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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait by Monet Uninvited

 

Claude Monet: Woman Seated Under Willows 1880

~by jeanne rené~

Portrait by Monet Uninvited

Breathing oxygen of oils and turpentine,
I waited,
Unfinished shade of monotone,
Left against a dusty wall
Gathering time
And moot dreams.

Until that night
He entered uninvited,
Scattering jars of exhausted brushes,
And crusted palettes in a fury of salvation.
Ripping moth worn drapery,
Pushing out stale air through cracked glass.

Lifting me to an empty easel
He postured gaily,
“Ah, gray child
You have stayed to be my masterpiece.”
And threw colors at my canvas.

“I will paint you as light, my dear,
Place rose red blush to your cheek.
Silhouette drawn with blossom lined path
Under the shade of old yews and muted greenery,
And a delicate bridge to linger the afternoon,
a crossing over lazy water lilies, will be my gift.”

In dreams
He creates without thought.
A dress of purple iris,
A cape of swaying poppies,
And tresses of yellow poplar leaves
dancing on an fitful breeze . . . his eye renders.

“I will give you dainty parasol clouds
Drifting above meandering rivers
And cliffs that greet the crash of sea waters.
I most important, child, I will paint you
As soft grass upon which lovers lie.” 

With grasses rendered,
He threw brushes over his shoulder
And contemplated the image.
Across the lips a smile of satisfaction played.
So to the window,
Looking for daybreak, laughing
He set my portrait flying against the sky cerulean blue.

Copyright jeanne rené 10/04