.jpg)
Just wanting to include a couple of links for an outstanding poet and his publication The Moral Judgement of Butterflies. Click on links below for more information.
Group Black Spring Press:
The Moral Judgement of Butterflies by Ké Eltinaé
On Amazon:
The Moral Judgement of Butterflies: Eltinaé, K.: 9781913606879: Amazon.com: Books
Her hands,
etched ...
a legion of delicate lines.
Spotted and raised
with the red-blue rivers.
These hands,
move upward to sweetly caress
the boy's face.
And with love learned well
she stokes his rough cheek.
He bends
and kisses her brow.
"I love you, grandma."
And this his most earnest love,
love returned to love received,
unfeigned and unconditional.
Mama.
Mama.
I'm sad sick hurt Rock me.
On your lap Please.
You don't know what it is,
but you make it feel better.
I get scared, mama.
. . . It seemed you turned an endless summersault. I'd lay a hand upon my belly
laughing.
With closed eyes I'd touch the love unexplainable.
Your apron is dirty.
Your clothes never match.
You sing off key.
But when there's something at the window
You let me know
it's just the wind.
You sit on my bed,
'till I fall asleep again.
. . . I buried my face in the feel and smell of baby silk hair.
. . . Fingers brushed your hair away and squared the baseball cap down and sent
you back to the field.
A little dirt never hurt anyone.
Mama,
Time flys.
I'm laying in bed sad sick hurt
and it's not about the wind.
. . . Reaching to place the loose strands of hair, you stop my hand.
There is always an inescapable longing
To be there . . . close to your breast.
Breathing . . .
with the rhythm of your breathing.
Rocking . . .
with the rhythm of your rocking.
On your lap . . . your lap . . . mama
Let me cry . . . me cry . . . mama
Let me love . . . me love . . . mama
"Love you, grandma."
He bounds out the door.
She walks to me
and with those well-lived hands
she holds my face
and kisses my brow.
"Don't worry.
He has a good home
and a good heart."
On your lap . . . your lap . . . Mama
jeanne rene
 |
| Photo jeanne rene |
Wayfarers we, masters of many a discourse,
pilots of the open seas . . .we the rabble, the masses,
. . .your children of uncharted destiny.
Seize the wheel and set the sail, but consider the course,
n’er how well mapped, still it precarious be,
since every man, his woman and child,
a simple passenger on this vessel of God’s beloved Fate,
and prisoner to her unknown mandate.
Atop the mast head, she reigns, this patroness of circumstance,
a silent captain to each voyage where e’re we venture.
Proudly we scuttle round her sovereignty, until she speaks,
and we shiver at her summons, mark the timber of her call,
knowing not, whom her words may solicit,
or bid pay homage on our knees across her stately bow.
Yea, we do well to know her command . . .understand
her flight into the unpredictable winds,
wary in the knowledge, that as we tend her glorious sails
she can, our winged Fate, pluck any minion and bind it to her liege.
Be it on a humble breeze or torrid squall . . .it matters not,
she casts her terms, her judgment random.
Her eyes blind, she drops her net from the indifferent heavens
and we are caught and tossed upon the seas of favor or misfortune.
Woe, to those, the helpless souls whose casting lands
upon the brine of misery, for Fate follows with a deadly hand,
and too pained to look us in the eye, to our backside steals,
her hand upon our sinking shoulder . . .her fingers deep into our flesh,
we are held to each whimsical decision in the passing of her heart’s desire.
She requisitions some dastardly deed, some sequence bewitched.
She demands some twist of time and happenstance, irrevocable . . . immutable.
She bellows . . .and we drown, too well . . .
carried to unfamiliar shores on currents of grief and humility.
And the rush of her wings can be heard across both land and sea,
as back to her lofty perch upon the steadfast craft,
Fate strums a heavy harp and sings a solemn reverie,
a vibration of broken-hearted melodies carried by wind;
of stories that will have no voice,
of lips that will have no kiss,
of roads that will not be traveled,
of deeds that have no undoing,
“And of this child that will not come home,
never to suckle life and love’s mystery;
damnation to its mother’s wails,
damnation to my burden,
the child is mine and you must weep!”
