From Handprints To Footprints
All works copyrighted and previously published by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Hello from Lola. And Happy Halloween. My kids are excited about trick-or-treat tonight: Candy, candy, candy. While I break from making finishing touches on their costumes, I am posting some of my poems and stories for Halloween. I am the new person here
Originally posted on Art ~ Writing ~ Life:
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. When I sleep you hide paralyzed in the shadows of my bed where your courage to live vanished long ago. In your world of mocking corpses you rub against me in wingless dreams and knitted walls and empty stares that run from…
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Inhabited between wild things, wonderful things, Who Am I? No longer a main priority, no longer stapled to a better forever determining worth and future. I Am the problems I’m not letting go of. I Am the energy and struggle to do better in this Magical universe, reincarnate
We sit on Mother Earth, Her watchful eye and furrowed brow creased in worry As she watches over us with feet of prosperity. Pollution and decay all around us; We who snatch the grain from her warm, soft soil, Always taking, never giving While birds of the field scatter seed to replenish her storehouse. We
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. Too many people stomping around— fractured herds mucking the rivers, shitting the highways, killing the grass. They think they know when they don’t. They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost. Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. It was here one night among white blossoms and junipers that we lay touching while the rest of the world snored in their small beds. We breathed frost words to breezes on branches breathing deeply in the deep woods with no earthly destination hidden behind the pulse of
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. The boy who lost his mother gnarled like a bear— tough bear he. But away from the bestial he had softness in his eyes— they laughed even when he and his words were sharp and sometimes ambiguous. He showed the plumpness of his belly to his closest friends
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.
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. When I sleep you hide paralyzed in the shadows of my bed where your courage to live vanished long ago. In your world of mocking corpses you rub against me in wingless dreams and knitted walls and empty stares that run from the drum of my heart. You
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. I dream fear in radical light shape and shadow— our night sun and day moon know the blood sky the bone wind the muscle and flesh rain the earth-weight traps and prisons where our slippery slopes are built too high on circles of madness which I journey to often
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. I journey often to faraway places, many anew, others revisited, spent with treasured friends, rare and unique— life is clever with good friends around us. First-run journeys take me like a child perhaps across rustic bridges, perhaps beyond orchard ways, likely to places to be seen with new
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
Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. When I a child when I could, I voyaged out into your cool company— The coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep before walking that large solitude of no cricket no owl, Walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods tossed among the taste of echoed blood
A dreamer is a poet whose words make love to the entire world I drift to sleep and dream moments with you at my side You hold me love me make me feel wanted and alive You are my secret places spent together meant for two me and you In my life I am one with you and
Beyond the valley sunsets through a nestled paradise for dreamers beside a crystal lagoon where the deep and green go my laughter embraces the wonders here My heart beats warm where waters flow from a sparkling waterfall I bathe away the devil and drown her in the quick I slumber on the stardust seldom ever
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
A woman from a fishing village slaves in a sweatshop, making shirts for retail stores, selling them at low prices to help save shoppers money to spend at McDonalds after the Little League game tonight. She makes barely enough money to pay the rent of her shared one-bedroom apartment in the city where hucksters scramble
I reflect on and analyze my life when I am alone. I accept what I understand and discard the rest. My spirit cannot grow in confusion. ~Lola
Night falls swiftly on us— our lives are a flash in the sinking sun, ten thousand years of rebounded vibrations— I call it life but you call it hell. You steer my sight to the setting sun and tell me that it’s evening for us all— the night is silence: no more color, no Hawaiian
I spent the past two days creating another blog. I must be crazy, right? I barely have time for this one! I finished designing the blog today, but I plan testing it before I post anything on it. This is my dream blog where everything I post there will be based on the dreams I
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
A gentle breeze caresses trees where children play in savanna gray. Meadows laugh whispered breaths on a beautiful warm summer eve. An inquisitive rain slips from dappled clouds; sunlight bright on its mist that kisses my upturned face: soft caresses like satin dresses making love to my bare skin. I lie in the arms of
—1995— Sun-kissed golden down of woven sunlight on feet so small Sundress yellow shines flaxen halo on cushion grass Body electric sitting in the shade glorious Delighted little girl pounces and kisses lips deeply silkily Earthly heaven scent is a warm sunbeam gleeful A bed beneath sheets of pure love as long as rivers run
I am composition | image | portrait | art composition | words | feelings | heart I am human created and creating
My poems are a dialogue with two of my inner selves: the carefree, creative me and my logical, usually condemning, inner critic while I struggle to converse with my omniscient inner child who knows exactly what to say and how to say it. ~Lola
She rode her motorcycle’s heat between her legs from an engine throbbing like constant thunder. The frame and the ride were hot. She shivered like a dangling shoe on the end of a naked foot. She pointed her knees at men she found interesting. The exposure to the frisky wind and throbbing engine were like
Many of my poems are captured moments— vignettes— glimpses of intense feeling or treasured experiences: A first crush first dance graduation— lasting impressions that I relive. ~Lola
My favorite poems— best poems— are made of musing memories and all the feelings I remember no matter how quick they still hurt. ~Lola Save
In our darkest family moment When life has ceased And all heads of the living are slumped forward, Tears flowing, Tongues completing tender prayers — our final goodbyes, Our eyes — so accustomed to observing no more than mortal time— Now gaze back before these lonesome hours together To when her sweet spirit departed this
(© 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
A funny picture of Neon, one of my cousin Candi’s cats. He always had to investigate the Christmas tree and make sure the branches held his weight. And he was particular about which ornaments went on the branches. Whatever didn’t end up on the floor were the ones he liked—at least, that was our conclusion.
