sweet tea

Emeline,
being a resourceful human,
decided that the best way of exorcising
the demons of her past lovers
was to describe them using three adjectives

Using her calligraphy set,
a graduation gift from her uncle Ted,
She carefully wrote out each word
on a vellum note card
and tied them up
with a navy blue grosgrain ribbon

She poured herself
a glass of sweet tea
grabbed a box of tools
from under the kitchen sink
and set out into the evening shade of her backyard.
She slid her sandals on her feet
as she scuffed along
letting the screen door slam behind her

Macy, the neighbor’s beagle,
commenced to yapping
as soon as the screen door had fired its warning shot
and continued to keep up the racket
as Emeline strode across the yard.

Hush, Macy,
she said under her breath
She had every right to yap, Emeline thought,
if something rightly disturbed her.
That is why she did not scold her directly.

Emeline knelt down in the grass
and dug into her toolbox.
She pulled out a pair of scissors
and cut the ribbon on the stack of cards.
She scooped up a handful of tacks and
started sticking each despicable adjective
onto the fence that faced her kitchen window.
She laughed as she stuck up the word
flaccid,
it kept falling down

When all was organized,
with the fence looking like the most fucked up
version of the Wheel of Fortune that you
could ever imagine, it started to drizzle.
Emeline retired to her kitchen and enjoyed,
all by her lonesome, a glass of port.
And it was good
“Y’all can just hang out there in the rain all night!”
She cackled, leering at the shameful jumble of words
“But come tomorrow?
I’ma start throwing knives.”

Rene ~ 2013

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alma

Image via Magpie Tales

Alma
she, the practical godmother 

of re purposed filled lives

did so, not out of
fad or fashion
or deep cosmic guilt

but rather frugality
borne out of
horse drawn necessity

with Alma
one was never allowed
to simply “be”

a spoon could not
just stir
a kettle had to do more than
just boil

one trick extravagances
had no business
in her business

for Alma
“just doing your bit”
was an unforgivable sin
and a grotesque waste
of limitless talent

she eschewed
the flock trotted superhighway
and blazed her own way
in inventive fashion

the future
sewn and soldered 
formed from 
whatever she had on hand
waiting to be reborn
and twisted 
drifting from the past

Rene ~ July 2013

daughter

Image: A Musin Yohan, via Magpie Tales

trouble overhead

something weighing 
heavy 
on the mind
i rise
obedient
under a vengeful brow
pulling up my heels
Raising my voice!
i go
back
to my roots
wielding my habits of comfort
i walk the way
of my mother
singing psalms
soothing the sky
Rene~ June 2013
For all of my sisters

the baker’s daughter

Angela

the artsy girl
down the hall
can’t tell you much
about her 
but what she knew 
about me
could fill at least
a thousand ears
Angela
kept birthday candles
in a jar
by her door
she’d light one
whenever I’d come around
then she’d spit
on her burnt fingers, cussin’
yeah, well that’s enough outta me

Now…
“Tell me what
you are

by what you wish for,
bear claw,
Are you
the icing
or
the cake?”

Rene~June 11, 2013
*I’ve turned my comment section off for the summer, as I won’t have much time to respond.
 As always you can contact me by e-mail and I will do my best to get back to you in a timely manner.
Enjoy your summer (or whatever season it may be in your corner of the world) and take care~
Rene

Image via Magpie Tales “Charleston Farmhouse Door”

ascension

one last broken
word
one first bite of
skin
let heaven and free will
ring
emancipation

thunderclap mistress
thirst obscene
lips parted
full
dripping sunset nectar
the moon is gold
my eyes are green

the world is radiant
jasper
the ceiling endless
aquamarine
i have bled into the river
weeping
it knows my name

Evangeline

Rene ~ May 5, 2013

For Magpie Tales

Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt

critters

Image: Helen Ward via Magpie Tales

It’s always a sight at the trattorie
when wild city critters make a scene

crumbled cake, candelabras
chaos and weasels in starched collars

paper crowns, rumpled nightgowns
won’t someone turn that racket down?

reptilian wait staff spin and slither
a tortoise brings breakfast in time for dinner

but there…
in the midst of all the clatter
a honey badger pot scrubber
for whom the noise doesn’t matter

he keeps to himself, he doesn’t care
doesn’t give a whit about the whole affair

he sticks to his task, gets it done
then leaves the city moon for the country sun

Rene ~ April 28, 2013

monhegan

she was beauty ripe
golden,
delicious
in a place where
life has teeth
and apples
are hard to come by

she was the siren
in the
salty song
of the lobsterman
and the sunrise
on the tip of
an artist’s brush

she was a slice
of time come of age
here, on Monhegan
until, without signal,
she was gone
painted into myth
like the hermit of Manana

Rene ~ April 21,2013

For Magpie Tales

“Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look to another land. There is no other land, there is no other life but this.”

– Henry David Thoreau

Image: Monhegan’s Schoolteacher, Jamie Wyeth, 2004