Image (via Magpie Tales) by Daniel Murtagh

to watch her slip into
the silken night vulnerable
longing diaphanous

to boldly witness
such radiant torture,
exceedingly miraculous

to keep her pressed
under glass, instinctual
yet hopelessly dangerous

to know this brutal age old ache
is to have lived
a life across the threshold

Rene ~ January 6, 2013


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!


photo credit: Rene

After we’d loosed
that last thunderclap of the summer,
up on the old Erie Lackawanna tracks,
I swear we heard the Universe exhale:
“Thank God that’s feckin’ over with.”
Me and Brady walked back to town on the rails
struttin’, smoking Marlboro’s and talking
like we knew about everything
and didn’t give a shit about nothin’
“You scared about startin’ high school?”
“Naw, I ain’t scared”
“I know you lie, ya big fat ‘fraidy cat”
“Shut up, Brady and I know you better fix your stank breath before school starts”
“Yeah, and I know you better pray to the titty fairy before school starts”
Usually the shit that Brady said didn’t bother me,
because we’re just foolin’ and playin’ around but,
I don’t know.
That day it was weird.
And instead of punching him the arm, I just got all quiet.
And so he was all quiet.
And that’s the way we walked, all the way home
everything all wound up tight
begging to be let alone
yet dying to be touched off
and sent screaming
into the night

Rene ~ November 2011


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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