Being homosexual was more accepted in the 1920s and early 1930s than in later times, although in a different way than it is today. Here, check out this video:
8 hours ago
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
THE PRINCESS AND HER PRINCES
When the sun went down the princess
went to her wardrobe and flung open
its mirrored door.
Inside were dresses sparkling
in the colors of my old Crayola box:
aquamarine, burnt sienna,
deep ruby red.
My favorite were the two
opposites: bridal white
and black taffeta.
Shoes to match every dress
and the extra dove gray platforms
with crossing 12 inch straps
just because
she had small feet and
tiny royal ankles.
She displayed all her
best assets in these
garments and accessories.
Every Friday and
Saturday night the
witch went dancing at the
Silver Star Tavern
with a handsome prince
who upon closer inspection
resembled a warty toad.
A sweating, rotten-breath amphibian
who promised to get me a
singing contract.
Or the other one who said
I had bedroom eyes.
Our fridge was empty,
my shoes had holes,
the princess witch and
her princes wore raiment
of kings with pockets
full of promises
which upon closer
inspection resembled
crumpled bits of
fabrication.
went to her wardrobe and flung open
its mirrored door.
Inside were dresses sparkling
in the colors of my old Crayola box:
aquamarine, burnt sienna,
deep ruby red.
My favorite were the two
opposites: bridal white
and black taffeta.
Shoes to match every dress
and the extra dove gray platforms
with crossing 12 inch straps
just because
she had small feet and
tiny royal ankles.
She displayed all her
best assets in these
garments and accessories.
Every Friday and
Saturday night the
witch went dancing at the
Silver Star Tavern
with a handsome prince
who upon closer inspection
resembled a warty toad.
A sweating, rotten-breath amphibian
who promised to get me a
singing contract.
Or the other one who said
I had bedroom eyes.
Our fridge was empty,
my shoes had holes,
the princess witch and
her princes wore raiment
of kings with pockets
full of promises
which upon closer
inspection resembled
crumpled bits of
fabrication.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
New Poem
Shelley Bell got salmonella
not from eggs, like you might think
but from her strange bedfellow
she plucked from the drink
twenty years ago and
made her bee eff eff.
i know! right?
and every night
they sleep together
side by side
leg by leg by leg
leg leg --
leg.
Her "friend"
is a turtle
this big! I mean
it's huge! I think
she kissed it.
Shelley Bell
got salmonella.
whadda you think?
not from eggs, like you might think
but from her strange bedfellow
she plucked from the drink
twenty years ago and
made her bee eff eff.
i know! right?
and every night
they sleep together
side by side
leg by leg by leg
leg leg --
leg.
Her "friend"
is a turtle
this big! I mean
it's huge! I think
she kissed it.
Shelley Bell
got salmonella.
whadda you think?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
poetry
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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
samuel packwood, chillicothe ohio 1710
(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
overtakes him
as his head falls to his chest
a young rider yanks the cover from
samuel’s head
white eyes! watch our sacred dance!
packwood’s clan are inflamed
and roar:
long live samuel packwood!
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
overtakes him
as his head falls to his chest
a young rider yanks the cover from
samuel’s head
white eyes! watch our sacred dance!
packwood’s clan are inflamed
and roar:
long live samuel packwood!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
BLUE AT THE LAUNDROMAT
by Sandra de Helen
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,
she guffaws.
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.
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,
she guffaws.
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.
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