Image: Helen Ward via Magpie Tales

It’s always a sight at the trattorie
when wild city critters make a scene

crumbled cake, candelabras
chaos and weasels in starched collars

paper crowns, rumpled nightgowns
won’t someone turn that racket down?

reptilian wait staff spin and slither
a tortoise brings breakfast in time for dinner

but there…
in the midst of all the clatter
a honey badger pot scrubber
for whom the noise doesn’t matter

he keeps to himself, he doesn’t care
doesn’t give a whit about the whole affair

he sticks to his task, gets it done
then leaves the city moon for the country sun

Rene ~ April 28, 2013

french toast


God, man
It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone whistle in my kitchen
It’s quite the delight
Ahhh…you made coffee
And you’re making french toast!
You are a saint
You gotta fiddle with that knob on the left rear burner
Like this
It’s a pain in the butt sometimes
Personally, I think it just likes the extra attention
Mmm…your ear smells like cinnamon
not fair, man, that…
not fair at all
your ass looks better in my sweatpants than mine does
I now have to kill myself
After I eat a loaf of french toast, though
You want some orange juice?
freshly squeezed…somewhere
Tell me, again
Why is it we never were?

Rene ~ January 5, 2013
For 100 Word Song
The song prompt was Dan Fogleberg’s
Same Old Auld Lang Syne

This is my spin on the classic

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!

pinkies up

The thing I remember most about Esme was that amidst her thrift store furnishings she had one of those French provincial type telephones. The kind that Elizabeth Taylor had in Butterfield 8.

 She’d say that all the time too, most likely while fingering a crumb of Captain’s Wafer out of her cleavage and delicately placing it in her mouth like Beluga caviar…

 “Same fuckin’ phone as was in da movie.”

Esme’s world was a gyre of Paul Klee paintings, Popular Club pantsuits with Hermes scarves, teak tv trays, and Taster’s Choice Instant Coffee.
“Honey, just put in a splash of half and half and then a spoonful of Cremora…Tastes just the same and you’ll save on the cream.”
On Sundays, we’d watch Masterpiece Theatre while sipping on SaveMart Tea in Royal Doulton china cups. 
Pinkies up.
That was pure Esme. 
Indulge commonly.
Live mightily. 
Rene ~ November 1, 2012