Waitin' on His Traveling Socks, Crossing the End Silence, Each of these Last Days: Poems for Dwight

 by jeanne rene

 

                                                                                 

 I was blessed with a wonderful mother-in-law and father-in-law who I miss to this day. This November 27th would be my father-in-law's 100th birthday and as with my own father's 100th birthday last month I've been thinking of him a lot. Posting a few poems written around the time of his passing.

Raising my glass to you Dwight .... Dad .... say hi to mom from me. 

***************************

A story poem ... Dwight was born and raised in Lancaster, PA

Waitin' on His Travelin' Socks

Story poem: Two Amish angels await the arrival of a prodigal son.

At the Pearlie Gates, the hour being late one glorious afternoon, Brothers Jeremiah and Ezekiel, stand outside heaven’s threshold waitin’ to welcome and take the hand of their newly departed cousin. These angelic greeters, timelessly roll, heal and toe, pullin' down on black suspenders, and lookin’ out from under wide-brimmed hats shielding their eyes from the glare of bright billowed clouds. Brother Jeremiah, absent-mindedly strokes a coarse close-cropped beard, the look of day-dreamin' written across his face. Brother Ezekiel, on the other hand, as time and several more clouds pass by, rocks and rolls a little faster, the snap of his suspenders growing increasingly louder. “Brother Jeremiah, has our cousin not crossed over the bridge? The afternoon wanes. ” Ezekiel snips. “Patience, Ezekiel. Yours grows thin, Brother. Remember, thee has no say in the matter of crossin'. Rest assured, our cousin comes.” Jeremiah and Ezekiel fall once more into a silence, biding time each within their own contemplation. Many clouds drift by effortlessly, as meanwhile other celestial greeters have appeared, passing through the gates with wide-eyed newcomers at heel. St. Peter, himself, gives them a curious wave from the distance. “Jeremiah,” Ezekiel’s stern voice breaks the hush, as something heavy weighs on his mind. “Ye know brother, he be another kin of the prodigal. They lived, all, with the English, nigh these many years. Not a one did return.” “I am aware, Brother Ezekiel,” chides Jeremiah. He be our cousin, none the less, as were the others come down from the prodigal.” They resume a peaceful, yet watchful wait, while above a sleepy sun yawns with the passing hours. The quiet is but temporary, for troubled, the knots in his brow growing deeper, Ezekiel shatters the heavenly calm. “Humph . . . But this one, Jeremiah, forsook the fields of Lancaster. Let the harvest go rotten, and left the barn empty.” Jeremiah smiles, “He traveled far, he did. Yes, he did.” . “He danced. He danced unashamed, a jiggy-bug.” Ezekiel snorts. “I believe it be called a jitter-bug, Brother Ezekiel,” Jeremiah retorts, casting a disapproving eye at his ageless brother. Ezekiel lowers his head, silent. An air of tranquility begins to resettle amid the cumulus now drifting through the twilight. Unruffled, Jeremiah squats on his hunches curiously stirrin' the mist. Ezekiel, on the other hand, disturbs the lazy nebula with mounting agitation. “What keeps our cousin? Perhaps, St. Peter put the quill to this name?” Ezekiel wishing to quibble kicks at the icy dust particles. “Ye mark my words.” “Go raise a barn, Ezekiel. I lose my patience with thee. If ye be watchin’ instead of whining, ye’d know. His grieving wife forgot his red socks. . . said he’ll not be crossin’ any bridge ‘till they fetch his red socks, and put them on his cold feet. His travelin’ socks, he calls them.” An uneasy silence, between the brothers lay, but thank the Lord, it is soon to be broken by a gay whistling, for up from the path of the eternal bridge, placing a gallant step on the cloud at his feet, struts a merry figure, duffle bag in tow, a curious and eager arrival. “See, Ezekiel, here comes our cousin. His socks be red, and he looks most willin' to come home.” “Jeremiah, what tune could he be whistling. I recognize it not.” “They call it My Way.” “Written by which saint?” “Sung by a gifted voice . . . perhaps to some a saint . . .” Jeremiah muses. “The English called him Frank. Ahhh!. . . . . Good day, to thee, cousin Dwight. Ye have been missed. Welcome home!” with my love for Dwight W. Watson 1924-2003

 Crossing the End Silence

 

long hospital corridors are lonely, and even his hysterical pose, green droopy gown, black dress shoes and red socks, a smile and snappy wave, do not belie the fragility beneath the masquerade, or the forsaken lines echoing the laugh Sunday morning we walked around each other in icy silence, Still stinging from battle wounds wrapped in self-regard, And both wanting to surrender into the other's arms. "I love you. I have always loved you." long hospital hours are lonely, so he gives the pretty nurses an old flirtatious wink to remind them he's still there, and in a moment too quiet he takes your hand, and simply holds it, while the tears come and go, passing between you in silence I look into my husband's eyes, the man, and I see the questions of a child. After all these years I know his tenderness, and I know his fear. He aches to tell the man. "I love you, dad. I have always loved you." copyright jeanne rene 8/03

 

