Waters of the Spleen

 Note: I wrote this tens years ago.  Sometimes I believe "nothing has changed" and wonder "does it ever change?" .... I have no answers, just reflections.

 

It swaggers mightily
Over crossroads of contention
Spewing bitter herbs
Seeded deep
Into the memory of blood
Let into cups of loathing
And
Emptied by the drunkard sons
Of ageless ghosts

It rampages down highways
Of haggard faiths
Beating its chest savage
And spitting cries of revenge
On the lips of fathers
Who blindly usher their babes
Into the arms of pregnant harbingers
Manly wombs
Issuing imps, fear and greed

It feeds in delirium
Upon the hearts impaled by cowards . . .

Hatred

And swiftly returns the noxious beam
Into the eye of the grieved

Hatred . . .

Flowering hatred

It wears a heavy coat of conceit
Upon its bulging back

Carrying hatred

Hatred . . . Hatred

It stalks the voices of compassion
And cowers
Behind sightless justice
Scattering the faithful
Who wait upon the mount

“Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called the children of God”

We beseech thee

Laughing
Hatred 
Spreads its arms
Gathering all who will listen
Feeding them
With loaves of crowning retribution
And waters of the spleen

jeanne rene 3/04

... to have the moss grow over my heart by jeanne rené

 

public domain image

Every once in a while I feel it,
Slippage through a chink of actuality
Into a pinhole passage of the phenomenon,
To know . . . I am dancing.
I walk across the rift
To see. . . I am dancing,
I am waltzing with splendor as my partner.
I sally. . . . I whirl . . . . at times, I even prance
Upon the knolls of God's intent.
Lush, the hills, with bush and brush,
Grass and grain set in soil
And every once in a while I feel them,
I know them
To take root in my soul.

Every once in a while I wear it,
Upon my back a dress of flaxen rags.
In the moment that I stumble over the divide
I wear . . . . I embellish
The light in the darkness.
Throwing my arms in madness,
I am dancing in the gowns of consciousness.
A blink . . . . a flutter . . . . at times, a deep breath
Held beneath the waterfall.
Deep, my feet, sink into the earth.
The moss hunts my heart.
And every once in a while I know it,
I hear it
The reply sounding over the myst. 

 

 Copyright jeanne rené 01/04

 

Dance with Isadora ... by jeanne rené

Isadora Duncan’s dances by Arnold Genthe, 1919

                                           
 Close the distance
I tire
Of racing along side the frenzy
Baiting the magnificent
To consume me
But running shielded
In the sobriety of word and deed
Deadening the propensity of the passion

I must plant my feet in dreams
Let me hold
To the path of the fury
That it might overtake me
In an instant of irreversible finality

Let it snap my neck
In a act of simple punctuation
One by one tearing these flailing limbs
From my sanctity, my sanity
Pitching them upward
And
In the silence of the eye
Dropping onto soft pillows

Let my heart be decimated
Each atom cradled in the arms of the wind
Each dot kissed by the breath of the Almighty
And propelled beyond His galaxies

Torn from regret
Let my soul dance with Isadora
Upon stars undiscovered
Adorned in the rapture of many colored scarves
Whose silken threads kiss the inside of our thighs

And now
Chasing my dreams
Watch me
Surrender to the winds 

© jeanne rené 4/04

... on a blanket with my baby by Jeanne René

he licks
the bead of nehi orange
resting in the corner of her lips
sweet
he smiles
shivering sweetness up
shivering down
a spine tingling 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

an angel drifts upon a cloud
heaven knows
they are shivering
and too young to consider
looking back
in solemn faithless retrospect
much less
coming up to the surface for air

jeanne rené 11/03

... The Drifters

Honeyed/Catching Promises ... by Jeanne René

       All summer long

mama’s porch caught and nestled the breeze
   for the ladies.
Round, round the rafters it ambled,
swooped down
circled about our lil’ darlin’s
and leapt up
in impetuous gusts to tangle pixie bangs.

   Sigh

red-freckled cheeks,
lollipop impressions falling fast on our laps,
making sweet, sweet laughter.
Smiles sipping so-cold sodas
in effortless satisfaction
with cool, cool beads of bliss
on the lips of the ladies.

        Afternoons

dillydallied mixing company with
the persistent lover puffing its breath
in jasmine balm and pungent geranium
     bouquets for the ladies.
Temperamental bursts
blushing,
fluttering soft lapels against our white throats,
and lazy chimes shake, shake, shaking delirium
with a sudden slap.
~
Easy, honeyed wind swept round the porch

    Remember

the soft slender hands

    all summer long

~
Summers

pretty ladies catching promises ferried on the wind

           all

summer

      long





copywrite jeanne rené


Dedicated to Trisha, Darlene and Diane ... and all our kids

Sophie's Mustacheby Jeanne René

Written in the poetic form referred to as a sestina which requires the repetition of certain words in a specific order.

