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This Isn’t Poetry

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Apologies for ignoring this blog. My husband got a position in employment that uprooted us to a new location. Things are still crazy while we settle into our new “digs” so I’m reblogging this favorite Elsie Gee cartoon I did ages ago, along with a promise to add some new poetry soon.

Gentry Dey

Years ago, when I was at college, I doodled cartoons. From those doodles came Elsie Gee, a spirited girl who got her name from my initials, LCG.

"Elsie Gee 01"

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Change

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A quick shout out to my friends to let you know that I changed the title of my blog. For those of you looking for My Tangerine Days do not be alarmed; my poetry is still here. Sorry to have been a stranger for most of April but my life got very busy. I plan to post about it all as soon as I get a moment to myself. Love you guys. Cheers.

Eventide Reblog

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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 boat I am an enigma from the shore.
I am carved from a young girl sleeping beneath the inward sky,
My left hand is black and white, my right hand is shadowless.
My eyes are wide open but closed to the lurkers behind dawn’s door.

The south wind blows scampering ghosts across a lonely lake,
Delicate creatures fall wild on my forehead and ask to see my brain;
There is no tomb to rise dead from…
No apples to bleed from…
No dragon and knight to claim as my own.

My old man limps away,
Stumbles to a blind horse amidst last year’s horses drinking again.
Drunk horses leave green droppings in moonlit patches of crab grass.
My old man goes home alone
And leaves me as quiet as the dark girls at rest in the black earth of silence.

Gentry Dey

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 boat I am an enigma from the shore.
I am carved from a young girl sleeping beneath the inward sky,
My left hand is black and white, my right hand is shadowless.
My eyes are wide open but closed to the lurkers behind dawn’s door.

The south wind blows scampering ghosts across a lonely lake,
Delicate creatures fall wild on my forehead and ask to see my brain;
There is no tomb to rise dead from…
No apples to bleed from…
No dragon and knight to claim as my own.

My old man limps away,
Stumbles to a blind horse amidst last year’s…

View original post 37 more words

Car Hysteria

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Today, shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with brand-new cars, sleek and fast,
with shiny chrome that rubbed their trousers
and kissed them romantically
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness.
Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats.
Stale memories surfaced and breathed new air.
Deals were struck in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee.

What she feared most kicked and scratched in the backseat
of a yellow Pantera,
wanting to grow big enough to crawl out
and seduce her all over again
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color.

She stayed away from the thing of her past
that once bit her crotch for the taste of her sex.
Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting.

To the Peeper Who Lurks at My Window at Night

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You rub against me
beyond your knitted walls
Then run from the drum of my heart
and hide your empty stares

You are wingless
in your world of mocking corpses
You bleed broken knuckles against the door to empty stairs
Your shoelaces are the noose of a hanged man
whose soles are almost dead

You break the eggs of the future
with your fists of dead flowers
You watch me paralyzed until you take me
to the past of faded worlds

Vanished courage
in your halls of feeble footsteps
You hide from the echoes of a life you’ve never lived
Your fingers bleed to open empty cameras
and nail me to the windows of your eyes

Our Differences Reblog

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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 I am short on your mind
I am the shadow of a soporiferous color
You set me aside for a long look at naked dancing girls—
Their bold vees fit well for the Valencia republic

Your lamentations bay to the one who will take your grasp
Your espousals become the smell of arid nicotine
You promise motherhood to girls offering views of their paunches
But your oaths tumble over ecstasy stains on fingers rolling dry leaves

We go our separate ways
I to a pretty face with unpainted lips
I make no promises
I am only hungry to know the heart.

Gentry Dey

You will see that I have changed the look of my site. 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 an elegant look because my blog is my quiet place where I do a lot of thinking. Outside, the country is abuzz with the Olympics and the days and nights are electrified with curious foreigners like me. No one rests and moods are high right now. Now is a time for accomplishments. Now is a time to redecorate and unwind.

The poem below was featured at my old WordPress blog, one I shared with Candi Sweet, my dearest cousin and soul sister. The poem received an award from Tom Baker (see the award below) and was featured at his blog…

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When I, a Child Reblog

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 by the snow.

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me on,
letting me dream them written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers,
letting me feel again the enticing light
that secretly guided me like the slow slipper of moss
to the doorstep of your excited hands—
when I, a child, when I could.

Gentry Dey

This is a poem about the solitude of winter, my father going hunting for deer during our November visits to his childhood farm, and I as a child surrounded by woods that seemed larger than our planet. It is also (near the end) about visiting those woods during the summer when I was older and remembering being with a boy in those woods and falling in love.

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 by the snow.

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me on,
letting me dream them written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers,

View original post 31 more words

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