This is a blog for sharing art of all kinds. If you're in or around Athens, GA and write poetry, songs, flash fiction, short stories, anything really and want to post, send your stuff to Shannon at or to Scott at Photography and photographed artwork also welcome! Include a short bio and a pic if you want and any link to a personal website or blog you want to share.

Please be patient while we get things up and running :)

Monday, October 17, 2011


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

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

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

Friday, July 15, 2011

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

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

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

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Late Night Saints

There lives in each of us a private terror,
which drives us through the rain
to a truck stop or a corner bar
on some pot-holed highway
on the edge of a broken-down town,
where bravery is bought and sold,
bargained for in dingy bathrooms
or at the bottom of many bottles.

We walk through the night
with creatures just like us,
holding our fear in silent camaraderie,
pretending everything's alright,
that our laughter is enough to carry us
through construction zones and
all night diners, where we steal
courage to proclaim our angelic visions
in the early morning hours.

Under bugs trapped in  fluorescent lights,
while spray-tanned girls in high heeled shoes
giggle in the back booth at their imagined rebellion,
our pauses and gaps and omissions
confessed only in drunkenness,
when most of the world is sleeping,
tell the real story of who we are,
and who we are too afraid to be.

Shannon McMorland Foley

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Having Learned from Icarus

I breathe you in, slow and deep,
and hold you inside, as power-
dark into beatitude.

Reaching way down into meaty
untouched places-
expanding the bones
where courage is contained.

I breathe out fuel and fire
in a deep sigh of release-
back into solemness.

Vowing not to melt these
fragile wings we've been given,
I rise up from you-
Soaring away from the sun.

Shannon McMorland Foley

Monday, May 30, 2011

Can't Find Home

~a collaborative poem by Scott Low & Shannon Foley

Liquor has started tasting
much more like home,
filling in all the holes.
I have nowhere left to go.
Grease your guns today,
effects unbound by your belongings.
It was too many decisions ago,
when we laughed like this.
There aren't any saviours.
and there ain't no saving left.
There's just me and you alone
smoking too many cigarettes.
I might as well be alone,
coulda just leaked outside.
I've done heard this song before,
it was my mama out the door.
That bluesman moans on my radio,
Giving me all the words
that get swallowed down in whiskey,
and ache inside my throat.
I'm a man's man, howling out
some sounds, could just be words.
I'll cut you for sourmash,
so darling come on home.
A bird outside the bedroom
belts out lonely songs all night.
I curse him in the blackness,
what the hell went wrong with this life?
Knew it was a joke last time,
just satire and fumbling for years.
Thought I was tired, but that was illusion
created in my inside so I could die.

Saturday, May 28, 2011


we may all have to go home one day
can’t chase these demons forever
tell me your words of freedom and peace
message the messagers the truth bout their message
tell me of the slums and smack heads
live for your race and go fall like a seed
reinvent the rhyme for these days of chaos
or freedom in expression is what saves us
pound the drum and speak in a stream ancient and fresh
i don’t have to agree to see what makes it real
run and destroy your record and our life
but rise like a garden and bring us back the truth
the troops and junkies, rappers and radicals
bartenders and bouncers, users and reborn
if i hadn’t been a liberal i couldn’t have been so stern
gotta do more than only live on for existence
remember home is were the hatred is and how it saved me
kick it quit it kick it quit it
i have gratitude of yearning respect for you old man
you were old when i met you and old when you left us
coltrane and whitey on the moon are the truth
truth of some perspective we lost focus on
can’t be your outlook if you can’t make it out
the battle costs us a few valuable chances
of longer life for our little ones and mothers too
did i write this for real when i heard you died?
blues in america can’t ever die
the best thing we gave the word is one thing
the blues we made and concurred makes us strong
the strong can be dumb or dead if they don’t express
souls like Gil have the wicked velocity of multiple angles
like a vision or a sound to sliding and using
run from the law and bury eleven lawyers
write legions of books questions of your standards
from the afro to the gutter back to paris for a hideout
return with some final last words was a nice eulogy
we gotta work for peace and life is a few directions
how many wives does it take to find the one who forgives
the angels of the life after gotta groove on forever
guess we all get a great show in heaven or hell it seems
glimpses of peace, rumors even would feel pretty nice
like i said gratitude of brave respect for our loss today
peace in your rest pick up the secrets and send em back
be god damn sure i get em or even just a touch of the wisdom
but not the dark side i feel it coming and hold me back
could tear it up for good any day now holding on like a october leaf
but if that is the last line i write i will be fine

Gil Scott-heron RIP.