My mind is empty among white blossoms. My lips speak not of this bubble of a heart. An attractive woman notices me anyway and takes me as I am. My habits flow to the sea like American motorists on summer vacation. The neighbors complain about our caravan outside their windows in the early morning rain.
Do you launch rainbows? Do you fill the sky with sunbeams and butterflies? You do, naturally now in your ashes to ashes and dust to dust way. You are the breeze, the wind, the sky Hugging the land Dusk in winter Flowers in summer The corner of sounds a few beats in the light and
The sea on my honeymoon is nearly silent around me. A faint skitter of fiddler crabs on the sand connects to a murmur of the night-wind in the palm trees behind me. My lover tide is making low complaints like the aching earth, caressing and bitter against an expectant land. I keep half-awake the anguished
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
Lower your lips to my heart Where our souls touch and flame Where you are ageless in my embrace Protected enough to say you love me Lay with me over moss and leaf Drenched in last night’s rain Their shimmering surf at our thighs Where diamonds and poetry love to weep In this discovery I descend
(© 2005) You artist; you tremendous orb of fire setting, Paint irradiated ribbons of summer across the sky in meandering vaporous rivers Till in a stroke Evening explodes from your burning brushes and rushes upon a fiery canvas for a moment, Then fleeting to a velvet night succeeding behind you, Whereupon Nox repaints your canvas
In small acreage on a hilly clearing, Sunny morning shines golden on chalky-pink blossoms; I pause and prolong my hike to watch sunbeams lick away dewdrops Soaking in shaded greenery of an apple orchard. Craggy, crabby branches nod jaggedly at a breeze dashing across the way; Wasps complain from gray papery hives swaying above me;
Tense silence in my bedroom but not in my head Heavenly hymns hum from fingers strumming Sweet music from songs in mind Trembling chords of delightful tension certainly make this moment more attractive I find a new discovery and add it to old ones But no one sees the babe I’ve become I have no
My love’s long blonde hair frames a pretty face A red blouse peaks where no boy ever made mine feel any good My love knows open mouth She speaks fluent oral communication Her lips soft and full taste like silky high life laughs and cries My love knows skin touching Sweet kisses down Claiming me
Chikili and his family poured like ants from the backbone of life Sky fire warmed their naked skin And night’s cool breath sent them seeking shelter and warmth Many moons cycled their journey while Chikili and his family chased the sun The seed arrow led them to a river rich with food— they ate and
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
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
Week 1 Alone Silence in my bedroom, but not in my bed Naughty aching, electric steam I lie ready, fingers pressing hot Shivers come to me inside the warm darkness My lips form a perfect O O God O Yes O Yes yes yes yes yes The heightened feeling gets stronger The seconds crash like
Upon broken rocks along the shoreline where the caves of storm nymphs hold scattered remains of every sunken ship, walks Adam’s Lilith—Collier’s too— her body covered by the serpent’s twine— ophidian lover— demon of night and day. They dance surrounded by sweet sirens’ songs that weave their tapestry before a lengthy mirror that looks out
You’re so big— the internet made you huge We decipher your candy whining at your blog every day— we’re some of your best teased hairfriends at your facebook We know your TV faves movie faves favorite faves and all your playlists You like short shorts, bikini jeans, and certain days wrapped in Jamawar You love
Slowly I turn to touch you with my lips Slowly I give you sweet kisses down making you tremble with anticipation Slowly I take you to the edge of a precipice— a teeter at the edge of a fall You cling to me but you fall in the rush of your sweet release crying your
Remember the drought, dry grasses and winds? Our wildfire moon was red —everything else was black char, ash-fog, so thick we couldn’t breathe There seemed no escape but death Fire blocked our roads Stay-put-and-find-shelter fireman filled our minds with dread Our very souls grew heavy with smoke If we were to die by fire, we
I am told of a home where the courtier and the heretic are hostage to the devil where the good life is the joy of hiking black holes a long way down and a long way gone where there is plenty of oil on the brain in a far country but a sudden country when
