Ephemeral Reflections


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 to me. . . 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 rene 6.05
 

---

 
Grey cat jump up to my lap and pause with me

At cool decline of day
When cloud billow drifts
In contemplation of summer rain
Past peek-a-boo moon shine . . . It all seems so simple

Sitting here, lazy in Adirondack green,
Tease of temperate gust against a cheek,
Grey cat zigzagging between my feet
And eyes to heavens
Spellbound in the rhythm of distant star flame,
A twinkle to my sight . . . It all seems so simple

To fill the lungs with gentle thoughts,
Swell and stir inside my chest, the spirit gift,
The same that ignites outmost meteor,
The same that cups the fickle rain above my head
This genius rising in, and out through me . . . Seems so simple

To know what the balance ought to be
Between the inhale and exhale
Of unbounded galaxies.
Seems so simple to understand
That all is well with the moth that flutters round
Naked yellow bulb burning

Tonight behind my back . . .

So simple this truth to me

jeanne rene 6.05
 

---

~~I left a kiss upon your lips
so soft you thought I was only a dream~~


Lofty amber globes highlighted the parking lot.
Caught in a saffron ambiance, the night drizzle
looked like fairy sparkle falling down above our heads.
Inside, among the paperbacks,
the cup of coffee and intelligent conversation
had placated the evening,
pacified the emptiness,
but the fulfillment quickly waned.
The twilight’s rain
spattered my face and impassioned again
each of my impatient senses.

Stepping down to the curb, I smiled goodnight.
The corners of my mouth ached for words
held back by civil salutations.
Words kept silent from fear that you would love me
if I let go a singe sound
or unguarded gesture born of my infatuation.
If I had spoken “don’t go”
you might have held me too closely
and kissed my lips too hard I would have cried in pain
. . . if I had spoken.

We closed the door behind
and joined the recital of disjointed exchanges
and kinetic promenade of the bourgeois in motion.
I inhaled exhaust fumes wafting through the bouquet of dampness,
and startled at blinking turn signals,
glimpsed at the watch dial that said time to go home,
felt my hair slapping a cold cheek,
but I was mindless to all, except your silly turned-up collar.
I suffered, longing to reach and straighten it,
and slip my hand across the warmth of your neck.
. . . longing to pull your mouth down to mine,
entrap you with permission
to devour the moment’s vulnerability
and let you love me.


We walked easy,
leisurely
fluent
as if strolling through clover on a gracious afternoon
through the rain . . .
Under the street light we stood
no umbrella,
but shielded just the same
from the enchantment
and yet I swore our hearts were pounding
to the rhythm
rhyme of each gentle raindrop
pretending
we didn’t see in each other’s eyes
our reflection

each goodbye’s hesitation


jeanne rené 5.05

 

---

 
To Give


They give their lives at nineteen . . . twenty.
Give their lives in years which do not hold the measure of evolution,
Lives that fly the course of intimacy with a definitive breath.
They give
years whose run will no longer chase a callow heart,
till that heart winds a promised path.

To have
none but these unpolished days.
Faithful silence,
hold time before their sealed lids,
the measure of what road laid ahead before this hour.

arms wrap around
a chest pounds
trickle of water over lips
High sun blinds as he’s tossed into the air.
Wiggling,
laughing too loud
he lands in his father’s hands.
One more time Daddy. . . One more time.
sands sift through fingers

Give
Your tears.

Give
A prayer of evolution.


jeanne rene 11/04
 

---

Gallery of Monet's work: http://www.intermonet.com/oeuvre/index.htm


Portrait by Monet as I Slept


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
In the arms of old yews and muted greenery.
I will sketch you a Japanese bridge
to linger the afternoon~ a crossing over lazy water lilies”

In dreams
He creates without thought.
A dress of purple iris,
A cape of swaying poppies,
And tresses of yellow poplar leaves
dancing in the easy breeze . . . his eye renders me.

