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

 

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

Jeannie's First Curlby Jeanne René

Grace, Joey, Eugene, Tony, Tina, Vera, Jay

     “I’ll ride with you to Gracie’s rosary.”

intonation peculiar
voice muffled by layers of exhaustion

     “Sure, Ma, that’s fine.”

pause inflated by a sigh
suctioning of memory
raising her chest to a lifetime
releasing the inevitability
clarification of goodbye

succumbing to a dull embrace
     “Everybody’s gone.”
listen
inhalation
exhalation

accents of perplexity
     “Everybody's gone.”

talk . . . just talk
rounding corners of silences
so many heartbeats stolen

     “The envelope says Jeannie’s first curl.”

voice sits upon a quaver
she drifts
to the kitchen table

arms cradling her newborn



jeanne rené 4/05

~sheby Jeanne René

~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


Copywrite jeannerené 07.09