Poetry by Sarah Henry

[sarahhenrypoetry]

While the Hens Were

Laying Real Eggs

Hi Everyone

The poem was just accepted for an issue about animals in an online magazine called Penumbra Online.  The poem is based on a real news story in the Trib. Here it is. Happy reading!

xxxx, Sarah

Snakes seek out real eggs.

A ceramic egg was a fake

on a chicken coop’s floor.

It smelled like a real egg.

It smelled like a chicken

with thick white feathers.

It caused a lot of trouble.

A snake dined in the coop

and had an awful surprise. 

It gulped the ceramic egg

as busy hens were laying

real eggs. The wrong one

stuck and formed a bulge.

The snake thrashed about

in a big display of misery.

The coop’s helpful owner     

caught the stricken snake

with tongs and conveyed

it to a vet in a lidded box.

A photo in a paper shows

an employee at a wildlife

hospital. A woman wears

long gloves and holds the

snake. A caption explains 

that vets performed risky

surgery on the sad snake.  

The egg’s been removed.

The healthy snake could

slither away to eat a real

egg and not an imposter.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

The Icebergs of First Marriages

Sarah Henry <[email protected]>

to me

I have attached the poem I told you about. It might be published eventually but I can't count on it. So here it is. Thank you for reading it. 

Here goes. xxxxx,

Sarah

A big plaque at an old inn said, “George Washington Slept Here.” The president had a spotless reputation. My step-grandfather didn’t. Everyone said he cheated. His awful marriage to my grandmother started when my aunt was born. Lusty affairs were not their only problem. They farmed but the bank foreclosed. The desperate husband ran off with a field hand’s young daughter. His obituary was published two years later. Soon my grandmother got married again. Her second husband practiced surgery and made a steady income. She gave birth to my mother. Nobody mentioned her first husband. I guessed that he caused scandals and sired litters of children. My aunt might have had siblings she didn’t know spread around the countryside. The three women acted as if I sat at a kiddies table instead of a table in the dining room. They were that powerful. My uncle was an academic. He married early and had a son. His first wife passed away while he did research with my aunt. The couple got married and had three daughters. During a night at their house, I observed a rack of vintage dresses in the guest room closet.

When I talked to the girls about the dresses’ former owner, they had to admit that the woman was their father’s first wife. Then they changed the subject. First marriages can cause bad problems. Not able to know about family history, I was a make-believe polar bear who sat on the arctic shore, watching icebergs calve from frozen secrets. They looked like granite. Big obstacles of memories lurked beneath the surface. Icebergs drifted past me as three generations avoided dismal subjects. It showed excellent judgement. With my family, icebergs were the products of great pain.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

The Bonfire of “The Chalk Garden”

Glad tidings. One of my best poems was just accepted today after making the rounds for years. It's called "The Bonfire of "The Chalk Garden.'." It's about a movie nobody talks abouit anymore but the poem explains it. The prompt was "Fire in the Lines" as it related to anger. 

Here' s the poem. It used to be two full pages long but by now it has gone through the mill.

Love,

Sarah

Hayley Mills plays Laurel. She swings a large torch to ignite a bonfire in her grandmother’s yard. The girl screams with anger because her mother left her father for a new husband. Now take that! The flames begin to rise. Laurel might burn the house down. This would mean a four-alarm disaster. She dances around the hellish bonfire and then the setting changes. I always liked Haley Mills. She starred in this terrific film as a Hollywood ingénue who was famous back in the nineteen sixties. While observing it, I would picture a scene where I danced around my own bonfire, swinging a torch and screaming like Hayley. I wore the same yellow shirt she did. I felt rage about my disloyal mother for a different reason. She finally vanished in a gradual death. My bonfire rose from kindling of neglect. My mother didn’t marry two times. The woman lived on a remote floor in our house. Being kept apart made us lose touch as her terrible decline dragged on. I smoldered like brown autumn leaves during five deadly years of sickness. A quiet battle for her health stretched out the real goodbye. I wanted a better conclusion, something more cinematic. Laurel forgave the mother who had hurt her and they went off together. It can happen.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

House Plan

Frederick was a pioneer

who built his log cabin.

