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Renee Bousquet Poem
Whichever Man
Beyond the window there is a stripping of the mind to the other side. Lost to the lost-world of pain, it gives way to blasphemy then begging.
It's not a touching side as yet but soon my dear sweetness soon, the branches say as they scratch away at the paint, you shall be real to me in the twilight and twisting in the wind.
Outside a variable hard to calculate to the mood of emotions. Many a fool has found no holdings without risk, without affection there can be no learning...this is the process to knowledge.
The footsteps is the whispering to the inner sanctum one cannot deny. The flavor worth the satisfaction in locked jaws a fate one must accept this to survive or just die completely.
Hard Whiskey harder men drink, some for clarity and some for the comfort in forgetting. Yet others dead and dying body and soul one the same.
Shadows a kissing stranger dine in hunger to the night. The owl says he shall watch no longer the sacred sights, and the wolf give up its howls forever.
This is a soloists journey of but a few, to the many. About the waist is my living space, where I reside my inner thoughts my muse to move to.
The lover left, has brought about confusion in all its many states of mind. I shall speak to you of far off things, magical by design with just my hollowed out eyes... sharing as if we together once more...in dreams...many dreams.
You'd feel the turbulence to the touch an aching only you'll know from satisfaction. It's all held in the eye sockets. Eyes now home to blackness and snakes, death the viprous thing killing in coagulation not wanted but a given.
You blink which says to me one more time if you please, you need to quake one more time...before you sleep.
Holding oneself a must for a sanctuary, by oneself the consolation in the tippytoed dance always upon my head.
I feel the fingers working as the chime strikes midtone and pealing, a rhythm to the rhythm it is in your step beyond my sight but all is clear to me now.
The taste of the goodly offering shall waiting to the hard floor and moaning to the arched ceiling then scratching floor mine to bear.
Tomorrow as many before, shall come with a vengeance in the dust storm and violent end. A full circle kind of thing wanting and yet not, drinking yet parched, found and yet lost once again.
The whichever man there watching the wraith dancing upon his head from the beyond from his window.
Why do I still have sight being the embodiment of emptiness ? I now live in the other realm of death as a certainty.
She my wondering soul will cry the river to shorelines of the unforgotten, love the master for remembrances, one gone and the other holding dearly to the ashes left in her hands.
By Renee Bousquet
Copyright © Renee Bousquet | Year Posted 2020
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Renee Bousquet Poem
My woods, my gentle comforters stretch to no confines but blue and to the sun. They surrounding me in shaded blankets, but unholding in the unbridled sense of it.
It’s to my special spot I seated in fallen form meandering through the tall pasture waving sea-like, to the tree… my tree, I say in humbleness.
Its ancientness anchored no longer to dark soil, its soul decomposing from whence it came.
We sit together, I now above the bark. I rub wishing to gain wisdom of the why’s, where’s, and when.
Many shades of shadows filled with greens waltz around me in goodly nature. The squirrel barks in dissatisfaction as he thinks he’s ruler in the upper canopy.
Right here, right now, the Promised Land has been given me it leased me in my short time here.
The gentle giants creaking in the breeze bemoaning; it seems to me in conversation as I ignorant in this realm.
In contrasting, I can only listen as I know not the language of them. I unleash in the verbiage of the Oak, as I just a small man amongst these ancient ones.
So, I come to sit soaking in their knowledge of noble guardians. It’s by just listening, watching, and breathing in deeply life.
By darkness an event that’s transpired a million-million times, I rub the bark of my companions. I feel blessed to have been given the opportunity to have my vanishing lease on life.
It ever so short my life like the distance walked to my man-made home. It a hovelled place really truth be told, just a few ticks of the world clock then I will be in past tense.
It holds no majesty like the wooded forest. I slow down and live slowly always as it’s gone in a twinkling in the eyes of the beholder. So, I embrace the moments as most precious.
By Renee Bousquet
Copyright © Renee Bousquet | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Renee Bousquet Poem
The range in its majesty gives way to open thoughts of the wild things in taming, I have eaten hard pan and dust as my regular meal to be had.
I to the constant trail beaten into the saddle just see what could not be tamed. There is beauty found within the beasts of the fields, within the tree’s to the treeline. They all feeble things next to you my dusky hue.
I but a small man in wealth not much to the offering bowl, to live from the saddle bags by choice not many would do.
I live half-feral, fighting the hard winds when necessary, blanketed in snow a brutal life. I follow in blindness of white, head down in the snowstorm– yes driven to see you.
I would but to give my all in any form to last breath in glimpsing you my dusky hue. I would then give open hand an outstretching for the touching of you; I worn hard and worked but still yours.
Goat trails and sage with the buck and antelopes, I follow from shade and shadow. I’ve seen all the crooked paths and mountain spires, ancient writing from lost tribes guiding me the man the myth to you.
I’ve sung from the saddle to the moon with the wolf and his brother the coyote. They answered in crescent smile, howling as my accompaniment…she just before the next rise was the answer.
The ever wanderer to you in my own solitude I driven as the whirlwind, eyes squint, cheeks leathered, living on the surface of the sun I travel.
Always to the horizon line is my sight, waiting, watching, praying today’s the day of salvation. I ride and say this day….this days the one.
I ask nothing for myself, I the sole provider of me the simple one, but to seek out you my dusky hue is my life I born to.
I wish a want of you from afar waiting, watching. Yes, it is more than I could bear to think always you’ve been real to me.
A man can only be a man when he’s succumbed to the knowledge that he is nothing without his dusky hue. She in my sight in the good drunk, in lonesomeness at times the only way to sleep.
She is the maker of the man– the maker of me in hard times, yes to be molded by the hand of the master by her will makes what could not be molded to the driven man…the hard man.
Perfection comes in many shades in the ways of the weary soul, I see and yet give way to the mirage in deep thirst and delirium. I know your face as the one and only, even if you know not I exist.
It’s to the will of it to dream the dream of the most beautiful, even if she’s not yours and can never be. A man can not be one, without a sacred thing to love even in a quest.
I feel the pains in the contortions of love. I see the exorcism of the heart to the soul open handed. Love…love…love…Oh! how I hate to love so much, an image I’ve never seen in real form which is you my dusky hue.
I say one day before the howling moon rises, I shall pull the hard drink before I die thinking you will be before me by mornings light and kissing sun.
You my dusky hue, my dream that’s kept me driven to the hard life. I worn by the saddle eating sand by the pound, sand by the day. It’s worth it to me to be what I must, in this world revolving around me.
I shall live till I die for just one silhouette of you, in the open plains watching waiting for me at least in my dreams of perfection… I live to die, always to you my dusky hue.
By Renee Bousquet
Copyright © Renee Bousquet | Year Posted 2020
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