balance
upon the precipice of moment and destiny…
If time were to slip through my well versed and worn lips
until the morrow only and not a sunset more to my name, could I tip my hat to the fray
and slyly tuck a smile into your forever memory,
falling head first into eternity.

Again to the window,
I sought, but the light of the moon
had walked away into the dawn.


jeanne rené  6.08

 

Waiting for direct evidence of disassociation ...

by  jeanne rené  

maniacally tap-tap her manicured nails
across formica wasteland
sequential tip-touch drone
i observe with reluctant objectivity
her fever pitching
eye socket restraining civility

it roars
the bright white chatter
her click click click unraveling

a distorted blink;
"Save me"

         can’t save you
    safe...I'll keep you...

my hand trespasses
swimming through the buzz
gripping her knuckles
massaging the welted kinks of depravity
relentless tears
laying flat irrepressible coils of Larina

"Why does the crow rest at the top of a tree?"

           I’m not sure.
     ...to look for food?

so it comes
a pause
unconscious calm
a silence
momentary respite
an insipid quiet
barely long enough
to ask for forgiveness

until she smiles:
"Crows perch on top
and chaw at our shadows."

my hand tightens
her lip trembles
explanations snapping
quavering filaments of matter and deed



Note: Occasionally I worked with teens with the onset of schizophrenia.  I did not use the actual name in this poem.

 

Bird in my corner ...

by jeanne rené

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 hungry 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 one more riff
     
      he told me
its gonna be alright girl


 7/04

unfiltered/stick of gum/grandpa said I might as well die if I can't go home

 by jeanne rene

He rolled his tobacco with one hand. He used to try to teach me do the same when I was little. He worked for the railroad his entire life and told me he thought it was a blessing. He had a big smile and a bigger laugh.  I visited grandpa and lit his cigarette for him two days before he let go of life.

---

i was wondering 

if grandpa was smoking unfiltered pall malls 

up in heaven

and if only the pleasure of puffing existed

for chain smoking angels

left unfettered by consequences

 

i was just wondering if grandpa

was sitting in an open box car on a slow rolling train

crossing the clouds

taking in a long deep drag

then flashing his toothy grin

 

and i wondered if maybe

he could blow the smoke

down this way

toward me

let it circle round my head

and sleep in lingering billows beneath my nose