DEBORAH REY

The Poetry Of.
Deborah Rey.........................................................

The Front Lawn of Tara

Nothing but tears today.
Not self-pity tears,
not tears of pain
just lonely tears,
and tears of loss.

Nothing but tears today.
Tears of longing for Tara's
old, old oak trees and
green fields of peace,
and Mr Wilkes, my Ashley.

Today is too late for
tears about the past.
I must go back home,
go back to Tara and think
about it tomorrow.

Then, on the day tomorrow
is, I will take some
red, red Georgia earth
and raise my fist,
and swear to G-d.

I'll turn tomorrow into
today and gently whisper,
"Come, my dearest Ashley,
come, let's go, go to our
Tara of perfection,
our utopia of dreams.

Sit with me and mint julep
sipping, watch our
families play as if they
had always been together,
were always one."

'Rest your soul, Miss Mellie,"
you will say and
dry my tears, and dance
with me. There, on the
front lawn of our Tara.

First published in Muscadine Lines, A Southern Journal.

Night at The Blue House

Good Morning, my dearest,
good morning, Mr Wilkes.
Ah, how well we slept
together, did we not?
Spooning close,
your arm around
my virgin-white
sheer cotton
nightgown-clothed
non-virgin body.
You did not snore,
my dear, you only
- in your sleep -
had wandering
hands, searching for
the mother-of-pearl
buttons of my night-dress
and ... well ... part of
you
was sniffin', searchin',
tryin' to come home,
and did, of course.
Good Morning, my Ashley,
good morning, Mr Wilkes,
The Blue House sleeps
well for us, don't you
agree? What? Oh, come on,
Ashley darling ... no
harm in that!
After all, we once were
- it seems like yesterday -
once were
man and wife.

Georgia mellow

Yes, I will come with you
and you will love me
only with your eyes,
kiss me with music
instead of lips
caress me with poetic
words of tender
pour me a bourbon
walk with me barefoot
on the lush green lawn
and as the sun
sets over our Georgia
we'll shed our clothes
and forget about
shame.
Tomorrow,
we will call the dogs
and leave behind my elegant
shoes, my crinoline dress;
exchange that dream for
sturdy walking boots and jeans.
We'll hike up the Appalachian
trail in Autumn smell;
a deer stares back at us
the Mad Hare tips his hat.
Your mountains
your land. We step into
yet another dream,
your cabin.

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