~this scent of pine and meditation

 by jeanne rené 

Aside
these boughs twined of firefly lights,
baubles merriment and jubilee,
now lost in the scent of pine and candle wax
I assemble,
my thought
my sense. . . my wit about me

My meditation
impels me,
close my eyes.
Bids me listen
to the thunder . . . a voice soundless.
Commands me
release the hours,
pause and inhale a singular breath

. . . pause and inhale a singular breath.
Know me as I bring your lips to mine,
I release my word and swell your lungs,
in your waking . . . in your slumber.
I am the only current,
at once, the same, high and retiring tide

. . . quiet . . . listen
I am the rise and the descent,
holding nothing from your seasons.
I am ever the seeding,
ever the harvest,
birth and death as one

and duality

. . . quiet
I distinguish no celebration
for I am consistent in my bounty.
I credit nothing to translations,
or tongues,
your histories, or crusades
I am undivided . . .
absolute

. . . wordless
Close your eyes.
Hear,
I am the name of the child gone before you,
after you
and standing beside you. . .
the child whose hand you seek

In my rumination, this Christmas come,
midst song and celebration I find,
. . . in the hush, the whisper of the only breath

You are my primary colors,
the mixing of my forest and heaven,
the paints of my red soil and dazzling sun.
You are the blending of all hues and textures,
the threads of our kente,
the fine stitch of our quilt . . .
the laugh of the baboon,
the leap of the gazelle

And you are . . . simply present,
ever waiting
for us to exhale . . . 

copyright jeanne rené  11/08

... 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