A quick shout-out to those of you who belonged to the Writer’s Block writing group in Corry, PA. I joined the group in 2002, three years after Corry author and newspaper columnist Beverley Bittner founded it. I decided to post some the group’s old news columns and stories for historical reasons. Our group didn’t have
Photography by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. The other day I found a treasure of old photos, some of my old blog posts I’d saved on Microsoft Word, and a plethora of unfinished poetry. Since then, I’ve been rescuing my blog posts and adding them to my site. I deleted those old posts years ago
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.
Art by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. I took a “Drawing Cartoons” class when I was a kid because I used to draw them in my school notebooks when I was supposed to be paying attention to my teachers. I was a big daydreamer. Luckily, ADD wasn’t a big social issue then, so I was
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Late in the valley at a house with her name on the door I writhe upstairs at the hall’s very end beating my pillow and lowing her name. It does not matter— her departure haunts me with the ghosts of our past and the angels that rode her
Geometric drawing by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Here is an abstract-type self-portrait drawing from when I quit trying to fit in with others and learned how to fit in with me.
I used to keep my snapshot photographs stored in albums. When I married and had children, my wife and I did the same for many years. Then, somewhere along the passage of time, we stopped storing our photos in albums and tossed them into empty shoeboxes instead. Now we have 30+ years of unlabeled shoeboxes
My blog is 4 months old and it already feels like a neglected child crying for attention. September has been a busy month here at the Dey residence with the transitioning of my children going back to school and getting them to pay attention to their new schedules. My oldest has been a champ at
The old woman hovers near the woodstove and drags a calloused hand across her crinkled forehead as if wiping away smoke and sweat. She pauses, looking; her eyes flash between her fingers and strike my soul. I feel her in my mind, looking, searching, all the while reading the history there. Where have I gone
(© 2016) I awoke this morning to voices on the wind, Echoes of past, present, and future— Modern times when I was living the year of the cat. The blonde girl from Finland smiled at me when I missed my southbound train to Rome; We were homesick for home, So she chased away our blues
Tomorrow is my birthday. I was born on the day and year Laura Ingalls Wilder died. She was 90. She was the author of the best-selling “Little House” series of children’s novels. A friend who believes in reincarnation says that her soul returned on the day I was born, which is why I became a
I became nostalgic of my childhood after my high school class held its 40th reunion in July (which I missed but saw pictures of on Facebook) and the school season began last week for most of the children living in my area, while others began the season today. As it was when I was a
(From 2007.) It is a beautiful August day, 2007. I wonder where I shall be in 5 years, or 10, 20. I can only imagine. Will I still work in finance? Or give it up to be a full-time writer? Or artist? During lunch yesterday, a coworker and I talked about painting. Art is one
It is eventide over my head, like old bourbon in a glass, straight up. We have come shyly as mosquitoes near still water, our flashlights adrift over dark girls in their secret boxes; their nights belong to the wind. The lake loves me in secret. In my canoe I am an enigma from the shore.
I considered posting some love poems today. Love is a common theme in my poetry. And the longer I considered this, I started thinking about all the times when love wasn’t a common theme in my life. I think my cousin Candi has always been in love. As far back as I remember, she’d always
Do you remember how we crept along fences young together I, at twelve, stumbled through the other side of eternity never to think we’d ever become middle-aged Do you recall homesick high-school weeks making us feel gentle like days of a last breathless uncertain chord played— a warm rich memory of an old woman’s concert
The young woman came across an ad in the Sunday paper for an upcoming movie called The Golden Compass. She grew instantly excited and babbled to her mother and aunt how this is the greatest thing ever. Of course, they give her that look, the Mr. Spock of Star Trek look, the one with one
She met him in ’92; she was a Goth seventh grader like one of those kids from South Park. She read Kerouac and Roethke and Ginsberg and Plath; not really understanding their works, but really making a connection to their words: music to her soul. Abstract expressionist art had grabbed a hold of her, too,
The young woman had difficulty dealing with the fact that she’d be going home and seeing her mother for the first time in almost 4 years. What were they going to talk about? Everything they ever discussed turned into a power struggle of how her mother was “Mom, Authority Figure” and how she, the child
So MySpace has this thing where you can add your high school to your page. The girl who looks like me said “No thank you.” Deep down, she knew why. Feeling nostalgic, though, she visited websites of the place that could have been her alma mater had her mother not decided to homeschool her. The