A Song For a Prisoner of War

 whose eyes break through the boundaries
where I begin and end.
I know you know the words
to the stories I cannot tell,
except in the dark, in whispers
when my soul is the only witness
to the brutality my hands possess.
Your shadows merge with mine
without a sound,
without a fanfare,
as like is swallowed up by like.


Down by the river, in the wet night grass
there is nothing worth bothering to hide
from those eyes that break through my boundaries,
because the specter of you
floats effortlessly through my past, my present.
Awkwardly with the manacles you drag around,
your hands grip me fiercely.
I am unafraid,
because I know that sound.
I am a furlough;
I am a fleeting moments' escape
before those chains bind you back down.

So, savagely, under fast moving clouds and stars
I pull you into me
to scream my silent warrior scream
into the deepest parts of you
to give you all of the courage I have learned
and all of the secrets of the damned,
so that they will be yours
if you ever decide to make a break for it.
9/23/2012

 Shannon McMorland Foley

Unfettered

It is a side effect of freedom
to grow up a little wild,
which is different than rebellion.

It is climbing to the tippy top of the tree
just to see what there is to see.
It is running for the sheer joy of running
and neither towards nor away from anything.

A river flooding
is just being a river.
A river in drought
is just being a river.
A river dammed
is a lovely lake for boaters,
but keeps fish from returning to the sea.

9/23/2012

 







Shannon McMorland Foley

On Climbing a Pinetree on My 38th Birthday

To go beyond
and through
and up into.
To be covered
in scratches
and clumps
of sticky sap.
To see fireflies
higher
than I knew
they could fly.
To look down
on the streetlight
in flat imitation
of the moon.
To hear layers
of sound-
bullfrogs and
lonely night birds.
To feel rough bark
on bare thighs-
pulsing energy
of life and growth.
To be immersed
in the now
in urgency
as all there is.
To be alive
fully
to stretch beyond
who I was before.

6/11/2012

Shannon McMorland Foley

Retreat

The irony is not lost on her-
that she, whose hiding place has always been words;
her solace and tender back-of-hand-to-cheek caresses
found in creased pages of musty books;
that she, should find words spoken
so empty and devoid of promise.

An almost undetectable snarl of her upper lip,
shaking her head,
knowing it is all meaningless-
just sounds without connection.
She retreats again to words,
running her fingers over yellowed paper;
the closest thing she has to home.

Shannon McMorland Foley

held down like slaves to the quarter
quarter a year for centuries long gone
dreamt of equity as a force in our world
peace signs, marching lines, steady batons

matador man on the picket fence sings
sings for redemption and millions of things
unity regains a vision and open eyes care
care for the desperate man as he sings

no job, no life, lost more than i made
debts for my bed and bills unpaid
one punch maybe’ll knock me down
we the people will occupy your town

do we know who are our enemies?
sleep on the curb, climb the trees
cross a bridge and go to the pen
under your radar, under your skin

this is not a war we wage tonite
not your idols or vices we fight
but a progress and a future in our land
we are the heartbeat we are the plan

teach and heal and feed the one
one as a people, one as the many sons
too rich and too poor, we can’t be
spending all our future on your wars.

Scott Low
www.efrenmusic.com

This Ain't No Pain

eyes like the grand canyon, boots like the clay
this old fella took me from atlanta to seattle
not on a tour but to find where we came
indians and pioneers wore out these roads
we coulda had a wagon train but rode a cadillac
this trip has told me me all that we lack
met a blondie on the road side and joined on up
even in the dark mud we knew we’d get stuck

hit the border of tennessee and had to know
this was the beginning and i’d be free
cross the mississippi and cleansed all night
drank from the jug, outta the wicked and the right
who hasn’t or shouldn’t let in the demons
to see the dawn, the darkness must win
you think i got women and whiskey for you
thats where your wrong, i stole mine from a fool

over the plains i run
like a shell from a gun
thru the mountains and old songs
rocks and briars, lovers and liars and my son
hear that i am so small
but got these skinny legs for lifting
also got big dreams and failing
this world on the floor for my drifting

arkansas, nebraska and old colorado
ain’t got nothing i ain’t ever thought i’d known
what i found out there is the forgotten legends
under the deep stone and trees lost to the heavens
men sit on benches sewn from stones
smoking their remedies and drinking their peace
“the savior is here for the taking anytime you’d wish”
he spoke with a dark and wise old lisp

by the time we reached the great divide
i had learned all i had been given in school
bout patriarchs and wicked rulers gone by
i had to sense it after all the time i ran away
the hours i spent under government rule
and toil along with the letters and lessons
crisp from the burning and lost in the learning
wretched and tumbled lost as i was found

she took me cross the river
and allowed me to be me
let me listen to the plains
let me realize this ain’t no pain

I Am

I am bottles
thrown at boxcars
just to hear them shatter,
shards scattered on the ground.

The beauty of that broken glass
grows under the full moon,
rooted next to train tracks
under wooden swings
in kudzu fields. 

 

Shannon McMorland Foley