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

With grasses tendered,
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
He set my portrait flying against the sky blue.

jeanne rene 10/04
 

---

 
Running into the Rain

winter's rain
drifts into the city, and
gathers in the heavens
with eyes up turned
we take a fleeting moment
from our calendar
to consider nature's impending decision
but, i, running into the rain
am ever
nature's off-course daughter, and
i revile in anticipation, and
i dote on clouds heavy dark, and
take heart they loiter leisurely
through the day and night

i love
they nestle low among
the downtown skyline
turning off our daylight
to open on the pale sidewalks
raining the bloom of unsullied scents
washing away the busy days
surrendering to umbrella gatherings
to begin the precarious winter race
this weaving in and out
of puddle jumping
i quibble with
the rainbow of petroleum
that brightens the graveled streets
but, acquiesce to it's color

and
if the fickle winds
mingle with the persistent patter
i run into the rain
to feel
the splash against my face
the cold bite upon my nose
i tingle beneath my downy jacket
i shudder against
this assault of life that awakens my memory
to the purity of creation, and
to its
purging, and
sustaining
the bustle of invention


jeanne rene 11/03
 

---

........in honor of Martin Luther King and all those who broke ground on the road to his dream ..........

The Intrepid Hearts of '65

Certain days are anchored in one's perceptions.
Certain events color your gray matter
and influence your performance until you bow out of sight;
and certain days, like a summer noon in '65, linger far beyond logic.

Sometimes,
on certain days you comprehend the real meaning
of a word, or concept,
or you are biffed in the head with a truth made visible
to you, to be stealthily engraved in your texture for life.

This was the day, once painted,
across the Golden Gate,
on streets of Sausalito, in a time of unceremonious
coffee haunts and galleries, nestled on the pristine bay.
I recall a young girl's lazy looks,
and the hypnotizing roll of water life
slipping in and out of the dock.
And the sea breeze nipping through
a cotton sleeveless blouse and peddle pushers,
and feeding French fries to swooping gulls;
I remember this, too.

I remember the excitement of a meandering stroll
with the bohemia, outside of forbidden galleries,
where the ensemble of sea songs
never gave the sax his solo, and how it was here,
as the player sent the sounds of 'Three Coins in a Fountain'
into the air; and all this was as it should be,
as it would be, until I saw them holding hands.

We all saw them and our lids could not blink,
at the colored man, in hand with the white woman.
It was, as if, even the breeze had held its breath
to hear the flogging inner dialogue,
and to stay clear of the phantom wagging fingers,
as they walked and stopped to window gaze.
The once casual acceptance
rolled out on the pavement vanished
under their foot and reappeared at their backside.
Eyes popped at the tweaking of the acceptable ~ even in Sausalito.
The colored man,
the white woman, now arm in arm,
never appeared to stumble.

They stopped by the player, whose dark hands
moaned a 'Summertime' for Porgy and Bess,
in tones deeper for his audience than before.
And it was here it became engraved:
~They never did look to the outside,
but to the inside of each other,
Their casual smiles not disfigured by the whole affair,
and when they walked away they looked only forward
unlike us who kept nagging over our shoulders.

I remember, always, one last feeling ~

How very lonely it must be to brave the opposing tide of change,
and how brave to sail ahead alone..........


jeanne rene 1/04
 

---

 
below a shallow surface

Around me.
Surround me.
It hid me,
It bid me hang from my nails fondling the pain,
lacing the lacerations in self indulgent luxury.
My musing melancholy
imprinted on tawny ringed menthols
crushed in casino ashtrays.
Exotic smoke dancers drifting to the ceiling,
whose perfume drawn deep into my lungs
left me heavy. . . heavy. . . heavy. . .

Heavy . . . with the ache of love, life, lust.
Longing, libido days filled with creation.
Pen to paper.
Flesh to the flame.
Uncensored, untamed rushes
between snifters of brandy and sex.

My gut pulling,
throat catching cotton living ways inside the fire.
Around me,
Surround me.
Till somewhere, sometime
I closed my dark daydreaming eyes
that left me silent . . . silent . . . silent . . .
Silently . . . buried under a swallow surface of solicitude.

It haunts me.
It disembowels me,
a ghost looting my grave
spreading my entrails on a mohair blanket
before my chiseled tombstone.
Bowing before smoke dancers rising from fags,
musing
between the shots of sweet bliss and
making love to Hemmingway's gun.


jeanne rene 2/04