 

each of these last days

 

each
of these
last days
he walks
down the hall
painfully treading
past life's chronicles
the color fading
and
hung askew

and
each of these
last walks
he bears up
to another
moonlight requisition
of his mortality
the
filching
of his muscle
and memory

he cries
unaccustomed tears
but
she catches
his humility
in her frail hands
and
unaccustomed
he bows with guilt
on her
who stands by his side
till this death
will they part
and
she will
each of these days
hold
his dignity
as securely
as she holds his arm

and
on this walk
he takes
each
of her hands
"Would you like to jitter-bug?"
he asks softly
with gratitude
and a wink
and
she smiles back
at the young man
standing on the dock
with wavy
black hair
cascading down
his brow
like James Dean

copyright jeanne rene 8/03 

 

 

 

 

Upon Consideration of Hourglass and Spectrum

 by jeanne rene

 

I touch the reflection in my mirror,
trying to find the supple texture of my lips,
but stopped by my own fingertips.
Studying a false immortality,
unable to marry what I see to that which I feel.
The eyes of this solitary figure
do not discern my braided pigmentation.
This delusive guise does not display the saturation
of youth and lover,
of mother and daughter,
of teacher.
Of time and every tear,
countless portraits and poses that I, clearly, still can see.

I find it best to walk away, leave my reflection
and harmonize with my humble mortality.
Simply to take my colors
and distribute them in kindness along the remainder of the way.
So I consider;
What lasting word can I give my children
that they will draw upon in the depths of their misery?
Which passionate kiss
will forever be akin to ecstasy on the mouth of my lover?
With which words of gratitude do I bury my mother? 

Show me the many loaves of bread needed to seduce peace beyond a timid stranger. 

I will find . . . all I am,
all that I have never ceased to be,
all that I have left behind, but always take along with me,
and bestow my gifts to precious time,
no trace of my reflection, except in memory.

 

copyright jeanne rene 8/04 

 

 

Snapping an Honest Bottle Cap

 by jeanne rené

Warm and fragrant eggnog latté
slips down my throat,
Nutmeg satisfies so sweetly
this nod for simple reflection.

An entourage of features
sally forth before my repose,
A full regalia of nations
and their generations,
coexisting within this faux pas
and sky lit edifice with a modicum of normalcy
. . . . . while outside
horsemen hold snorting visionaries at bay.

To my right a bill board is alive
with flashing magic and fashion.
A curious smile balances on my lips
for having been propelled into the eventual
with the turn of my head,
and staring at the mode o' day rotation
. . . . . somehow
my mind wonders to the elfin mystique
of Audrey Hepburn on the cover of Life Magazine.

I hate the last sip of my tepid latté,
And heave a regretful sigh
   As the milkman in dress whites and centered cap,
   Presses a single chime to the doorbell . . .
   The icy bottles having been deposited on the porch.

The snappy refrain of the March of the Toreadors
calls in hushed tones from my book bag,
and with the adept acuity of modern man
I tap open my line of communications.
Tossing my reflections along with the paper cup
I merge back into the parade,

but my step hides a lingering sadness
. . . A realization of belonging to the last generation
to snap an honest bottle cap.

 

Copyright jeanne rené

 

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

 

 

soldier gripping the wheel of a 1972 mustang

  by jeanne rené

he spread a small blue tarp over the front seat
with yet another, he cocooned in fatal finale
once and for all, the civil gentle boy
gentle man
considerate of the unknown passer-by
who would trip upon “read me”

i do not know
once and for all
lingering with the tide
if he devoured the salty balm
of moment and infinity
wheezing through flared nostrils
pulling the inhale
pushing the exhale

i do not know
if he paused to listen
to the gulls' rapture
or let the wind intrude upon his meditation

and I do not know
once and for all
if there existed an infinitesimal dot of discernment
between the seduction of the trigger
and the beyond-regret impact

it does not matter
because
we could not gauge his pain
could not penetrate his sorrow
could not measure his torment

we could not know a soldier

copyright jeannerené 2013
~for G. ...
forever in our hearts

 

 

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

... 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

demands,
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
  

Introduce Yourself by Diane

... us ... in the kitchen ... the heart of the home.

August 30, 1999

 

Inside my head I can still hear:

Grandma telling me to shut the door in Portuguese.

Priests chanting, sing songing and the congregation responding as one.

Music at the fiestas.

Two languages playing charades.

Grandpa swearing in Italian.

Clinking bowls, cups, forks and knives.

Cousins, everybody's children.

Papa's whispered prayers and the creak-crack of the rocking chair.

The stories -- the tell me again stories -- the pass down to your children stories --

stories that give color to your heritage: 

Voices painting pictures of immigrants, stowaways, 

crowded boats and lost identities.

Voices that created underground stills camouflaged with chicken coups.

Bootleggers who went to jail and murderers who didn't. 

Inside my head I can still smell:

The dampness in the cellar.

Cigars.

Grandma's dress.

Apple pies.

Fava beans, linguica and sweetbread with the eggs cooked in.

Biscotti, cuichidadies and pezellies.

Red sauce boiling and pasta, pasta, pasta.

Inside my head I can still see:

So much vino that uncles forgot who they were.

Hands that talked.

Pin striped suits and tipped fedoras.

Great aunts smiling with bright red lips 

and shadowed eyelids through the mesh of netted hats.

Fox furs with the feet still attached.

Aprons and clotheslines.

Candles and statues, holy water and rosary beads.

Poker games, brandy and five o'clock shadows.

I see the women busy ... always.

I see the men in white undershirts and pleated pants - huddled - watching - owning. 

In my head I am:

Whole, with first hand remnants of a culture that is a part of me.

A link connecting my children with themselves. 

... with my cousin, Diane Souza