analemma

   The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897, by Henri Rousseau

thank you
that was very honorable
the way you held me
mercifully 
in your infinite arms of 
immaculate plasma 
yes. i was in need
i had danced with a bleak song
curled up in his lap
-the crater of a darkside moon
inhaled his pipe
-a rare child’s final farewell
and now
i am spun gold
i am the brightest flash 
of the upper limb
i am the moment of discovery and 
this sun
is a whirling dervish 
© 2014-Rene

Home

“The Hill” ~ Morristown, NJ

I grew up in a place
maybe not unlike yours

Traveled roads
probably a lot like most

It was heaven
with imitation hardwood linoleum

It was three eternities in church service
( during August, with just one fan)

It was sanctuary
with angsty hallways

It was chicken on Sunday
spaghetti on Wednesdays

It was a bubble
in a melting pot

It was trouble
if you wanted it

It was safety
in numbers

It was comradery
in show tunes

It was neighbors who minded
your manners and your business

It was frenemies who feuded
yet fed your family

It was fine not to like
inexcusable not to love

It wasn’t perfect
yet

It always tried
It never failed

2014-Rene

For #WhereILivedWednesday

Head over to Ann’s blog on the last Wednesday of every month for the Where I Lived Wednesday linkup!

mamma sally


puttanesca tickles my nose
pulls me through 
these streets, eyes closed
Mamma Sally, she knows
how to fill my bowl

daughter of the old country
pulled up her roots
for the better life, the big city
Mamma Sally, she knows
how far the red brick goes

raising up tomatoes to the sky
from her window box piazza
seven stories high
Mamma Sally, she knows
how her garden grows

olive oil, garlic, basil in harmony
hymns of joy
the blessed holy trinity
Mamma Sally, she knows
how to save my soul

© 2011-Rene


image: 
Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien ( via Magpie Tales)

pro

( image via Magpie Tales )

pretty little duck

though slightly mad underneath
through her white sheets tells lies
virgin. bona-fide.
she drops that hocus
pocus into wandering ears
sweet modern miracles
appearing twice nightly

quicker than rabbits
she pulls hats off of her tricks
sleight of hand jive savant


caught them in the glide

2014-Rene
For Magpie Tales

recital

i play them 

by ear

those simple melodies

those tonic pitches
of ice chimes
and lemonade
those rounds of laughter
that tickle 
and unlock 
those tippy scales
that rise
and spill secrets
i play them all
as i’ve
known them
head
to toe
heart and soul
2014-Rene
For Magpie Tales
Image via Magpie Tales #205

ol ‘ man

The Mill, 1964, by Andrew Wyeth 

people speak
of winter
as if it were
an uninvited guest
asleep on
the couch

though he is wont
to lazing about
i do not mind his
company
the cats make
sport of his snoring

he yawns
scratches and
blusters
i make tea
and pour over
seed catalogs

the birds
chirp through
a flurry of braggadocio
they know
a swan song
when they hear one

© 2014-Rene

For Magpie Tales