I have no idea when I wrote this ... at least twenty years ago ... or more
A Story Poem
by jeanne rene
It seems
as if it was only last night’s moon,
not the years tallied
by fine etched lines about
her eyes, always
sapphire blue
It seems
as if it was only last night’s whisper, teasing the billowed lace,
silently asking to brush a kiss upon her cheek,
yet unspoiled
She hungers . . .
ember flash, ember flit,
shimmer, shine, show me
. . . embracing the dance
. . . embracing the dance ~~
She remembers . . .
She woke
to restless thoughts
and the moonlight
waltzing on the window pane.
Shimmer, shine, show me,
she heard her heart cry.
Open your window, and
oblige your kith,
welcome your kin.
She remembers . . .
She heard
the trill of no man’s flute,
and followed it’s bidding
to the belly of the wooded labyrinth.
And from shadow they came,
Rushing, running, rustling,
they came, braided and bare
woven kin from
threads of the earth.
She thirsts . . .
a flicker, a flutter
a shimmer, a shine
. . . planted and sown
. . . seeds of the dance ~~
It seems
as if she floated above a tangled web
of ruddy heads and brazen arms,
sightless in her trust.
Laughing, but bewildered,
she surrendered
to the whims
of her flight.
She remembers . . .
They hissed
“Take the blindfold off.
Take if off.
No feeble, no fainthearted
kin have we.
Take the blindfold off,
and be what our
kind would be.”
She dreams …
a song, a sound
a tone, a tongue,
. . . what kind am I
. . . what kin to me ~~
We remember . . .
We know . . .
We know
each babe of old blood born.
We the keepers, the seers,
who know the light in the darkness
found under the stone.
We the keepers, the seers,
who hear the voice of the seed
to be sown to the ground.
We the keepers, the seers,
who drink only of the heaven’s
righteous rain. We the keepers,
braided and woven from
the threads of earth.
We renew, we replenish,
We make new our burden
through you . . . through you . . .
through you . . . through you . . .
She remembers . . .
She ate
apples ripe with nectar
that drowned all fear
in her heart, and
she tasted the grape that
fancied her mind, so she
danced and danced
to her infatuation
found in the fire.
Danced and danced
to the light found under the stone,
and she wept embracing the dance.
It seems
as if it was only yesterday’s light
that graced her pale cheek
as her weary head lay on the sill,
and her sapphire eyes
gleamed an unnatural hue.
Her auburn tresses
tempted the breeze.
~~~~~~~
Slender hands
braid the long gray locks,
and offer a tender touch
to a weathered cheek.
She stops to give a
weightless kiss.
“Mama, what are you thinking?”
Just a whisper.
“The dance, daughter.
. . . Embrace the dance.”
And their eyes,
blue,
like no man’s blue,
look deep into the belly of the wood.
copyright jeanne rene
