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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
Some people spend so much time reading between the lines that they miss what was actually written. ~Lola
Several months have passed since I posted any sunset photographs. Don’t worry, I’m correcting that oversight now. Below are 4 beautiful photographs taken during a sunset at one of my favorite lake getaways. I could carry on forever why I love sunsets on water, but I’ll let the photos speak for me. Enjoy.
In conjunction with May being Masturbation Month, I share with you this little known fact about myself. I discovered the computer world when I turned 9 in November of 1989. It was during my birthday that I overheard an uncle talk about his computer and the World Wide Web. Earlier that year, some science guy
By now you know I love mountains. They are beautiful to look at and dangerous to be on. Sometimes the best beauty is viewed at from afar. And sometimes beauty must be seen up close. Beauty is found indoors. Sometimes we trek many miles looking for beauty. Beauty is everywhere, day
I love mountains, woods, water … and boating. One of Alaska’s biggest moneymaking exploits. I’m not a fan, but my family loves it. Big skies, wilderness and water are perfect getaways. Photographing nature is looking and seeing. Big places to live among bigger nature. Finally, a look at the modern
I could live all my life on beaches. Below are 4 of many favorite beach photographs from my collection. Pebbly beaches and woods are the perfect campsites. Rocky beaches are great places to hear nature singing. Sandy beaches are for lovers and joggers… and people who wish to be alone with their thoughts. Woody lake
As a busy working wife and mom, I have little time to spend at social websites. When I was single with lots of “me time”, social media sites were convenient ways to stay abreast of the daily happenings of my family and friends. But after a while, marriage, kids, jobs, and life in general came
No matter where I go, I am fascinated by rocks. I suppose I missed my calling and should have become a geologist like my friend Ann. Ann loves investigating rocks. I love Ann. Mix rocks with water and I’m gone, like the guy in my photograph!
The swan is another favorite majestic bird of mine. It is a royal creature that has mystical allurement—it instantly commands my attention when I see one. And I have seen plenty of swans in my 32 years, especially at ponds and lakes when I lived in New York.
Another out-of-focus sunset snapshot. Despite its technical flaws, I love this photograph—the golds and reds are fading and the darkening blues speak of the promise of night and the solitude there. That’s where the artist is most at home: alone with herself but never lonely.
Water, skies and sunsets are probably the definitive measurements of what makes me happiest.
My mother called from Hawaii one day in October and asked to speak to the doctor in our family. She wasn’t feeling right, she said, and she listed her ailments to my husband over the phone—headache at night while watching TV, blurred vision, dizziness upon standing suddenly, a sore and stiff right shoulder, and tingling
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
My dad was the second child born to his parents. My mom was the second of four children born to her parents. And I was the second child born to my parents. Daddy graduated high school and enlisted right away as a signalman in the US Navy. Mom graduated high school 5 years later and
(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
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
Since the recent move to my new home, I have been decorating every chance I get. So when I took a tea break and came to my blog today, I could not resist sprucing my page. I chose a whimsical look because I feel impulsive right now. The country is abuzz with the Olympics and
I finished unpacking our last box today and had to be convinced by my husband to stop moving things around for now, that I am becoming a fussy decorator and I need to relax and take care of myself. He is so right, as usual. Finally, our move from Hawaii to the UK is done!
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
Nothing is more beautiful than sailing across sunset water.
I love how this digital photograph turned out. I never know what my sunset pictures will look like. Most of the time I leave my camera on automatic, then point and shoot. Sometimes I use the flash. And sometimes I use the extra settings, like night and sunny day modes, among others. The mystery
(Note: This originally appeared as an introduction from me when I began at Bebo. I tweaked it a little for my blog.) I promised myself I’d never plaster myself on the Internet. But here I am a stranger in a strange land, blogging. A friend tells me it can be fun; a roll in the
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
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
Let’s talk more about Boobs. Ah, Boobs, those two soft fleshy glandular organs on a woman’s chest that form an eye-catching groove of separation called Cleavage! Yes, Cleavage! Every girl should have Cleavage! Whether you’re looking to make your small breasts appear to have more Cleavage, or you want to make your large breasts provide
I watched a TV sit-com show the other night, and the guy asked his girlfriend if having boobs was weird. I went OMG, because one time a guy asked me the very same thing. And I said “Yes. Having boobs is weird.” I mean, come on, they’re fundamentally milk sacs to feed babies. After that,
Last night, while looking at the sky on a cloudless night, the young woman saw an expanse of stars and constellations. She had seen stars before. But she had never paid attention to how many there were. The more she looked into the depth and scope of the sky, there seemed no limit to the
I have a grandmother who loves sharing advice in her emails to me. She sent this one, which made me want to share it here. As the title says, the source is unknown. But if anyone knows who the real author is, contact me and I will accredit him or her to the following bit
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
Joe signed the receipt for his credit card purchase when the clerk noticed he had never signed his name on the back of the credit card. She informed him that she could not complete the transaction unless the card was signed. When Joe asked why, she explained that it was necessary to compare the signature
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
She started a journal … a journal of perceptions. She likes the word annotations, but her writings are really just thoughts and observations. Some are superficial because her 9-to-5 job does not allow her time to dig deep. Others—from the “mind well”—are deep … or so she hopes. Poems and stories she has written are
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
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?
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.
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
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
Across the wilderness growing hot, I’m quickening with memories rushing to come to me in heated hardness. I run from them until I must rest. You surf in on a Pacific memory, find me and fill my mind with your sweet and sour past. I diet on the sweet parts—my weakness, always. Sweet is sugar
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
Again we are moved, obsessed, reaching out, entwining. Enter me, I plead. Sate me, I beg. Below my window moonlight covers us as we climb higher; the peak is ever closer, closing in; all the right switches are being connected. We find our sweet release in each other’s arms. We come together, trying not to
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
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 gypsy woman hovers near the stove and drags a calloused hand across her face as if to wipe some smoke before the eyes which flash between her fingers in the blackness of the room. Looking through my mind I see the history of myself: Where have the avenues in my life taken me? Her
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
“Do you want to try it? Just to see what it’s like?” She turned to face me on my bed, and offered me her trembling lips. We moved our faces, bumped noses, tilted our heads. I looked into her eyes. She wanted this as much as I did. I pulled her into an embrace. She
She started up a journal again. Not a diary; not those odd books we keep during puberty when life is full of mysteries, marvels and angst. This is a journal of perceptions. She likes the word annotations, so she has titled her book Annotations on Life. (Perceptions of a Wonderer was her second choice …
Not long after the young woman posted an announcement on her MySpace site, telling her followers she had a new job offer (one that would cause her to move again), her email box was inundated with messages telling her to go for it. She read every message, chewed on her nails as she mulled their
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
There is a saying that goes: “Love yourself before you love anyone else.” This is the reason I masturbate. After all, I’m always learning something new about myself. For me, it’s a connection to my soul—the core of who I am. But loving yourself is more than masturbating. It’s how you think, how you dress—how
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