Irene Jeanette...

Irene Jeanette

Grandmother whose name was Irene...
You seemed to live life as a silent scream.
Mute despair was the guise you wore...
By the time I was delivered to your door.

What were you before the darkness fell...
Causing the fire of your spirit to quell?
And disappear into a distant stance...
Cloaked in whisky and a suspicious glance.

You quoted The Raven, Poe’s gloomy tale...
Of true love lost and life’s brazen betrayal.
Watching, I knew life had taken a harsh toll...
Only the garden seemed to soothe your soul.

Tough as leather, with hidden feminine grace...
You crocheted the most exquisite cotton lace.
When did your delicate vulnerable little girl...
Lose her innocent trusting faith in the world?

When did she learn to be in hopeless fear...
And to hide in the dark with only her tears?
I wanted to love you and be loved in return...
Mostly my innocent attempts were spurned.

Irene means peace, there was none for you...
Just that restless despair blowing through.
Jeanette means God Is Gracious, not for you...
More and more sorrow just seemed to accrue.

It has been 31 years now since you passed...
Irene, are you now in a happier place at last?
I imagine you now, with wings of feminine grace...
Weaving... 

delicate... 

strands... 

of... 

light.. 

Into... 
shimmering...

ever...

more... 

luminous... 

lace...

Tex&Photot©September2012ShaunieL