Irene Penna

Irene Penna, Painting

I. Pawnless Endgame

again, airport shoe shine,
hat covering a bold spot. So much older,
curtains of shades
and transition glasses
to repel youthful eyes caught in a split moment.
Youthful happiness glows from this perspective;
the innocence that plays with plethora of chances…
I’ve never tasted it… 
The tester’s devilish darkness
erased my soul, shackled me to their shadowy world,
where I am worn again in a new suite of life-game,
settling in adviser’s position
not missing the psychiatrist’s run schedules;
biweekly counseling sessions,
and one more time,
I sit in the middle of a copse
while tracing invisible crypto-currency connections
of hidden, international investments
but missing piloted cold revenge bullets, and
still waiting for the Delta code switch to turn on Bourne’s “go for”
and cut through the field “clean”
when thrown in the middle of ‘no way out’
that kicks-in the blade survival logic of the pawnless endgame
where queen vs. rook seeks the immediate draw,
the fast action with no traces left behind that I played each time so well.
Subdued with heavy, gray, swollen chapters of life
with Treadstone 71 scenes messing night sleeps;
the sky falling with showers of cluster bombs
shattering in screams bursts of blood splattered over tight streets–
see you walking between fiery bomblet drops
with a grace of a departing white lake swan,
and I ever mourn your ghostly spirit that rises above shrapnel blasts…

II. Stoic Wrinkles

10888532_1622276827992198_5146282957618499733_nEvery morning sleeplessly is awoken Bourne
fighting in the ring of the aborted top secrets,
one of the stars in the sport of never ending “black-ops,”
which life turned now numb to a dreamless stiffness;
Webb, fraught by the public role full of constant expectations,
sadly framed by the iron-cast underwriter’s limitations
in his last covert identity,
seared with stitches of solemn winters
and wounds of silence that neither cry, nor heal,
chasing from city to the city, from one to the other continent–
the same loner–
that I cross so many times by the long, glassed kiosks
while spotting his face with no expression
as it is an unknown stranger,
but he always alerts me with a familiar mirror reflection
carved with stoic wrinkles;
oh that face that I shave every morning
that stares back at me
as a reminder of how much could be lost in one’s life
and appears as a sudden surprise
with a melancholic-face recognition
That down to nothing “ I,” so known,  asks
“How is it to wait with no final closure or end?”

III. Jason Bourne’s Disarmament

Secluded in a lonely ocean house with hollow waves of the bay
While capturing distant sea vignette rhymes in array
of dreams about you, Marie…
Yet, I still roll the dice
That strongly wins the argument for a new proxy war,
And is pushed endlessly up—
That boulder of mismatched targets and simulated world collapses,
for the Capitol Hill dilettantes
who never see the hang-up mode hidden in the situation module suite”–
the strategic games somehow turned into chasing the tail of spoiled eternity
where there is no more sides to take
or save the deprived or just,
what is left in that hierarchy, is the poison fruits to eat ,
and to feel sick with the sorrow that rises like a wild tide
splashing the day that never goes away or dies.
Booked again with the old, Webb’s passport on Intercontinental
suddenly disarmed in a slight vertigo of exhaustion
between Oz, China, Hong Kong, St. Petersburg, and Jordan flights
and game changing national television debates,
unsettled between dreams budding amid lost hours
in a twilight of awareness–
a moment that appears trans-Atlantic long
jet-legged to the point of smelling patchouli bloom
followed by a sudden presence
of flowering thoughts rhymed in not yet written poem
expressed as a memory that never happened—

Oh, Marie, your, tender willow ground root touch

under a summer shimmering sky,
we lay in shadows of moving branches
overflown with wine over gold rim agate Byzantine vase
and drink spilled in the ocean breeze of love
then “all’ is washed off the shores
and risen again with the budding rose of winds
to ride on the Zephyr’s crest…
again, you disarmed me Marie…

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This