The 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




The 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



Dreams Without End, The Poems


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

hold me
love me
make me feel wanted and alive

are my secret places spent together
meant for two
me and you

In my life
I am one with you and all I want to be
forever and always
a dream come true





Dreams Without End, The Poems

A Dreamer’s Shangri-La

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 seen
and spread my love to journey on the backs of angels’ wings

My slumber grows warm
like lovers on soft sand
I sing my heart’s desire
a melody in the shining of the forever full flower moon

Only dreamers ever travel here
and the ones who want to dream forever
never want to leave
so close your eyes and join me now
in a dreamer’s Shangri-La




Fires In Ashbarrels, Lola's 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

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

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, The 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.

Fires In Ashbarrels, The Poems

Nightfall (Old Poems Revised)

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 girls dancing—
all the knots and softness are gone from the day.

I retreat my gaze—
you were wild and ripe for life
in your short and raging glee,
now you stare at darkness and lament
that when we’re dead
no one invites us over for a drink.
No one sees the dirt beneath our nails,
or the dust that fills our throats,
or the ghosts that we’ve become.

When we are dead,
even the stones go on without us.

I promise to remember you,
if that will bring back a spark in your heart,
if only for a taste of what you mean to me.
You’ll live in me like the joyous songs of birds
rising in my soul,
overflowing when I think of you,
then passing when I follow you
into the lasting hug of this old earth.