Seneca Indians scalped

his wife and killed four

children. The attacking

Indians carried off two

more children. The log

cabin had been burned.

while Frederick was at

the mill in a local town

having his flour ground.

He came home and saw

what had happened. He

asked Captain Brady to

return the two children.

His soldiers chased the  

Indians through a grim

woods. They killed the

leader and many others 

in a successful ambush.

They took the children

to their relieved father.

Frederick built a second

log home over the ruins.       

It had a far grander size

than the previous house.

The man felled big trees

and the logs fit together. 

He chinked with mortar.

The two-story log house

had two bedrooms plus

a living room. He made

a kitchen and its hearth.

I’m merely Frederick’s    

cream puff descendant.

I was born twenty-two

decades after that man.

Although I’m living in

a condo, I still have his

DNA and wish to build

a log house of my own.

Unlike poor Frederick,

I will hire a contractor

who does all the work.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Landscape with Tree

I hope you enjoy this one. Sarah

To be the worst makes

someone very special.

Imagine the worst crook,

the worst drunk

and the worst enemy.

They’re all special

in their own right.

And the worst            

art history student?

I looked at every painting

like it was a Rorschach test

for hysteria or depression.

Logic kills imagination.

I studied a landscape

with a tree in bafflement.

What did it suggest?

Did I see a face on the trunk?

Did it possess “an owl-filled

branch” from Ginsburg?

The tree stood in a barren

field under a naked sun.

It looked withered.

I peered grimly at my book

and hoped to take a different

course for an easy B.

Others thought this course

was simple. Art history

majors sniffed and raised

their legs against my tree.

They weren’t challenged

but I could use some fertilizer.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

The Frog at Rest  

Of a night, I take the air.

Breezes rise agreeably

from pink fragrant lilies.

Bats fly straight above

the willows on the shore.

Birds retire for the night.

The shadows fill with

insect sounds. I can feel

tiny fish motoring to the

surface of this pleasant,

little pond. They stir the

water beneath my pad.

They move me to speech.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

House Plan

 I just completed my poem about Fredrick Henry.

Here it is. Onward, Sarah

Fredrick was a pioneer

who built his log cabin.

Hostile Indians scalped

his wife and murdered

their baby by smashing

against a big tree. They

burned down the cabin

and vanished with two

children. Fredrick had

gone to a mill. He was

turning corn into flour.

He came home and saw

what had happened. He

rounded up a fine posse

to retrieve both children.

The men chased the bad

Indians through a remote

woods. They killed their

ring leader in an ambush

and the others ran away.

The children were saved.

They lived to be elderly.

Fredrick built a log house

on the ashes of the cabin.

The house was far bigger

than the destroyed cabin.

The man felled tall trees

and joined them together.

He chinked with mortar.

The two-story log house

had two bedrooms, a big

living room and a kitchen

made for his second wife.

I am Frederick’s modern

cream puff descendant.

I was born twenty-three

decades after him. Even

though I live in a super

condo, I have the same

DNA. I’d love to build

a log house of my own

to certain specifications.

Unlike handy Fredrick,

I will hire a contractor.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Googling Heaven

My poem called "Googling Heaven '' was finally accepted for the Death issue of a series of poetry books. It's not gloomy. I steer away from stuff like that. Here's the poem.  

Sarah

I read about views of heaven

on the Internet. Some who

died technically wrote they

saw Jesus. He was glowing.

He walked with them through

a field of flowers and discussed

their lives. Others who died

said God sat on a throne like

a big CEO. Angels brought

the dead before him and lo!

Sinners were judged harshly

but soon forgiven. Saints had

been found innocent. All souls

would exist there for eternity.

I realized the stories told by 

survivors seemed like classic

myths spun by church goers.

If surgery fails in my old age

and doctors say, “We lost her,”

Jesus or God could appear to

signal the end. A mind does

funny stuff at times like that.

Google says it creates heaven.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Dog vs. Owl by Sarah Henry

Dog vs. Owl

If you can hear the owl—he can hear you better.

