Rats. Just learned that posting my own poems in my own blog is the same as having them published online anywhere else. So, no more poems here unless they have already been published elsewhere. So sorry.
(this is the 6th version of this poem. trying to get it right)
dear god forgive my sins and take me
straight to heaven where my wife and parents
wait for me god please do not let me suffer
his head is covered
but he can hear the throng of
friends and relatives gathered on
the banks of the greenbrier river waiting
for the shawnee chief to set him aflame.
heathens! savages! let him go
but no rifles are fired
only voices are raised
clad in skins and paint
the shawnee are
dressed for this ritual
carrying spears and
torches they whoop with
the thrill of justice
about to be served hot
we will get them, father
the last words samuel hears in english
before the smoke
as his head falls to his chest
a young rider yanks the cover from
white eyes! watch our sacred dance!
packwood’s clan are inflamed
long live samuel packwood!
I’m not myself today. Seeing red
because some skinny-assed white
boy jumped in front of me – a
purple basket piled four feet high
with rags smelling of puked-up beer
and grabbed the blanket machine.
I have to wash my grammaw’s heavy quilt.
She’s laying up there in the assisted-living
with her weeping sores, dreaming of
that time she sewed her old man’s
wore out Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit
into this cover, and I’m sitting here
steamed, breathing Tide and bleach.
Usually I’d soften the old thing up,
remind her of the days we used to
run in the grass, lie in the sun,
bake blueberry pies. Sing the blues.
Instead, green ice pinches my trapezius
and makes my underwire bra ride up.
Days like this it doesn’t pay to get
out of my sleep number bed. Unless
I’m overlooking something? Is there
a soul mate waiting at the next dryer?
Not that jerk. Reading material? Only
an old O magazine. Watchtower brochures.
Alone with my thoughts. An open door
carries fresh damp air, a stranger dripping
with July rain, dropping white socks on the
grimy tile floor. A dangling chenille belt grabs
and she trips. Nearly falls into my lap.
The basket hits my face with a load of
whites. She smacks me with a laugh the
size of Texas. Sorry, thanks for catching me,
I am brought back to the land of the actual
living, no assistance needed.
I gather my grammaw’s laundry,
and carry it back to her place, in a
brand new blue attitude.
Blue Roses and Copperheads and Common Women are now available on Amazon.com in book form.
In Kindle-compatible format at Amazon.com are my short story Summer's Over and my mystery novel The Hounding, which is an homage to Sherlock Holmes and has received great reviews. You can also find either of these on my website in pdf format at www.SandradeHelen.com.
A myriad of plays: full length, one act, solo, ten-minute, and monologues. Please hie yourself to my website for excerpts, even some mp3 versions. www.SandradeHelen.com