Not The Rockefellers

photo courtesy of Earthship Biotecture silver white thread spun around denim blue sky over sea god's little sister is quite a handsome woman like george washington's wednesday afternoon confessor she's got a way of gettin' to the honest parts of you "don't coddle your intentions for too long ,child they gotta way of lockin' up your insides if they ain't been sent right to work" my words and fingers rise and fall over lazy beer bottle circles  celia weeds her garden. i want to let go and believe i want to belong to a world outside of myself Rene ~ May 2011

Photo by Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tales   run  your  fingers along the  thickly fenced  gardens spot a shining sliver of light pull a plank out,  enter the world of the seeing mind time lost freedom found Rene

the moon has drawn Photography by Fee Easton for One Stop Poetry a line across your chest a path,  a gateway, an airstrip, a sliver of light under a bolted door, a weakness underlined, a hurdle, a wall the urgent, naked glow of opportunity? or the dim fluorescent nuisance of an object out of reach you sleep soundly as i fight the pull of the tide exhausted i put my hand on your chest a silver, white shoreline swim parallel Rene Foran ~ July 2010

on every wing a blessing and a home in the purity of the air for every savage, hungry wolf forgiveness and a feast fit for a lost soul returned home and to every brother perfect  and imperfect a simple song of  gratitude for providing  the means in which  to walk the way of truth Rene ~ May 2011 for Magpie Tales

samantha's art studio running barefoot across the open lawn of my wonder church in hot pursuit of  lightning bugs  i am ten years old  yes i am  i'm just big for my age cupping my hands i wait  i catch  from steepled forefingers i watch morse code freedom songs i open the doors and send back to the night her earth stars ~ Rene Foran Friday Poetically

Smoldering Fires , Clarence Holbrook Carter, 1904-2000 Columbus Museum of Art courtesy of Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tales late afternoon  in the heat rusted old testament backyard of the unwanted a fallen madonna clings to her god, her son she says he watches the trains in amazement he is blind but she solemnly swears  he counts every red car as they pass by he has his father's eyes she crows, matter-of-factly as he nods off, the hills belch perpetual burnt offerings scorching the sky paprika Rene ~ May 2011