november lace

November Lace, 2009, Rene Foran

It was nearly 90 degrees
in that cozy little kitchen
the smell of home cooking
had attached itself to every molecule
of every acrylic holiday sweater
her every effort to help prepare the feast
was waved off and redirected
to the family room
where a stony, silent,
football viewing Mt Rushmore
occupied the couch,
a loveseat, and three folding chairs

she wandered down 
to the basement
where she was years removed from the circle
and miles behind the conversation
so she drifted along searching
where was her world?
where was her piece?
where did she belong?

she slipped away 
from the fray
up to her childhood room
through the bedroom window
and onto the rooftop poetic:

” she sat arms hugging knees
surveying life, the leafless trees
spindly branches claw the sky
scratching for sun, to heaven they cry
psalms of wisdom, strength and grace
woven in November lace”

the air felt good against her flushed cheeks
and a beautiful sunset was now in progress
she was thankful for this
she was thankful for finding her peace
she belonged right here,
right now
to this moment.

Peace ~ Rene

This post from 2010 has become my “Alice’s Restaurant”… it’s just not Thanksgiving until I repost it. It remains one of my favorites

Happy Thanksgiving!

food for thought

I want to eat your words
roasted and dipped
in a balsamic
then lavishly
in sesame seed
I want to eat your words

I want to smoke your dreams
rolled up and lit
in a big fat
I would deeply
every pretty little
herbal detail
I want to smoke your dreams

I want to drink your intentions
straight with no chaser
in a
blue collar bar
I’d break free
from chains
every single one of
your claims
I want to drink your intentions

I want to have you for dinner
with a nice Chardonnay
and some sugar
snap peas
I’d fill up my dish
even have seconds
if I wished
that’s it!
I’m gonna have you for dinner

Rene ~ June 2012
A little Magpie fun

Image credit: Klaus Enrique Gerdes


Photo courtesy of Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tales

I always end up at Gate of Heaven

after the pub, but before dinner
it’s safer under the oaks
away from them
drownin’ in liquid amnesia
selfishly envious of feckin’ Able Moore.

Lucky bastard, dying like he did
war hero, soldier, saint
not a livin’, sufferin’ forgotten,
faceless sonofabitch bumming cigarettes
from snot nosed brats at the Seven Eleven

Remember me?
I didn’t always run and hide
on the Fourth of July
Don’t you goddamn
remember me?

I don’t feckin’ care if you don’t
But oh Jesus,
don’t you forget to remember me, Able
when I come into your kingdom

Rene ~ November 2011

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