I am watching, alive the foxes watching me after the grass is cut, barking seldom but always watching, watching me, faces sharp, red coal eyes, gold afire on the stubble on the hillock, watching, waiting, bright fur hostile, prowling now for the waning hour shadows creeping, slipping inside wire pens that coop our hens. I
The touch of your skin is electric air that bends my soul to your fire forever rippling cascading to the heavens to the brink of our primal thrashes and pleasure screams Sex with you can seem like a final clash that brings to the moment a final crash echoing thunder from clouds that float us
Today at market, shopkeepers showcased brand-new cars and seduced nearsighted and potbellied old men with promises to stop their loneliness. The promises were offers of a future spent speeding on swift wheels. And so the old men were kissed by shiny chrome rubbing their trousers, and were spent dreaming of getting laid upon the smooth
Night falls swiftly on us— It is the secret bits of life to do yourself the way you do— A flash in the sinking sun, Ten thousand years rebounded, Vibrations— It is hell. Wild you are but ripe for life In the gray and raging glee— Nobody likes to die, but it is evening here
Sunday mirrored light of a hot sun reflecting off of brick buildings and parkways where a hospital sits deep brown and yellow in its last degree, fading like the old woman inside dying with a smile on her face, happy to be leaving. But I with a burlesque smile am sad to watch her go.
You are full brazen; Your swollen tan lies crisp on sunbaked sand; You call attention to my snug rounded smooth firm thighs, But you take my breasts in hand instead. Seductive anticipation, You promise me the taste of fried chicken skin; And so my mouth waters all woman— Course and raspy pudding under foot. But
Alone in my bedroom but not in my bed My hand plays the music in my head Naughty aching electric steam Fingers strumming trembling strings of delightful tension pressing hot Shivers come I discover a new chord and add it to the old ones My lips form a perfect O O God O Yes O
Rain on the window paints calligraphy on my wall— I recite verses to music playing where pear flower stars burst forth in the multicolored bowl on my kitchen table where I once compared nature with artifice and made love to the girl with ornamental hair That’s what happens, she says to me now, when tradition
When you are dead No one invites you over for a drink Birthday parties are no longer valid And holidays are past pictures cards and fading memories When you are dead No one sees what you’re wearing No one speaks to you as someone alive No one notices the dirt beneath your nails Or the
I await head bowed anxious before you Will you enter quietly like steam to a desert? Sneak up behind me and press your hot body against mine? Will you turn me around rain on me gentle and pour over my breasts with the delicious sensation of hands cupped fully? Will you knead me with new
Moonlight spills across our bed revealing the smile on your sleeping face— No doubt you’re dreaming of an earlier passion spent Watching you sparks an ember glowing and a sudden thrill percolates in me So I close my eyes and send my hands drifting to a warm moist place spotlighted by the moonbeam’s gentle glow
I feel it and want it to last: your hot breath on me like a summer breeze before orgasm I tell you to take me slowly But I don’t mean it— I want the thrust and fire to rocket me to the highest of heights until your kisses cannot mute my cries of joy I
Our bodies stir waking to passions in the soft moonlight Our mouths press together— hot wet tongues entwine and fill us with desires yet unfulfilled Our moans grow Our bodies dance I arch up to meet that sharp sweet edge that lives between pleasure and pain Our cries signal the need for sweet release But
When I, a child, when I could, I voyaged out into your cool company— the coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep before walking that large solitude of no cricket, no owl; walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods tossed among the taste of echoed blood at such a time, invisible and dull
The sea is nearly silent around me. A faint skitter of fiddler-crabs upon the sand connects to a murmur of the night-wind in the palm trees behind me. My lover tide is making low complaints like the ache of earth caressing and bitter against an expectant land. I keep half-awake the anguished spirit of self-love,
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
We bedded with moss and leaf and sand drenched in that evening’s rain; a shimmering surf at our thighs where diamonds and poetry wept on our ocean waves. We stirred to passions rising in us, caressing below an unwatched moon. mouths lips open touched together pressed hot wet arms sparked entwined legs Your breath and
