What Right Have I?

photo: jude genereaux

“What Right Have I”

  by Jude Genereaux

What right do I have

to luxuriate in such exquisite beauty?

     people are starving in Africa

           children die in the killing fields

                   the mid-east festers, ticking

What right …

to sit gazing at sun dazzled water

lined in cliffs of white, bumblebees pop & whizz

through candy cane striped flutes

gulls glide, weightless over the

navy-blue-white-frothing bay

             I sit idle in a field

             studying the lace of white pine;

Would I dare to hope this is karma, reincarnation?

I am aware of nothing I did to earn this moment

               even as I recognize the truest sin

                        would be to not rejoice in such grace

When I return home I promise to write

my congressmen, send money to good causes

            but for this moment

my sole Duty,  my responsibility

            is to take Notice of this perfection

                                      and be glad.                               

~ first published in Base Camp

Indian Summer, Denial

photo: jude genereaux

Indian Summer, Denial

by Jude Genereaux

What does it take

to bring Summer to an end?

In the month of shortened days

a moment of new light

casts shadows in wrong places;

I put the lawn chairs away

lower the deck umbrella

notice the first red leaf … turncoat maples!

A flyer advertising "School Supplies"

blows across the drive.

What does it take?

to redirect one’s heart to autumn …

I reach for my woolrich plaid

walk darkening roads,

shift the campfire to the woodstove.

~ first published in “Seeding the Snow”

(Chicago Journal )

CLOSURE

photo: ralph murre

                    CLOSURE

by Jude Genereaux

The house stood dark through winter’s snow

her name on the mail box

bannered life within

                 but the house stayed dark

through cold and ice and springtime rain 

‘til hyacinths

        daffodils announced renewal;

but the house stayed dark.

Come June, strange cars lined the drive

a great green steel bin appeared     quiet

people walked to it, discarding

broken bits of the past

tossing old chairs, spindly legs askew

sticking straight up (a signal for rescue?)

tables unworthy of saving, relics and 

furniture no longer wanted

into the bin

         while the house stayed dark.

Crackling with heat in the pre-summer sun

smoke plumed from a barrel as

people (her family?) relentlessly

fed the flames; fire devoured

the stuff of a quiet life

Discarded papers, shopping lists?

books and old journals?      (love letters?)

the air thick with the sweet incense of musty

      burning

           paper

words of love?    lust and longing?

O! the hidden lives languishing in boxes

old desks and cupboards filled with words

      Memory!

crackling in the fires of Absolution

honeyed smoke fragranced by life;

Just … trash.

Your secrets are safe old woman

                   they have saved you

no one will ever know your life

Your honor              and theirs

protected.

And the house stays dark.

~ previously published in There Is More Than One Door

   (The Looner Press)

photo: ralph murre

Nightroads

by Jude Genereaux

Run the nightroads with me darlin’

banish distance in a breath

zoom,

     swoop

like Peter Pan we fly to the hidden shore woods walk

golden rod promise.

You will be there.

I wake drenched in your presence.

~ first published by Mt. Scenario College

RED SKY IN THE MORNING

photoart: ralph murre

RED SKY IN THE MORNING

by Jude Genereaux

The red negligee

hangs abandoned, sagging

from a hook

behind the waterbed.

My eyes sweep the morning sky for a sign

are drawn to the red cascade;

liquid lush satin screams your absence

clinging by one strap

fabric that held life in our nights

testament to city lights

spring serenades and driving

I Love You’s rich

as the red glow of tomorrow’s promise.

Our hearts hang suspended, sag

longing for the sailor’s delight

Red sky at night.

~ first published in Trains and Rain –

Poems of Lust, Dust, Rust, and Obsession

photoart: ralph murre

Haunting

by Jude Genereaux

It could have been the wind

batten’ed ‘round the house

the brass chimes maniacally

clanging against the timbers

waking me in the hours

those wee small hours, I used to sleep;

it could have been the silent moon’s

furtive sliding through my window

branding it’s lament on your empty pillow,

knowing what haunts the little hours

                                              is you.

                        ~ first published in the Museletter

High Ridge

photoart: ralph murre

HIGH RIDGE

by Jude Genereaux

You don't know this place

'til you run the high ridge

in the dusk of a frigid

January night

one eye on the road

the other teased

across the bay by

pin dots of light, signaling

Michigan's shore                          

You don't know this place

'til skiffing black ice roads

in the misty dawn, dodging

fearless does, their haughty eyes

staring at your hapless ride

through a grey and silent

unconcerned forest            

You don't know this place

'til you see the roads empty

buildings stiff with winter

windows drained of light

snow rollers blowing ‘cross

the white landscape

and bare bone branches clattering

their lament to a frigid sky.

                

Summer doesn't live here, only

travels briefly through

taunting those confused

by abundance,

picks their pockets

turns her back and runs

You don't know this place.

~ first published in Clark Street Review

Bait Shop

artwork: lucha (marie skrobot)

Bait Shop

by Jude Genereaux

You know that smell the minute

you walk in

know you’ve been there

reached back and arrived again

The old bait shop, milk & bread store

at the four corners by the water.

Could be up there at Walloon Lake where

Old Hem hung out on his way 

north to the Big Two Hearted or the

one in Baileys on the harbor

- any hundred others on the Brule, the U.P.

Up North Wisconsin, Michigan

smells the same

and you’re 10 again

waiting for Dad to take you out in that old row boat

one with the slats in the bottom, sloshing water

a can of worms in your hand

waiting at Uncle Hank’s dock

morning mist steaming off Horsehead Lake.

The cheap wooden screen door Bang!

slams behind you

bakery wrapped in cellophane,

bags of chips & donuts beckon.

“Indian” souvenirs - birch bark canoes & 

sweetgrass baskets, an ice chest full of soda pop, all

For Sale, next to post cards of black bear & trout

and the over-riding scent of old wood, damp

musty closed-for-the-winter stored stuff & mildew

overpowers all else

as you walk back through the door

to summers gone and memories

of when you were ten.

~ first published in the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

TREKKING NORTHWOODS

photo: jude genereaux

TREKKING NORTHWOODS
by Jude Genereaux

I’ve stayed on the straight and narrow
pretty much all my life
she said, explaining why
she would not spend anymore time listening
to his crazy love talk, especially
not at this stage of life with
kids grown, life in order, future secure;
and continued writing her daily lists.

Then you missed
he said
all the logging trails
that twist and turn into the
darkest part of the northwoods, winding,
running to unexpected
surprises, breathtaking
waterfalls, primitive
peaceful glens
otherwise unknown

she looked across the road
into the heart of the hardwood forest
laid down her pencil.



~ first published by The Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts & Letters