If you see the owl in broad moonlight, he is sitting plump and satisfied on a heavy branch.

If you walk a dog one night and he notices the presence of the owl—with its ability to carry off small animals in its crushing owl’s claws—the dog strains at his leash, panicked, and drags you homeward.

The dog is serious. He steps it up. His toenails spark.

The owl becomes stereophonic— owl echoing owl. The scary voice grows louder.

You arrive at home. The dog barrels through the front door. He’s relieved as when he winds up at a vet’s and sees animals in the waiting room who match his size.

by Sarah Henry

Editor's Note: This poem's short lines and staccato imagery creates a suspenseful narrative that serves as a lesson to the reader—there is always someone bigger, stronger, smarter.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

The Passenger

poem I thought would be rejected was just accepted after 55 days.It will be in an anthology in Australia with the theme of "Older." All the other writers were accepted in one to 28 days so things looked doubtful. However, I'm very happy and told the editor I think this is one of my best poems!

We were both fifty.

We took a train to our

wedding. Soon I stood

on the marble steps

of a festooned church.

I was too old for that big

service. Our track didn’t

run through the rich,

fertile spot planted by

parents with their babies.

Young families grew like

late summer’s corn crop.

We discussed adoption

and chose a different

route. We traveled by rail

through toasting deserts

and saw the Rockies.

Land was not civilized

there. The trips stopped

when my husband died.

I surveyed our backyard

and did not stand on awful

steps made from rotten

railroad ties. Twelve

flanked two terraces.

The noon sun seemed pale.

The grass failed to thrive.

We never produced

an heir. I was too old

and didn’t care.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

My Aging Car

My poem called "My Aging Car"was just accepted by a snobby magazine in Pittsburgh. It will be passed out at a reading and then sold on Amazon.

Here's the poem.

Sarah

My Aging Car                                                  

The engine starts to skip on

Main Street. I go by a bank,     

the museum and the church.

Rosie’s Garage isn’t that far

away. Knock, knock the bad                  

engine says. I right turn at a

corner and quickly slip over       

a hill. My foot pumps on the

brake which starts squealing. 

Next I accelerate and the car

manages to struggle through

a green light. I notice a huge    

toy store on the left. Rosie’s

Garage lies ahead. The place

has the allure of a lush oasis.

I happily arrive at the garage      

entrance and pull into the lot.

The tired car comes to a stop.   

The four mechanics know my  

name due to the earlier issues 

I faced with the car. The head

gasket blew. They fixed gears

that refused to shift. They had

to replace burnt valves as well    

as the worn, rusty muffler and    

the badly leaking water pump.

They fixed the dead alternator. 

Problems might snowball but

I really want to keep my low-

functioning car which I enjoy

a lot despite the hard work of

maintenance. It appears brand

new as it did once in the Audi    

dealer’s showroom seventeen

years ago. That car resembles

me. I exist after many repairs.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Fire

Hi all,

My tiny poem,  "fire" was just accepted and published by an online magazine called Five Fleas (itchy poetry). You can google the magazine and see the poem. The magazine publishes many good short poems which are 1 - 10 lines long.

Here's the poem. Sarah

Fire is smart.

It finds the cracks.

It knows things.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Since We Traveled to the Shore

My new poem has just been accepted by an anthology which wanted poems on the subject of "loss." The publisher is Australian and he does print copies. He has published me twice before. 

Here's the poem. Sarah

I google your recent snapshot.

It feels like getting a sunburn.

You look young for an older

man but your hair has turned

gray as a car we drove home

from our last beach vacation.

I’m unprepared to study you

because no one is ever really

ready to witness an accident.

Pressing on, I observe an old

man who also appears in the

photo and imagine he’s your

close brother. The fellow has

bifocals and smiles so openly

his big wrinkles are showing.   

It’s possible he’s enjoying an

excellent long life. I note you

are planning to leave or have

now arrived. A soft cashmere

coat and black tie are tip-offs.

Next I watch an old Teutonic

woman. She might be a super

snob you married. I am extra-

jealous of her. Two little girls

stand in front of my bad rival.  

