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Jeanne René ~ Promises & Poetry ~at~
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| ~the whistle
the whistle sings in lyric note,
beckons the lady follow, to lay down upon its rifts
lost in the swirl and twirl of melody
drifting,
bound for yesterday’s memory, drunk on love
and bent with laughter
a breathe leaves a sigh within the whistle
to call upon desire unspent,
to sing … to sing
come, lady rest upon my song,
so pale, worn your dreams,
that I may wrap you in gowns of sweet, sorrowful crescendo
come, drape regret around my music
and I will carry your name to the warbler’s nest
the whistle lifts its poem,
in ribbons of voice sharp and shrill,
and the lady rides aside her loneliness
above the barren path, above the gentle brush of grain
along the silhouette of hill and precipice
lost in the billow of passing clouds
jeannerené 03.08 | | |
| ~ lovie ~
it’s a big big bed
brilliant by sunrise
day rays come a-breakin'
with an angle of reflection
bouncing by monster mahogany
all 'round me, wall to wall
flame grained ball n' claw
carved heavy, heavy as my heart broke in pieces
laid out prim and proper
love petit fours
sliced on silk n' pillow violet, rich and ravenous
it’s a big big bed
rising up from shadows of the moonlight
dawn dancin' on the floor boards
flickerin', frolickin' its luminosity
all 'round me, side to side
accentuate the cry
weary red, weary looking out on a horizon
beyond window room
to magnolia dreams
and magnolia world rooted on my fingertip
wish upon the lips
silhouette, cold and statuesque slipping
through the prism
he moves, the stairs in lyrical vibration
each step a serenade
of tread by tread anticipation
creaks,
I’m coming for you, lovie
creaks
... coming for you, dar-lin
his hand, the balustrade a-sweepin'
softly over mahogany curves, he's dreaming
beautiful, bewitching curves ... gently
his hand
over my shoulders weeping
it’s a big, big lie
smothered, kept breathless between
sin and sacrifice
graffiti dripping behind the mirror
black n' blue in soulless hues
shouting, what’s become of you
the pane so warm beneath my palm
of morning come beyond the monsters
where sparrow sings perched in my hand
and petals, pink and pulpy ... fall
hurry
the sun whispers
he’s calling for you, lovie
jeanne rené 11.07 | | |
| Unmerciful, Because We Loved
A little scar cuts across her upper lip, Cupid's Bow interrupted,
the thought sometimes slipped into my mind, a phrase to write
a poem upon, as I fixated midway through
conversations on front lawns of days
and ways of memory, and futures still within our reach.
Our woman songs undulating, in accents usual or syncopated,
we rung our hands of worry,
lifted our bosoms heavy with motherhood
and strutted round bottoms for all to envy.
Jingling our bangles, bobbles to rhythm of chatter
on breezy porch doorsteps,
driveways reaching over the distance of our sisterhood
with a quick and neighborly wave.
How's the kids? How's the kids? How's the kids . . .
We aged on our front lawns,
standing ankle deep in plastic swimming pools,
the winds slapping our cheeks raw with yesterday's promises,
and we braced ourselves for the unmerciful, because we loved
…the kids
All these years we've loved the kids
and nothing else has really mattered.
And all these years
Her meztizo contour has held its bold and rich design,
a beauty maturing within its own smooth dark skin.
She and I have moved our hips with slow, slide-to-slide satisfaction,
the phantom impression of side slung babes forever seen in our nakedness.
September afternoon,
She bites the scar across her lip. Lip quivering,
unprotected by all her love.
My hands could only cup her face
to hold this treasure of living life just as life is
. . . so unexpected
My baby
A mother cries
My
baby
Her tears,
weigh my palms with insatiable sorrow
jeanne rene 09.07
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| Love Song for September
September sits upon the gates,
holding hostage summer's still, sultry shadow
under arms of evergreens, and lazy old dogs
who have forgotten how to bark at strangers
She waits with wayward affection outside our fences,
puffing little whispers through knot holes
and stirring the hues of dreamy deciduous,
awakening the brilliance of autumn's brush
And so . . .
September winks at me,
As I sit beneath umbrella's shade.
I hear her impatient rustle rush up against the window pane
and watch her toe-tapping in little gusts across the dust.
She teases with the sweet scent of rain
old dog and I, languishing in lazy inhalations,
as we keep company in weary expectation.
Leaving only the thought of her cool fingertip
pressed against my lips,
she perches once again on the season's threshold
and recites her calendar, in voice welcomed by me.
"September!" I call. "Let summer slip between
your days. Come kiss me with wilted rose petals.
Love me 'neath a blanket of yellowing leaves."
jeannerene 08.07 | | |
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