Ode to Fred’s
Fred’s, you Super Dollar Store tucked behind a Waffle House and a Sonic drive-through along Highway 165 in Sterlington, Louisiana, how many times have I… Read More »Ode to Fred’s
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.
Fred’s, you Super Dollar Store tucked behind a Waffle House and a Sonic drive-through along Highway 165 in Sterlington, Louisiana, how many times have I… Read More »Ode to Fred’s
I will miss you the most in the evening after the dishes are put away and I’ve retired to the bedroom knowing there’s nothing on… Read More »The Bottom Line
I’ll tell you the story of the heart poacher, a man with a hunger for hearts. how he rides all day in a wagon looking for one… Read More »Heart Poacher
We all know the story: Eve plucks the apple from the Tree and God shows her and hubby Adam where to find the time clock.… Read More »A&E and the Story of Retirement
Old man’s wife dies in Memphis. He moves back to the bayou sits in a fishing cabin for a year collects crickets. In a short… Read More »King Lear Remix
Beneath a drone of airplanes, I hear the chant of clouds drift across the top of apartment buildings singing songs to glass skylights and satellite… Read More »Changelings in a World of Broken
They appeared as strangers do from a stone pathway– a Moth Princess in a gauze gown, flaming calla lilies, electric fireflies, sea glass lamps shuddering in the light of… Read More »Lake Merritt Autumn Lights Festival, 2014
Waltz into my room wearing purple robes,
skull caps decorated with gold tassels
coins from countries that sell sun glasses.
Reading Yew Nork made me feel like I was huddled beneath the streetlamps of Paris gathered with Surrealist poets, André Breton and Benjamin Péret smoking Galloises. Except this was possibly New York’s Gotham City and Dale Jensen was my guide.
Maples wrap branches around my rib cage,
a trap of orange and gold leaves filter translucent light,
and like an unsuspecting moth, I’m sucked in