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

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

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

Having Learned from Icarus

I breathe you in, slow and deep,
and hold you inside, as power-
transforming
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-
contracting
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

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.

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
www.efrenmusic.com

Fading

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

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

3/27/11
scott low
www.efrenmusic.com