I suspect they function as the

granddaughters you certainly

would have been longing for.

The females are all smiling at

the camera. You must be very

distracted. I have seen enough

and don’t want to come across

more painful souvenirs online.           

I prefer to recall our swims in

the summers at a favorite spot. 

I have walked a plank of poor

luck for over fifty years. You

didn’t really go for me much,

friends said, just to be honest.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Born in the Year of the Snake

Hi, my new poem was just accepted by an online magazine called Cacti Fur. It will be published in August. Here it is. Enjoy! Sarah

Born in the Year

of the Snake

I’m a snake with

an office. It’s my

hole. There I call

many businesses

to sell lots of oil.

I have a pint-sized

cactus with a pot

and a filthy desk.

I slide off at five.

I’ve been devious

and cold-blooded.

I faked my charges

for a trip abroad.

I imagined biting

a worker’s ankle

beside the postal

machine, making

her stockings run.

I buttered up my

boss at a Chinese

restaurant. A top

gun couldn’t tell

the stuff I thought

about. A snake’s

a creep, like the

devilish woman

in a noir movie.

I read the paper

fortune in a tiny

cookie. It struck

me as a warning:

beware the rage

of your enemies.

I didn’t foresee

certain problems.

They came next.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

French Bulldogs

I wanted a French bulldog

like famous Winston.

The dog got the Best

in Show. His handler

hoisted him upwards

swiftly after learning  

the judge’s score. He

needed to display the

fine dog he’d trained.

An audience clapped

loudly. Winston was  

awarded a big ribbon

with pleasant fanfare.        

I wanted a French bulldog

as lavishly pampered

as great Lady Gaga’s.

A crook shot her dog

walker, a scary felon.

A rough pair killed a            

breeder in a stick-up.

Thieves took a guy’s  

French bulldog from  

his vacant front yard.    

I would not leave my

own dog unprotected

like the softest target.

I wanted a French bulldog

but heard news about

the operation on their

skulls which runs one

thousand dollars. The

dogs scratch so much,

their skin is damaged.

They have infections,  

get stomach ailments

and bent spines. I felt

sorry for the afflicted

dogs with their rotten

health and lousy luck.

I wanted a French bulldog.

Then things changed.

I talked to a neighbor

when he was walking  

his bulldog. I offered

that those dogs are in

fashion. He noted the

Frenchies have really

caught on now. They

still endure the flaws      

which ruin the breed.    

The selfish sort have

tangled up the genes.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

The Owl

Hi everyone, my poem "The Owl" has just been accepted by Dipity Magazine, the big production place that published "Black Velvet" last December. They use videos and music. My poem won't appear until early February. I downloaded a Starbucks coffee menu to do my research for this poem. You'll see why. Here's the poem. Thrilled, Sarah

The Owl

Symbol of wisdom,

we enjoy him more  

than other thinkers.  

He calls to us from

a hollow oak while  

the full moon rises.

We can rely on his

shrewd judgement

and great intuition.

He says we like to

drink select coffee

at a fine Starbucks.

The owl knows his

way around. While

chasing after game,

he looks for hidden

targets and swoops

in to grab them up.

We’re like the owl

who is on his hunt.    

We crave Veranda

Blend, rushing off  

with the coffee, as    

the local smart set.

[sarahhenrypoetry]

Black Velvet

Hi, I am pleased to say that my latest poem, 'Black Velvet' was just accepted and published online by a new magazine. The magazine is called Dipity Literary Magazine. I hope you enjoy the poem. It took many days to write. The night progresses.  Sarah

Black Velvet

Black was the color

of the velvet skirt

I wore to attend

a lovely church.

A bishop gave

God’s blessing.

Black was the color

of the velvet dress

I wore to dinner

at a great hotel.

A harp played

in the balcony.

Black was the color

of the velvet pants

I wore to an art

show’s opening.  

A patron drove

a charged Tesla.

Black was the color

of the velvet shirt

I wore to lunch

in a penthouse.

It had a view

of Manhattan.

Black was the color

of the velvet cap

I wore to pose

for old selfies.

My head had

been swollen.