And in the storm’s aftermath to which they were abandoned,
the castaways awake to Fate’s comfortless requiem,
and to a heartache that exists so tethered by tribulation
it scarce can drum an added palpitation . . .
scarce can murmur one more litany of despair.
The bearer walks in bewilderment,
moves in mystification through belief and denial,
holding fast to tears, lest the last sorrow fall,
and open the bitter shore beneath their feet.
They wait . . .with no other choice, but to ride
the next wind back to the vessel of life,
and dare to look God’s mistress in the eye.
jeanne rené
Thinking of my mom and aunt who both passed away this year.
The Light of the Moon
The moonlight held its breath
in patient vigil outside her cross-paned window.
She seemed to sense its warmth,
and looked beyond me to glow and glimmer
waltzing upon the lake’s surface, dancing,
skipping between the ripples,
smiling at the ease of time’s merriment.
It came that she closed her eyes,
and with a gasp took in and then refused age
with a lingering hiss. She lay quiet.
~ from the window I watched the merry current
lap against the lake shore. I was not deceived
by the illusionary randomness of sway and swell
of wave, but looked into precise measure,
understood the mathematics of each whitecap,
and yet I knew tonight
the moonbeam held her slender waist,
swept her across the waters.
Thought slipped through the open window
and her hands grew cold. The present encircled
my head, a dark, vaporous nimbus of reflection.
I pondered, suspended above my own cloud …
If my last breathe were to linger with wavering balance
upon the precipice of moment and destiny…
If time were to slip through my well versed and worn lips
until the morrow only and not a sunset more to my name,
could I tip my hat to the fray
and slyly tuck a smile into your forever memory,
falling head first into eternity.
Again to the window,
I sought, but the light of the moon
had walked away into the dawn.
jeanne rené 6.08
by jeanne rené
maniacally tap-tap her manicured nails
across formica wasteland
sequential tip-touch drone
i observe with reluctant objectivity
her fever pitching
eye socket restraining civility
it roars
the bright white chatter
her click click click unraveling
a distorted blink;
"Save me"
can’t save you
safe...I'll keep you...
my hand trespasses
swimming through the buzz
gripping her knuckles
massaging the welted kinks of depravity
relentless tears
laying flat irrepressible coils of Larina
"Why does the crow rest at the top of a tree?"
I’m not sure.
...to look for food?
so it comes
a pause
unconscious calm
a silence
momentary respite
an insipid quiet
barely long enough
to ask for forgiveness
until she smiles:
"Crows perch on top
and chaw at our shadows."
my hand tightens
her lip trembles
explanations snapping
quavering filaments of matter and deed
Note: Occasionally I worked with teens with the onset of schizophrenia. I did not use the actual name in this poem.
bird in my corner
cross-legged
on high pile carpet
deep in my bungalow air
where was I then
where was I when pretty boy
bounced off my walls
hyped-up hopped-up
psyched-up
tripped-out
wasted
waded way deep in love loft
mattress matrimony
hey hey hey
i was there man
tip toeing on the typewriter
pounding the words out
hammering my heart flat
their hungry idioms
blew in thru my window
all the pretty boys
cleft-chinned opiates
singing high notes in my melody
one two three four
knocking at my door
damn
and charlie parker
he was cool
just kept playing in my corner
set himself up at my table
sat down to my music
running his fingers up and down so sweet
pumping his manhood into the tune
must
slide the lattice down on the shutters
dim the day
one more eulogy to write
where was I then
where was I when words fit in two packs a day
choke on my smoke
dine on my dance
hey hey hey
devil loved my laugh man
and The Bird . . . .
he went on spinning his sax
in my corner
smiling
loving my laugh
just like the devil
and crying one more riff
he told me
its gonna be alright girl
7/04
i was wondering
if grandpa was smoking unfiltered pall malls
up in heaven
and if only the pleasure of puffing existed
for chain smoking angels
left unfettered by consequences
i was just wondering if grandpa
was sitting in an open box car on a slow rolling train
crossing the clouds
taking in a long deep drag
then flashing his toothy grin
and i wondered if maybe
he could blow the smoke
down this way
toward me
let it circle round my head
and sleep in lingering billows beneath my nose
