Poems

I Have Seen The Best Minds Of My Generation Destroyed By Madness

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 plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.

Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
shit the highways,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—
Illusion.

Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
tragedy reduced to numbers big as vagina
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.

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Photos, Writing

Come and Visit

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. As many of you know, I deleted those old posts years ago and I’ve regretted it. Not everything from those files is well written—I wince a lot when I read my old stuff—but it’s all a record of who I was and the growth and changes I’ve gone through.

I think I miss most the comments from my followers. Those are gone forever.

Anyway, I’ve been plugging those holes, rebuilding the past. Lots of old poems, art and photographs to look at. And more on the way.

So stop by, leave comments at my About page, and don’t be a stranger.

I’ll end now with a sunset photo at a lake near my home. A perfect place to collect my thoughts and find peace.

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Poems

When I Came With You (Revisited)

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 dawn
throbbing on a trigger’s touch

You were delicate incense I lit alone

In silence
my fingers found the sweep of stars on bare skin—
a house-warmth murmur of Christmas gold when you breathed

You were a bird
whose only cry came in color in the company of starlight
whistling up the violets
in a garden wilderness of dawn’s yellow daylight
flowering into streaming pinks
and fleshed with rose petals when I came with you

Photo Credit:
 Meireles Neto

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Poems

The Poet

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
and grunted like a pig and poet
laughing behind his scars
with eagerness to taste color from afar

He took from the sunglow like an artist hunched at his easel
and painted everyone—
even the ones who had no power to imagine

He painted deaf-mutes with love that ran down his breast
ripping chords from the constellations
and opening creation’s ingenious blindness
to music that volleyed beyond his art that transcended ages
and volleys still
in us all

Photo Credit:
 John Lennon

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Poems

Dreaming Fear

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
aching
needing companionship
when I’m alone
and feeling suddenly small
and weak
caught in snares and detentions
frightened to an undesirable conclusion when I sink too low
to awaken and shift quickly into high
pushing fear behind me
if only for a moment
if not for a day or more

Photo Credit:
 Dmitry Ratushny

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Fires In Ashbarrels, Writing

Walking The Dark Road

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 assisting his sister with morning chores, going with her to and from the school building and helping her with her papers and assignments at home. Now if I could only get him to keep his shoes tied and to put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper.

Then, while hubby heads to his office, I have a small window of time to proofread and post any poetry I wrote the night before to my blog before I’m out the door towing the youngest child to day care, then getting to work by 9am. It’s all wild and crazy and a lot of fun—a rush that keeps the heart pumping and puts a smile on my face. I stay busy at my job with reports and files and dealing with accounts and clients until it’s time to pick up the youngest from day care and meet his brother and sister when the school bus drops them off at the house. Then it’s time for homework, chores, the evening meal, and family time before it’s off to bed and another day of doing the same again. Unless it’s the weekend. That’s when I unwind and pamper myself for a few hours each day, writing poetry or working on a drawing or painting. It’s a left brain/right brain, yin and yang thing that keeps me balanced.

The poetry I write on the weekends begins as incomplete sentences that I jot into a leather journal. I write using a stream of consciousness style—free-writing thoughts and feelings and ideas no matter if they flow together or not. Whatever comes to mind, I keep writing until I’ve exhausted the moment. Later, when I’m in bed and after hubby and I have tended to each other’s needs, I spend a half-hour bridging pieces together into cohesive text that isn’t stripped of its rhythmical arrangement of syllabic stresses or quantities. I often read aloud to my husband who comments whether any of the accents sound dull. He’s been helpful on rewording many of my poems. So much, in fact, that he’s the only thesaurus I go to bed with.

I have always been a stream of consciousness writer. My early poems lacked the rebuilding that I do now—they were written in one draft and kept that way when I posted them to my early blogs and websites. Following is a first draft poem I wrote when I was 14.

Your fingers are slipping
Your voice is fading
Your eyes are growing darker
but never dark
I’m holding on harder
than I’m trying to let go

You get caught in my chest
and somehow always
escape my lips

Still
I wake with you beside me
My stomach aches for you
My hands shake you awake

My cheeks flush
every time I remember
that I don’t want to forget

My tongue moves behind
clenched teeth

I catch your scent
and lose my breath

I close my eyes and
try

An artist friend calls this sketching. And she’s right: the words are sketches of something larger, whether the larger is to become a fleshed-out poem or scenes in a novel. Every wordsmith I know begins with sketches, then builds. The trick is to not destroy the sketch while you build—you want to keep the writing alive, keep it energetic with the lightning that moved you from the moment you began sketching.

The poem above is called Trying To Forget. It’s a poem of when I was at odds with my 14-year-old self about leaving a relationship and moving on. We get the sense from reading the poem that I was having sex with the person I’m writing about. The truth is I wasn’t sexually active yet, but waking to memories of a person that haunted me and kept me returning to the relationship that I wanted out of. It’s a poem packed with a lot of energy. So much, in fact, that I’ve never been able to rewrite this poem without weakening the power of its emotions.

Sometimes a sketch will always be a sketch, sparking new ideas and maybe cast some light on a road that all artists walk alone in the dark.

Fires In Ashbarrels, Poems

New World Slavery

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
day and night
to sell away her corner of the world
to anyone wanting a piece of the New World Dream.

She doesn’t dream asleep tonight,
but works to make enough money
to buy one of her nine daughters
a new dress this month,
to wear at the new school
Christian missionaries built last year
down the road from her home.
They convinced her government
to make school education mandatory
for everyone’s future welfare.

Now she sews and goes without eating
so her daughters are not left behind
when the corporate and political tsunami
crushes her world,
her life,
her heart.