Scott Low

Monday, May 2, 2011

it always spins

the buildings came down
the sand we pound
search out the infidel
for gun barrels swell
poke into the holes
bomb out the souls
blood in the gutter
as innocent suffer

today we dance
for this circumstance
gangs full of joy
over an evil boy
shot in the head
body full of lead
unlawful sick intent
turned into billions sent

who’s gonna wait for forgiveness
or revenge from the rest
as it never ends
it always spins

OBL dead May 1st, 2011

Scott Low

Sunday, May 1, 2011


There is blue, which is where we slide
our hands over and around the smoothness
of the years ebbing and flowing.
And  there is grey, that silent renegade
dredging up all of the debris from
fishing nets out past the rotting pier.

The moon sets,
moaning as it goes down.

Shannon Foley

Monday, April 25, 2011


smile like my rainbow
gold laying on both ends
take me to where we shine
glory is always round the bend

lets clean our insides
and live to be old and gray
touch the joy all night
just ask me and i'll stay

if i leave too soon
you will have me in this song
keep me with you tonite
kiss your back to make us strong

my beautiful muse all day
stunned that you are the one
bare your body and show your soul
i hold you and you my son

let the trees grow tall
and the leaves can fall
sing to me and i to you
sweet notes of forever ring so true

for my sweet girl.

Scott Low

Sunday, April 24, 2011

hear me sing, hear me bleed

minutes can feel like days
doubt can be death
a kiss can trump the pain
don’t forget we can rain

coming home is so sweet
how ever we will meet
upwards for the soul
outwards for the world

inwards for peace
come on up and i will give you air
questions may come
but faith is on the way

got rings for my wheels
take me tonite home for real
upwards for the soul
outwards for the world

crime of the love
never will you be above
dry thoughts or lost feelings
hear me sing, hear me bleed

scott low

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Life Or Death

Do I have more significance in life or death?
Will I be remembered if I die early
or forgotten if I live too long?
If we as a society value life with so much valor
why do we celebrate the ones who are gone?
and neglect the living, the poor, the unseen, ourselves
Television screens and Hollywood dreams do not represent the human spirit
They subtract and subtract until the minds of future generations will become hollow chamber to reverberate the lies of greed and lust; the American dream
But who's to say this isn't already us?
What if I do not wake up?
The question only breeds more
So I am not afraid to die and I know that is selfish,
but is dying not the most selfless of acts?
In a world overpopulated and undereducated
it is a challenge not to become a tool for unnecessary breeding and self-indulgence

I leave this world and am no longer able to carelessly consume its resources.
Can my final words influence those who are stronger and more self-aware than I?
Can they influence and guide to enlightenment. In an undiscriminating light of Christ, Buddha, or Sartre
Not all humans will see tomorrow's sun fall over the horizon.
Infants, teenagers, elderly, strong men and beautiful women; death has no senses.
Enjoy this life, every moment, and those you have to share it with
I was once, but am no longer 

Bradford Allen

Sunday, April 17, 2011

A Dialog Between Two Young Individuals in a Desert During The Late Years of the War of the End of the World

             A: “Hey! Which side?”
B: “Wha..?”
A: “Which side, which side are you on?”
B: “Which side of what?”
A: “Of the war, of course.”
B: “Oh. I'm not sure; what are my choices?”
A: “Good or evil.”
B: “Ah. Well, then, I guess I'm evil.”
A: “I'm good, myself.”
B: “Hm.”

A: “Do you mind if I sit?”
B: “Sure, go ahead”
A: “Ahhhhhhhh...So, what are you doing out here?”
B: “I dunno...I guess I just like it out here. It's peaceful. What about you?”
A: “I'm trying to get away from the war.”
B: “Why go all the way to the desert?”
A: “Well, it's easier than the moon, and more effective than the library.”
B: “Ah. So basically, you just like it out here.”
A: “Yep.”

A: “Why is your hair so long?”
B: “Because I'm a girl.”
A: “Really?!”
B: “What?”
A: “Well...”
B: “What is it?”
A: “I've never seen a girl before.”
B: “Come on.”
A: “No, really! My Dad raised me and my brother after my mom died, when I was born. We lived in a basement until my Dad died; when I came up, I found a completely deserted town, just outside this desert.”
B: “Wow.”
B: “So what happened to your brother?”
A: “He died in the war.”
B: “Oh.”

