upon the axis of perfection & to give (two poems)

by jeanne rené  

~upon the axis of perfection 

the sun rose
rivers fell into the oceans
oceans fed the heavens
and on our day
before this day . . .

Her
Times tossed out of rhyme
Sight defined ~
The blitz around the corner,
Upright pedal rush.
Speed bump curb into the driveway
Wheels dumped in crash abandon
Five-steps in a two-step sprint to the front door.

Vibrations radiate~
The marathon up the stairs,
Jumbled sensations of enthusiasm.
Baying forever feedback,
Manic
mad
unmelodious beat.

Cold stepping out
From refrigerator door open,
Banging.
Winged kiss on the cheek,
Spoiled
Devil-eyed wink
"Hi mom."

Time
Passages
Life
Toss of the dice
Visions undermined~
The cold shuffling down
The body torn.
Life pools a red halo
Conquering the weightless dust .
"I’m cold. . . so cold . . ."
Winged kiss on the wind
I love you, mom.

I love you, mom,
Carried home.
Spoils of war
In her womb.

She shakes . . . dreams tossed
Out of time. Out of life.
A hand wakes her sleep.
". . . It's time to go."

and with
this day new
rivers fall into the oceans
oceans feed the heavens
and the sun will set . . . .

the sun rises

the sun sets
Our sons die 

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  

until ... somewhere in country

 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 ...

For a Moment Unforgivable

 

 

 

by jeanne rene

 ... sending a son off to war

I could never wash his sheets.
The sheets, on a bed that was too small.
His feet hung over, but he didn’t complain.

He’d come home on leave,
maybe ten days.
Sometimes only three and I’d just smile.

Wrap my arms around,
clasp my hands and if I could have
I would not have let go.

I would not wash his sheets,
after we'd return from the airport
and my husband sat down to the TV.

I’d go into his room,
bury my head in his pillow.
Pull the comforter up to my nose.

Inhale my son
and for a moment unforgivable
cry unseen, unheard.

Once he left a pair of boots near the bed.
Left half a pack of Marlboros, quarters, a camo cover
and a receipt for Jack Daniels on his dresser.

I’d tell myself … I’ll wash his pillow case again
when he remembers that half pack of Marlboros,
and it doesn't hurt to swallow when the phone rings.

I’d ask myself … If I strip his bed clean,
how will I ever find my son? How will I know
he slept here, if he doesn’t make it home.


jeannerené 2.2014