memories of a young poet

“November Lace” ~ Photo by Rene



marble notebook in hand
she slipped away 

from the fray
unnoticed
up
to her childhood room
through
the bedroom window
and onto the rooftop poetic:

” she sat 
arms hugging knees
surveying life,
the leafless trees
spindly branches claw the sky
scratching for sun,
to heaven they cry
psalms of wisdom,
strength and grace
woven in November lace”
 
the air felt good
against her flushed cheeks
a beautiful sunset
was now in progress
she was thankful for this
she was thankful
for finding her peace
she belonged
right here,
right now
to this moment


Excerpted from “November Lace” by Rene
Rene ~ February 9, 2013

For d’Verse Poetics “Meeting The Bar-Mining The Memory”
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road notes

i always am
the truth
when i’m driving
hands at 10 and 2
so help me God
i swear i own this road
this neck of the woods
yeah
i’ll prove it
sign it in chalk
and date it
tear it on the dashed line
keep one half
mail the other
this highway’s not a ribbon
it is a zipper
unzzzipped
your land rolls
into my land
into freedom
honest as night
nose to nose
eyes wild with
halogen soaked
promised land mountain songs
reach up
palm that star
the second from the right
it’s no lie
shhhh…
let me ride

Rene~December 27, 2012
for d’verse “Meet The Bar”/Postmodern Experimental

sacred

when you fell
from your mother
you were the apple
of her eye

such a dear
little babe
with a thorn
in your cry

a squirming
fertile
wild agenda
taking seed inside

the walls could never
hold you back
damned
if they didn’t try

your momma prayed
for you,
singing
all through the night

you grew tall
in the sunshine
picking diamonds
from the ire

a fearless
little lamb
braiding snakes
into wire

your bleeding
sacred
burnished heart
pulsing red with fire

the walls could never
hold you back
damned
if they didn’t try

your momma prayed
for you,
singing
all through the night

Rene ~ December 13, 2012
For 100 Word Song
and Meeting the Bar

pinkies up

The thing I remember most about Esme was that amidst her thrift store furnishings she had one of those French provincial type telephones. The kind that Elizabeth Taylor had in Butterfield 8.

 She’d say that all the time too, most likely while fingering a crumb of Captain’s Wafer out of her cleavage and delicately placing it in her mouth like Beluga caviar…

 “Same fuckin’ phone as was in da movie.”

Esme’s world was a gyre of Paul Klee paintings, Popular Club pantsuits with Hermes scarves, teak tv trays, and Taster’s Choice Instant Coffee.
“Honey, just put in a splash of half and half and then a spoonful of Cremora…Tastes just the same and you’ll save on the cream.”
On Sundays, we’d watch Masterpiece Theatre while sipping on SaveMart Tea in Royal Doulton china cups. 
Pinkies up.
That was pure Esme. 
Indulge commonly.
Live mightily. 
Rene ~ November 1, 2012

mara

Image: ParkeHarrison
Magpie Tales

when the dark presses
faith
scatters like paper
lit on fire

courage rises
and pratfalls
darkly
down waxed hospital corridors

prayers
soaked in sour wine
blister the tongue
unanswered

the body a vessel
the soul
a marionette
hijacked, voiceless

help me
if you can
reach me
here i am

Rene~March 2012
for d’Verse Poets

“The Nightmare”
by Henry Fuseli