A: “So what about you?”
B: “Huh?”
A: “What's your story?”
B: “Oh. I'm an only child. My Dad was one of the survivors from the Hammerhead.”
A:No! The submarine?”
B: “Yeah, the submarine. He came home when I was sixteen. He was...disturbed. He would fidget with this little mini submarine all the time. My mom tried to help him, he yelled at her a lot. Me too. Then one day, my mom left.”
A: “I'm sorry.”
B: “It gets worse. My Dad killed himself a few days later. After that, I got a job as a grocery store clerk, I wrote poems on my breaks.”
A: “Christ, I'm sorry.”
B: “It's okay, I get along pretty well.”

A: “You're not going to kill me, are you?”
B: “Why would I do that?”
A: “Well, you know...”
B: “What?”
A: “Well, you being evil and all, and me—”
B: “Oh, that. Nah, I'm not gonna kill you.”
A: “Why not?”
B: “Because you're like me.”
A: “How so?”
B: “You like deserts.”
A: “Oh.”
A: “You promise?”
B: “No.”

A: “Well, I guess I'd better leave pretty soon.”
B: “Me too.”
A: “Why?”
B: “What?”
A: “What do you have to go back to?”
B: “Oh. I'm a soldier.”
A: “What!?”
B: “Oh, don't look so shocked.”
B: “Look, I'm sorry. You really bought the grocery store thing? Christ man, how many grocery stores do you see around here?”
B: “Well, I'm leaving now.”
A: “Why did you say, 'What are my choices'?”
B: “What?”
A: “When I asked you which side, why did you ask what your choices where.”
B: “I wanted to see what you would answer.”
A: “Fuck you.”
B: “Pretty strong. And just here did you learn that phrase?”
A: “My dad said it a lot when he yelled at my mom.”

Timothy J. Foley

Friday, April 15, 2011

Empty House

Empty House

Walking into the empty house
she drops her keys onto the counter;
they send echoes into the corners
where she's been lonely all her life.
The clock ticking away on the wall
tells the story of her dreams.

And she wonders how hard it would be
to wrap her up in your arms
and fall inside her soft places,
telling her your everythings.

Her hands scarred with men's work
smooth the folds of her dress,
she looks out the window at the dying light.
All the words she holds inside
stagnate into a sigh
spilling into dishes in the kitchen sink.
Steam rises from the tap,
she plunges in her arms to scrape away
the grime that's been collected there.

And she wonders how hard it would be
to wrap your arms around her waist
and fall inside her soft places
letting her be your everything.

She wipes her face with the back of her palm
in the reflection of growing darkness,
remembering how beautiful she used to be
long before she knew what beautiful was.
Water drips onto the floor;
she runs the dishtowel over the pans
piling them into a shiny, clanging stack
ready to just be used again tomorrow.

And she wonders how hard it would be
to wrap her heart up tight
and fall inside her soft places
letting her forget everything.

Shannon Foley

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

rage like a rifle

rage like a rifle

cripple monkey turn poor
lost lonely tie score
rage like a rifle
roll like the richer
remind the unions
what they are for
vicious nights bonding
stylish ladies launching
give me tablet
give me a shotgun
write out the process
kill em with song

did we have a feast
crazy yogi helpers
hallway to heaven
took a stairway before
needed to replicate
excess money to the fire
insane rude man
half a day with a liar
got what you deserved
made me laugh a lot
leak out into the pond
colors of the eyeball
naked in the song

honor the peers
respect all who do
i love these streams
open as wide as you wanna

Scott Low

Monday, April 11, 2011

Alternate Life: Monday Morning

Alternate Life: Monday Morning

Train horn awakening
through gauzy white curtains
on humid air.
And your hands
would slide down my thigh
to pull me into your sticky body.
We'd cover each other
in furry teethed kisses.
I'd tiptoe naked to the kitchen
to make coffee for us.
Birds would chirp in the grey light
as I poured milk into our cups.
And you'd tell me how beautiful I am,
that my body tells your story
of how you became a man.
You would drink me in,
your face held over the  steam,
breathing deeply to start the day.
I'd laugh at you looking at me,
with that crazy laugh I have.
and you'd laugh with me.
We'd talk about the day ahead,
your hand would rest on mine,
the contours worn and familiar.
 I'd send you off to the shower
with a smack on your ass.
You'd look back and smile.
We'd both wish you didn't
have to go to work and
I'd wriggle back under the covers,
deep down soul happy
for that Georgia morning train.

