... embracing the dance

 

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

 

 

Ephemeral Reflections

by jeanne rené 

 

I linger passing the looking glass,
turn to survey
my nakedness still damp with bath,
pausing curiously
to scrutinize this skin so many years mine.
A pink and supple womanhood,
each line and contour now eschewing
with a blurred eye, the fate of gravity,
My hand glides over a perfect navel still
cradling drops of perfume,
and I wonder at this figure’s passion,
its desires taken
and pleasures given
throughout its measured time.

An immodest perusal,
bare breast cupped within my hand,
a rounded stomach fingertips touch,
and legs stretched outward
weary of day and night dances,
in conclusion
reflecting back . . . image and memory.
Effigy and recollection,
and questions outstanding,
unfulfilled by
definitions paraphrasing this femininity
with terms too simple to credit
the swell of bosoms gladness
     in duality.
My purpose, unlike the image,
     wavering,
lost in revelry of the suckle
as both lover and mother.

I cannot resist
the intake of circumstance
with a momentous sigh
and obliging smile upon my lips
in resignation,
for long perhaps this oval mirror,
bound in deepest cherry,
will rest before me in sincere mockery
as years progression braid my legacy
tightly to the root of my graying weave.
It’s mimicry to capture each deepening furrow
that I shall trace in inquisition,
as I do now, standing here
silent and unadorned,
following the proportion and scheme of my hips.

I am amazed, as always in these discreet wanderings,
by the continued discrepancy
between mind and body,
and their oracles unrevealed to satisfy my thirst.
My undress intensifies only
the indelible mystery and the passage of the hours
uniquely sculpted in this body of mine.

Mine …. nonetheless, to caress.


jeanne rené 6.05

 

 

Forever Proud

I thought I would share my link to my Patriotic/Military Store, Foever Proud, on Zazzle. I started it a very long time ago in 2008 when my youngest son became a U.S. Marine. It actually helped me during his time in the military especially during his deployment in combat zones. I continue to design products, sometimes with the help of my son. I actually have five stores: Forever Proud, All Things Halloween, Campbell CA and San Jose CA, Dia Day Los Muertos and Shakespeare Gifts ... all under the MAIN store of JJ Designs. The majority of products in Forever Proud are created from my photos over the years. I've been going through and reorganizing all my stores and my Blog Forever Proud.

The Blog link is: https://foreverproud-jeannerene.blogspot.com
... or click on title above.

It must be an "age thing" because I've been reorganizing everything .... Lol ...

Store Link below:

by ForEverProud

Every Son

 by jeanne rené

Marty Jr.

 

His eyes were soft
A careless light blue
Hair just plain brown
Tossed about his shoulders
And swept across his face
In the morning’s flurry

He crossed over a lane of traffic
With baited anticipation
Looking, so in character
Vintage, dirty way-baggy jeans
Dragging under his boots
Fatigue jacket, swollen backpack

He was young
And old
In maybe some nineteen years
His smile white-washed
Whatever pain he felt
From the thorns in his side
And the pebbles in his shoes

Thank you, ma'am
To the five I held out the window
I looked at him, in explanation
I have two sons
and smiled back
Perhaps
He knew what I left unsaid

He spun around quickly
A hotfoot back to the island
Between life’s metered routine
Of off-ramp or on-ramp
Cardboard and marker prayer
I want to go home
Please help

-------

Marty launched himself on the couch
Disturbing my peace
What ya’ doing, mom
Leaning against my side
With a calculated grin
So seldom done anymore
His shoulder length hair
cast across his face


jeanne rené 10/03

 

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