#sarahhenry

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

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

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.

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

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    

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

Hi guys,My poem "Earthquake" was accepted by a journal this afternoon.  This magazine took it first..Here's the poem.  Sarah

In high school, I wrote to  

a pen pal from California

who made me feel alone.  

She detailed information

about her exciting world.

By then, I had lost touch

with friends much closer.

My pen pal said brightly

she went to rural picnics

all year round and urban

barbeques. She dined at

a blowout on the beach.  

I envied her good times  

in a happy social scene.

I gathered the girl didn’t          

wish to adjust her course

during this present phase

and flee from California

before an earthquake hit.

Hi all,

My poem called "Adult Chat" was just accepted to be published. It's about a fellow with a foot fetish, of all things. It's an odd poem.Here it is.

Sarah

To the man on the line,

it was a pressing matter.

He wanted to know

the shape of my feet.

What was the length

and width?

He needed to hear

the truth. So far,

it was only speculation.

He guessed my right foot

held some appeal,

but the left

had its moments.

If he favored one,

the other would be jealous.

How was my circulation?

Good?

He wanted to handle

and fondle my feet,

just so. Did I find

this subject ticklish?

Were my arches fallen?

I might be wearing clogs

or sandals, with a bracelet

around my ankle,

like his.

After four hundred

and sixteen days

on arrest,

he was going to leave

his house to vacation

in the Blue Ridge.

Virginia is for lovers.

The mountain scenery

would look romantic

in the spring,

Did I care to join