Shannon Foley

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Without Troubling to Read the Inscription

“…so Arthur strode up to the sword, and, without troubling to read the inscription, tugged it free.”
Le Morte D’Arthur

I’m a magician, but I’m not the magician. The magician is someone like Houdini, or Howard Thurston, or for us, it was Tony Slydini.
One evening, a few years ago, me and a bunch of the other guys went downtown to this diner. Lots of magicians go there to hang out, exchange new tricks, and stuff like that.
     We all went there because that’s where Slydini used to hang out. He had retired, but he was still the magician. He would come almost every night, sit at the same table in the corner, and he would leave really late, a lot later than any of us. Once in a while, one of us would show him some new trick we had, trying to fool him, but of course we never did.
     Well, that one night, we were all sitting at our usual spot, a few tables away from  Tony’s corner, and I hear the bell above the door ring, so I look over, and this kid walks in, maybe twelve or thirteen, a kid, and the screwy thing was, he was wearing a top hat, and a suit, and he looked for all the world like a magician, but one from years ago, when magicians actually dressed like that.
     Now, this kid looks around for a minute, and then walks over to Tony’s corner. I’m watching—it’s hard to see, what with the waitress, and customers coming and going—but I can see him talking to Tony, and then he sits down.
     “Guys, look at this,” I said, and everybody turned around to look. We could see the kid taking off his hat, and setting it bottom up on the table. Then he starts picking up some napkins…
     “He’s doing magic!” I said.
     “And you know what else?” one of the others said. “He’s doing ‘The Paper Balls in the Hat!’”
     “He’s right!” I said.
     “But that’s Tony’s trick!” somebody else said.
     So, he finishes the trick, and Tony—Tony starts clapping!
     “He must be doing good!” one of the guys said.
     Then the kid takes something out of his pocket. We’re all watching as closely as we can, and someone says, “It’s a deck of cards,” and then, a little later, I say “He’s doing ‘The Helicopter Card!’” which is another Slydini trick. He does two more tricks: “Slydini’s One Coin Routine,” and “The Slydini Silks,” and we’re all laughing our heads off, but Tony and the kid don’t notice.
     After the silks, the kid does one last trick. Now, right about now the place got really busy, so we really couldn’t see this one too well, but we all agreed on one thing: it had to be an original. We’re all professionals, and not one of us had ever seen anything like it; it was some kind of combination card and coin trick, and they kept jumping around.
I said what we were all thinking: “That’s a new one, isn’t it?”
     After that, the kid stood up and bowed, and Tony clapped some more. He said something I couldn’t hear and gave the kid a buck, which went straight to the counter for an ice-cream soda. Tony got up, put on his coat, and walked right over to us, big smile on his face. He said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” in that beautiful Italian accent of his, and he left.
     Well, we all rushed over to the counter, of course. We all threw questions at him at once, until he said, “What’s going on?” And I said, “Don’t you know who that was?”
     “The guy you did magic for—that was Tony Slydini!”
     The kid just sat there for a moment. Then he said “But all those tricks I did, they were all Slydini tricks, the paper balls, the helicopter card…” He looked over at the door. “That was Slydini?”
     “Hey, was that last one an original?” I asked.
     “Yeah, yeah it’s mine…”
     After a pause, somebody said “Well, did he like your trick?” And the kid said “Yeah he said he liked it…”
     “And then after he gave me a dollar, he said…” Then the kid got this big smile on his face.
     “What did he say?!” we all shouted.
     “He said, ‘By the way, how did you do that last one?’”

Timothy  J. Foley
  Magus Mirificus

Friday, April 8, 2011

I am a Magnet

I am a Magnet

On the road i will find you
the one for my soul
out across the southern trail
up on our hills and under the rail
show me your face and
i will be scared to come too close
come and touch my hand
but careful because i am a magnet
for dark trouble and grand illusions

i got a house for molding
i got love for unfolding
too bad it got buried
but there is a map just dig in for love

can you read this list?
can you lift me up for us?
i need you to heat my heart
maybe it will sprout again
run down to the store and get us some fuel
forget the past of the pain i have ruled
if you can take it away i beg
hire a team of builders and start today
the foundation of trust i lost along the way

Scott Low

Thursday, April 7, 2011


dropping to the floor
from the cigarette
I hide behind,
Fidgeting with my hands
empty and calloused.
Cellophane wrapper,
burning blue
in the ashtray
on the bar.

Breathe in cancer,
breathe in destruction,
breathe in numbness.
Hold it.
Hold it longer.
And exhale
everything I am not to you.
That I never was,
that I never will be.
Dissolve that dream person.

Music melts around the corner,
broken down soul revival.
Words and drumbeats and solos
wrap their hands around
the small of my back,
Lifting my chin with the kiss
I have waited for

You walk into the room
and that dance,
and that dance,
and that dance
which is all mine,
which is everything I am,
fades to the background
in a room lit
only by
signs for cheap beer and booze.

We go home
and are silent.

Shannon Foley