Sophie’s fine dark mustache competes for attention
with cosmopolitan red slipping into deep creases over her lip.
Every Saturday lunch, pushing remains of pastrami and rye away,
she retrieves the handbag purchased when Eisenhower was in office
and, sans mirror, applies a circle of rouge with self-confidence.
Routinely, a familiar pat of hand, “What a pleasant meal, dear.”

I don’t know why the seat by the corner window is so dear,
but Sophie always lingers. I pretend to pay no attention
while she mumbles conversation, taking in a covert confidence,
and places a slip of pink paper beneath the catsup at the table lip.
Later, arm in arm down Market, she marks the corner office
approaching 3rd Avenue, squeezing my hand and giggling away.

“He tried to make love in the stairwell, but I pushed him away.”
Leaning in, as sixty-odd years disappear, Sophie coos, “Oh, dear!”
Deep wrinkles frame watery eyes, “We finally did it in his office.”
Ageless laughter moves her shoulders and eyes flash to attention.
All too soon recovering dignity, tapping a finger to the lower lip,
lessening her grip, she removes the weight of such a silly confidence.

Memories, for some, are not met with serenity and confidence
or as Sophie muses, “Loneliness cannot be swept away.”
I’ve wondered of Sophie’s perspective, balancing on the brim. . . the lip. . .
threshold of Evermore and gathering unto oneself all that was dear.
The sorting, if you will, of time once given transitory attention,
now to stand in solitary role call, answering to one’s due and office.

Today . . . a rare letter to be mailed at the Post Office.
She searches the address and pats the envelope with confidence.
The purchase of a single stamp and its placement with attention,
the note in Sophie’s hands, seems so tenderly sent away.
I wonder what words, what thoughts she writes, old and dear,
as carefully she drops hope down the depository lip.

There is a gleam shining now above Sophie’s lip.
The heat of the day appears to be holding office
directly over Market St. and despite how dear
our Saturdays, I notice her weakened confidence.
Sadly, we turn in the opposite direction and away
from sights and sounds waiting our attention.

I loved that Sophie ignored her mustached lip with confidence.
It softened goodbye, “Dear, I don’t deserve so much attention."
She’d sign in at the office, smile and slip away.


jeanne rené 08.06

Grey Cat Sit Upon My Lap and Pause with Meby Jeanne René

... balance, breathing and moths ..for me, oft times a source of inspiration ..lol...written one late summer...

Scarlette

At cool decline of day
When cloud billow drifts

In contemplation of summer rain
Past peek-a-boo moon shine . . . It all seems so simple

Sitting here, lazy in Adirondack green,
Tease of temperate gust against a cheek,
Grey cat zigzagging between my feet
And eyes to heaven
Spellbound in the rhythm of distant star flame,
A twinkle to my sight . . . It all seems so simple

To fill the lungs with gentle thoughts,
Swell and stir inside my chest, the spirit gift,
The same that ignites outmost meteor,
The same that cups the fickle rain above my head
This genius rising in, and out through me . . . Seems so simple

To know what the balance ought to be
Between the inhale and exhale
Of unbounded galaxies.
Seems so simple to understand
That all is well with the moth that flutters round
Naked yellow bulb burning

Tonight behind my back . . .

So simple this truth to me


copywrite jeannerené

~ searching north star by Jeanne René

"with cherry fields
pink cheeks
and empty stomach
until we celebrate together"

~~from empty stomach by northstar


***

You must look in the direction of the wish,
half-way up within the night sky
teetering on the horizon
of desire and intuition.
Polaris of the lover,
she defines the east, west and south of moonlight

You must look by the way of the heart,
the guiding path overgrown with rose tear,
mint flower and lemon thorn memory.
You must trace the line of
falling-dreams across the cheek as she passes,
following the quiver of the compass,

and embracing
the wistful brilliance of her voice

to find the north star.



copyright jeanne rene

Photo via Good Free Photos

~complete and unabridged~ by Jeanne René

i am relatively old

this i surmised today
due to waking with pain across my back
accompanied by well versed groans
when reaching for toes
and stretching mournful extremities

deep into my morning revelry
a fanciful thought creeps into my over-taxed genius
that i would like to slip into shakespeare’s works
complete and unabridged

be written boldly into his pages
to puff my chest and billow my skirts
rant and rave and wallow
and allow
my venerable bones speak to me
in brittle soliloquy
of some memory waiting
absolution
and stubborn prayers
whispered in endless revolution

a silly wandering
to take my days
in tempest or merriment
and play them against the centuries
quoting my very own “adieu, adieu”
and placing one more virgin kiss
wildly upon my romeo
to be of one parchment penned
with quill that embellishes youth and age
and all senses embroiled
on earth and hell and heaven

but as i curl my lip against the spasm of my weary ways
and manage at last to stand straight and light
i laugh at my dramatic musing
and in truth know that i would simply settle
to set myself
once more
as in
former days
upon a nicely rounded derriere



jeanne rené 4/05