AVE JEANNE VENTRESCA - POEMS

Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in the summer of 2019.  She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years.  Her award winning poetry (contemporary and Asian) has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019.

Envying The Ability of Mittens
​

woolen scarves and mittens sleep on the third shelf 
of this old metal rack. they sit methodical, arranged 
by size or perhaps by frequency of use. December air

floats through a crack in the window and just now 
discarded letters creep across these cold floors.
resisting urges to climb back under sheets, 
warm and friendly,  i follow curiosity 
and listen to voice mail that has been neglected. 
strangers, friends, perhaps faded voices of lovers.

i attempt to avoid losing my smile, breathe in 
the mirror’s reflection 
and prepare for an arduous day that weighs 
in front of me like the sound of hearts that beat
while at dance.  now i awaken the scarf, 
beckon the door to let me pass 
and head towards Victoria Station to begin my walk. 
under a heavy sun, through crowded streets, i avoid 

all eyes of strangers as my boots carry me onto 
the eager train.  an American offers me a seat, 
and my nod offers gratitude,
honest and humble. back and forth voices bounce, 
each with a different accent that touches
my ears with interest.  as another shiver arrives,
i wrap my coat around my achy legs, 
open this weathered book 
and read chapter nine, as not to waste time. yet my 

thoughts jump back to the old metal rack
at home, with the scarves and mittens on the third shelf, 
and i envy their ability to sleep warm and quiet
on this cold winter morning.


​

OBSERVING HOPE / Portrait of a Refugee
​

his wife was not one to complain.
an ordinary person
who had crossed a border. only

a few dirty clothes in her bag, and a
picture in this frame, of a now
tattered childhood.  but no complaining

did she exhale through her mouth. was it
because she didn’t understand the 
new language 
or because everything was
held deep below her skin, like an etching,
never to surface
from swollen clouds
of this new environment. the eyes

of numerous children she holds in her pink 
cotton pockets. keeping
them safe and warm
until she needs to see them once again.

she knows all birds are free here, 
they are not displaced
and that thought gives her 
a few minute of courage.
it makes her one 
who need not complain.

​

COLLAGE OF MANY COLORS / the occupation of death
​

death is an insatiable hero
whose occupation takes him
to far away places, nearby dreams
and twinkle lit towns 
where these elderly bodies wait in shadow
with long tales of their childhood and
mismatched socks of red and brown.  he rearranges

the way things look, mindful of 
responsibility and passing seasons. removes
weeds from lush lawns, observes 
dandelion and lily orange, to make it 
his choice where new growth will appear.

he dashes through hospital wards, 
selecting this or that in his path, designs
room for new arrivals. here, he is planting
disease and virus at will. 

there is the constant
claim in silent forests, tall oak and willow
under silver moon notice his small silent changes
of design. 

methodical maneuvers touch three act plays
where footsteps of soldiers come and go,
at fade and dissolution from some certain moment.

he will come for you and 
me, like a paper wrapped package in the mail
to be opened with care 
or returned with sender unknown.

​

SUMMER SNAPSHOT/  random events
​

chance is a moldable clay
that we can form into geometrical
shapes, relevant or undesirable. it can 
conform to a class system, rigid and taunt
or politician’s thoughts, flammable and raw. 
it could attempt some resemblance to
long ago dreams
of past warriors and turn self into a child’s toy
friendly and soft of color.  we can 

take chances or leave them to
sleep quietly in a wooden drawer. we
rely on hope, that
we aren’t struck by lightning during
an unscheduled storm. we can toss icy
dice its way, and gamble out our decades,
one by one. toss relationships in an email, 
strain to predict
the winning numbers of the lottery,  but still this
screen saver remains the same, predetermined
by some now sleeping designer.


​

Her Recipe For Chiffon Cake From 1942
​

right before each contented
sunrise, is the only hour of day
she will leave this humble cottage.

her apron carries assorted things.
she spies and gathers them 
gingerly during her walk,
but the weight doesn't slow
her optimistic steps.  she has 
strategies for doing it the
right way, ideas about 
familiar gardens,
recipes to create a little happiness 
and the lightest chiffon cakes.

ten days before the baking
she stashes whites of her eggs,
places them into a traditional bowl.
covers the vessel methodically
with anticipation.  suddenly the air 

carries faint smells of gas
from the nearby sleeping city. it 
replaces aromas of grass, earth
and her footsteps, animals that she
welcomed, all without sweeping any
away from her sight. but 

bombs don't discriminate. their
killings and swift destruction 
cannot categorize
homes, eggs, fields of corn, or the 
last uttered phrases from faces. so in this

moment all is gone. she does not
return to her cottage warm, to
add her tenth egg and her newfound 
berries to the kitchen, to sit
by a fire and listen to clear voices 
of her memory. today,

i follow the steps from mom’s recipes
at need for her chiffon cake with the many
egg whites. and as licks of this batter
reach my lips, only sad is to taste

​