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jeanne rene watson

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Member Since: Dec, 2003

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Ode to Fate . . . Part One
by jeanne rene watson
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Not rated by the Author.
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Part one of a poem in three parts ....

Ode to Fate
Part One ~ Misfortune

Wayfarers we, masters of many a discourse,
pilots of the open seas . . . we the rabble, the masses,
. . . your children of uncharted destiny.
Seize the wheel and set the sail, but consider the course,
níer how well mapped, still it precarious be,
since every man, his woman and child,
a simple passenger on this vessel of Godís beloved Fate,
and prisoner to her unknown mandate.

Atop the mast head, she reigns, this patroness of circumstance,
a silent captain to each voyage where eíre we venture.
Proudly we scuttle round her sovereignty, until she speaks,
and we shiver at her summons, mark the timber of her call,
knowing not, whom her words may solicit,
or bid pay homage on their knees across her stately bow.
Yea, we do well to know her command . . . understand
her flight into the unpredictable winds,
wary in the knowledge, that as we tend her glorious sails
she can, our winged Fate, pluck any minion and bind it to her liege.

Be it on a humble breeze or torrid squall . . . it matters not,
she casts her terms, her judgment random.
Her eyes blind, she drops her net from the indifferent heavens
and we are caught and tossed upon the seas of favor or misfortune.
Woe, to those, the helpless souls whose casting lands
upon the brine of misery, for Fate follows with a deadly hand,
and too pained to look us in the eye, to our backside steals,
her hand upon our sinking shoulder . . . her fingers deep into our flesh,
we are held to each whimsical decision in the passing of her heartís desire.
She requisitions some dastardly deed, some sequence bewitched.
She demands some twist of time and happenstance, irrevocable . . . immutable.
She bellows . . . and we drown, too well . . .
carried to unfamiliar shores on currents of grief and humility.

And the rush of her wings can be heard across both land and sea,
as back to her lofty perch upon the steadfast craft,
Fate strums a heavy harp and sings a solemn reverie,
a vibration of broken-hearted melodies carried by wind;
of stories that will have no voice,
of lips that will have no kiss,
of roads that will not be travelled,
of deeds that have no undoing,
ďAnd of this child that will not come home,
never to suckle life and loveís mystery;
damnation to its motherís wails,
damnation to my burden,
the child is mine and you must weep!Ē

And in the stormís aftermath to which they were abandoned,
the castaways awake to Fateís comfortless requiem,
and to a heartache that exists so tethered by tribulation
it scarce can drum an added palpitation . . .
scarce can murmur one more litany of despair.
The bearer walks in bewilderment,
moves in mystification through belief and denial,
holding fast to tears, lest the last sorrow fall,
and open the bitter shore beneath their feet.
They wait . . . with no other choice, but to ride
the next wind back to the vessel of life,
and dare to look Godís mistress in the eye.

jeanne renť 1/05

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Reviewed by Regis Auffray
Captivating and meaningfully mystical somehow, Jeanne. Thank you. Love and peace. Regis
Reviewed by Mitzi Jackson
sounds so familiar, haunting and full of real facts
will be watching to read the others
don't want to jump the gun here.....
very creative!!!
i applaud you
Reviewed by Huda Orfali
Wow, very beautiful, images are very well crafted.
I enjoyed it immensely, Well done.
Reviewed by Lori Moore
Interesting write. Enjoyed.
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd (Reader)
I have to say that this is indeed haunting and one goes back to the beginning of this country in this write.
Reviewed by Kate Clifford
A very haunting insightful write!
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