When you’re not with me I never feel lonely or frightened I have you in my heart— You are my inner peace When you’re not with me I touch you everywhere— You are my life and love You’re this feeling that drives me to old tingles— A heart always pounding like thunder— A seismic moment
Late in the valley at a house with a ribbon on the door handle I writhe upstairs at the hall’s very end Beating my pillow and lowing “you” But it does not matter You are more than my imagination And I imagine the angels keep on you Ride hard you cowgirl Take you with a
About being wrong: Swallow it on down, you, deep down inside you. I never implied that pride is never an embarrassing empty taste inside We learn soon enough that the pain-lump we swallow can be rough It shows on our faces, even while we try to hide the suffering we feel inside Passions burn strong
Do not stroke your pants in public. Stroking merely gives birth to a connoisseur of his handkerchief watching cool climate ladies in the parade topping their vodka to local partners. And do not lap with sexy neighbors or midwives in the shower; Fondling and forking merely reduce syllables to grunts that bite the tips of
Sometimes I still dress in past transgressions— I like how I look; old styles are comfortable in vogue color, length and brand. But you would strip me naked; dress me in a style that won’t embarrass you— dress me like the Christ you wear on you even though I’m everything you want: my sex, my
He died before I was born But still she masturbates to his picture Still she comes to his songs She weeps to know he’s at a standstill Her grief rises from the icy depths of our dead planet Her tears fall from a broken sky at the threshold of her own dark doorway destination And
When the fires raged When the sky reddened and aged Who walked on water and stayed upright? Who entered the horrific night to fight? Who sent us a message while the parched lands burned? And from those words, what did we learn? The ground is harder the further we’re from it and only at length
Upon broken rocks along the shoreline The caves of storm nymphs hold scattered remains of every sunken ship There walks Adam’s Lilith — Collier’s too Her body covered by the serpent’s twine — ophidian lover — demon of night and day They dance surrounded by sweet sirens songs They weave their tapestry before a lengthy
I clothe myself in my past transgressions And I like how I look in them Their style Their color Their length But you would strip me naked of my past Just to dress me like a doll you like But I’m not you And you can’t change me— No you can’t I dress myself in
I like how I look wearing lavender No deep yellows to energize your permanence for me No hot pink except inside me No rich purple royal sainthood Or the vibrant green envy and jealousy you love And no riotous reds to make you want to strip off my dress No No stark raving vehemence ready
Night in the city has a strange sound The way roof ice speaks before it melts Pools down Rushes gutters Raises the river’s rage below me Melted ice flows over my boot tops Down interwoven streets with city signs that claim they take us to Homes Schools Businesses Somewhere Anywhere Everywhere that is nowhere to
Aching Eyes wide open I lie in bed ready Knowing this feeling Almost like dread Anticipating the climax almost to me Feelings strengthen Seconds crash like waves washing over me Sweet surrender contractions Quake my core Mind Body Soul charging forth from its depth Galloping up Soaring over rivers unleashed Hear my cries of joy
Tense silence in my bedroom but not in my bed Heavenly hymns hum from fingers strumming Pressing down hot on me Playing music’s sweet songs in my head Trembling lines of delightful tension certainly make this moment more attractive I find a new discovery and add it to old ones But no one sees the
Naughty aching Eyes wide open I sit in bed ready Naked Knowing this feeling Almost like dread: Anticipation of the climax almost to me The feeling gets stronger As the seconds crash like waves washing over me I close my eyes Sweet Surrender Dew Bubbling forth Trickling down Over folds Moist and glistening My core
Judy’s blonde hair frames a pretty face My libido grabs me by the folds Her pretty red blouse peaks where no boy ever made mine feel any good She knows open mouth She speaks fluent oral communication Her soft lips are full and taste like silky high-life laughs and cries Laugh and cry I came
Alone Tense and horny Silence in her bedroom but not in bed Her hand wanders downward Playing Alone Mirror watching Reflections She hums music Sweet songs in her head Humming hymns and strumming chords of her favorite songs Fingers Music Playing Pressing hot Agile hands certainly make the moment more attractive Fingers reaching Probing Dirty
