Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Earlier today shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men with sleek fast brand-new cars that rubbed and kissed their trousers and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness. Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats where stale memories surfaced and breathed new air striking deals in brown cubicles under the breath of fresh coffee.
The humid air stung his eyes. He hated how the steaminess assaulted his throat and made it hard to breathe. He rarely walked, but Dr. Ford said his body needed the exercise if he wanted to get better. The backside of the park was a good place to begin. No one needed to see him
So many American faces are fading like new literature, soft and pale, sinking into the quicksand of poverty. Their government turned their dollars into pennies; One hundred George Washingtons won’t buy a fistfight today, but a hundred Ben Franklins can get you murdered… Franklin kicks Washington’s ass every time. But whose city park does big
Man’s abstraction is his mad reality— His crazy reality is our despair His ruin-prone proud national heritage befalls us for a wretched dream Ancient fires fuel his greed made savage by marketeers A proprietor evicts a family struggling to make ends meet No compassion He says he needs his money to pay his bills— but
I dreamed I sailed alone down the river Hebrus to the island Lesbos where I found sudden love at the center of a liquid mirror that reverberated with the clear perfection of my face—a sweet face with angel grace as done by the master hand of the world’s finest Victorian painter. The morning sun behind
The war and rain are long; our patience is gone and burns much faster in the zone. The war and rain are long; our broken bones and lullabies char the path to your home where your war torn love bears a daily weight for years alone. The war and rain are mean; their dirty green
She’s a bit introverted. She’s happiest when she’s by herself, holed-up from the rest of her coworkers and customers at the department store she works at. But sometimes she volunteers to come out of her office cubby and assist her coworkers on the sales floor. Like yesterday. Things began okay. She helped stock shelves with
Faces fading like new literature, soft and pale, sink into the quicksand of poverty. Their government turned their dollars into pennies. One hundred George Washingtons won’t buy a fistfight today. But a hundred Ben Franklins can get you murdered … Franklin kicks Washington’s ass every time. But whose city park does big Ben stand in?
Dana skipped out on going to the heavy-metal rock concert. Her mother’s church had her believing that the concert would exhort the crowd to rape and murder. Rock and roll music had always been the catalyst of evil; she’d been told this repeatedly over the years by her mother. Even the innocent-looking Beatles of the
“He’s out there,” my mother said. She rushed from the front window and snatched her cell phone from the dining room table. Her hand trembled while she dialed. She almost dropped the phone twice before she put it to her left ear. “Hello? Police?” Her face contorted into a mask of disappointment. “Sorry,” she said,
I knew the way back to Clearview. I also knew the many miles that lay ahead of me. When I reached the highway, I didn’t slow down. I popped up a thumb and prayed for someone to pick me up. No one stopped. After walking for nearly three hours my stomach complained of being hungry.
The rush of icy air filled my lungs and brought my senses back. I was in my bed, but the dark creature from the tree had followed. It hovered above me, levitating by the magic it used to lure me to its lair. My scream burst from my mouth. I thrashed and kicked at my