Ile de Plaisir
Let us sing of heroes, inducted into a land of zombies,
vampires, crooked cops, drug dealers, military forces of occupation,
each room set up to teach another cruelty of the human heart
Lenore's collections include "Tap Dancing on the Silverado Trail" (2011) from Finishing Line Press, “Sh’ma Yis’rael” (2007) from Pudding House Publications, and "Cutting Down the Last Tree on Easter Island" (West End Press, 2012). Her writing has won recognition from Poets&Writers (finalist in California Voices contest) and as a finalist for Pablo Neruda Prize, Nimrod International Journal. The Society for Technical Communication has recognized her work regarding Technical Literacy in the schools. All material is copyrighted on this site and cannot be used without the author's permission.
Let us sing of heroes, inducted into a land of zombies,
vampires, crooked cops, drug dealers, military forces of occupation,
each room set up to teach another cruelty of the human heart
what a Chabad past telephone poles to the top of the World Trade Tower brought me back down to earth thinking it wasn’t me who blew out the candles
My port-a-potty, but right now not feeling proud being related to Sarah, Rachel and Miriam, daughter of Lilith, member of an ancient tribe
Data security week, I celebrate by taking my computer to lunch
There are no more brooms to burn.
No more truncated truces.
“…that was that, we could do no more—had to trust to sun and water and time…” My first garden grew in the Hunts Point section… Read More »Morning Glories
It seems odd that the Louisiana state slogan on its license plate is Sportsman’s Paradise. I am not a sport in the way that the… Read More »Change the Louisiana State Slogan
A storm begins as a harmless patter, a shuffle on the pavement, an occasional trip-trap coming down at the same tempo, target practice increasing in… Read More »Stormy Weather
An oak roll-top with a locking lever
to keep out snoops,
antique with a brass plate
from George H. Fuller in San Francisco–
Lawns were work. Not only did people have to cut them, but just like in Ecclesiastes, there was a time to scatter seeds, a time to fertilize, and a time to spray for bugs. It seemed endless, a weekend ritual of cutting grass, grass that always grew back. It was like Sisyphus rolling a rock up a hill, and then it rolling back down again. Wby?