Raynette Eitel lived in the southwestern part of the United States most of her life, accustomed to the sun always on her face and the sky always to be a deep blue.  As soon as she could spell, she discovered she was a poet.  She lived most of her adult life in the shadow of Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs where she was a wife, mother, teacher, but always a poet.  She has been published in literary magazines and newspapers and recently published Harsh Country, a book of Southwest poems, and Earthen Jar, an eclectic collection.  Both books are published by XLibris.  Raynette is retired and presently lives and writes in Las Vegas, NV and spends much of her time traveling with her husband, Jim.

Four Poems (December 20, 2009. Issue 12.)

White Stone

White stone,
Tear-washed, time-worn,
White stone,
Keeper of a child
Too young to leave the
White moon
White snow
Whitecaps of sea.

White stone,
We dare to speak her name.
Every day and day we say it,
You and I,
A name carved into our hearts.

White stone,
My hair is white as you,
And I long to be a white stone
With my child at my feet
Calling out her name forever.

Dreams of a Hanging Tree

When a dream dies,
it is as though it were
sent to a hanging tree.

They march it in,
facing a surly crowd.
Younger dreams watch and learn.

The noose goes around,
stool kicked out
and the dream dangles,

kicking at first,
twitching and twisting silently
drawing its last breath

while the onlookers nod
and stare mercilessly
until there's no more movement.

The dreamer wears widow's black.
Her eyes are dry holes like graves
mourning her loss.

"Dreams die hard," someone murmurs
as they walk away
from the hanging tree.

No one marks a grave.

At Octoberfest

When they played the "Beer Barrel Polka,"
when the dancers moved their feet faster
than a Bavarian baritone could play,
music bounced across the worn floor
in grains of joy like rice strewn at weddings,
like gaggles of giggles from small children.
Confettied sounds of happiness rained down
like rainbowed drops of mirth in song.

The whirling dancers, the twirling, couples
tripped lightly on top of bright ribbons of notes,
exuding gaiety as the polka
made its never-ending promise of pleasure.
Every thought of sadness was strained out
in a grid of grace notes and the oompah
of a bright Octoberfest beneath
a shiny gold beer-barrel moon.

Published in Earthen Jar
XLibris, 2009

Ladders

In Taos, pueblos are striped with ladders
leading to blue doors like pieces of sky.

Inside, braves wrapped in blankets
burrow close to a fire, shivering

as they dream of nimble ghosts
who scramble high and higher in moonlight.

They picture ladders made of rainbows
reaching across a vault of blue.

They mutter in dream talk to spirits
of the long dead who traverse colors.

Cliff dwellers celebrated ladders
clinging to the side of mountains

where ancient apartments housed
the tribes. Some days cold pale clouds

shrouded the crest in mystery.
One might suppose God himself

placed Jacob's old ladder there
just to test their bravery.

When ancient ones could not scale rungs
at long last, they stayed on top,

close to heaven, awaiting the last step
no mortal can see until

he takes God's own hand and leaps
like a young man to his reward in the sky.

Posted on Poemhunter.com early 2009