Herland Sister Resources

This month we are pleased to present a sampling of the poetry submitted by you, our readers.  There were many more submissions than we could fit into one newsletter.  So, to enjoy more of the writings of our poets, please visit our website at www.herlandsisters.org. 
  
Also, join us at Herland for Poetry Night on Saturday, November 11, at 7:30 pm.  All poets in our community, even those who did not submit for this issue, are invited to come and read their poetry to an appreciative audience.  Light snacks and beverages will be served.

There’s a hole in the clouds,
The full moon shines through.
The light makes me feel all will be well, soon.

The black clouds sweep by the light is gone.
Covered once again in blackness.

There’s a hole in the clouds,
Light shines through.
Moonlight, clouds, light, dark
All through the night.

I feel life is like that, light, dark.
A person walks in darkness then,
There is a hole in the clouds
And the moonlight shows through.
 
Tex

Glancing through this purple haze
this confused mix of pleasure and pain
you see a class clown with mysterious eyes
a wanna be bubba with the cutest smile
and though your mind is not sure
and your heart is a little insecure
you step through this crack in reality
and fall onto a bed of trust
in this deception you find a confidante
as you allow me to taste your soul
which saturates me with blinded friction
as I feel your very cold hands
quickly you see the not so innocence in my face
and question my funky emotions
wishing for a shooting star
to show you all the right answers
because I can’t relate to your immortal love
which pretty boy floyd has corrupted
this sexual goddess has stole your devotion
and now you can’t reclaim cupid’s arrow
and I don’t feel special anymore
we’re both feeling burned down
because of some cold hands
because we both do care
about you immortal love turned mortal
by me this sexual goddess
this wanna be bubba with the cutest smile
this class clown hiding in a purple haze
with mysterious eyes and a not so innocent face
  
Rebecca Harlow

Isabella’s emissary rides through the waving
prairie grasses of the heartland, his blue Castilian
eyes scanning the horizon for seven golden cities.

He rides the endless plains breathing the dust
of buffalo, dreaming of wealth, of glory,
returning triumphantly to his monarch.

He rides and rides while saddle sores
pock his Spanish butt, and cruelty
fuels his aristocratic ambitions.

Wherever he goes citizen bands trail
the conquistador column, silent as breath,
waiting and planning for the right moment,
the split second, when flint tipped shafts
might spill Old World blood in New World dust.

But, when it comes, the “let’s roll” rush fails,
the foreign intruders continue the relentless march
until every citizen is slain or subdued,
and all the monuments are erected
to honor the triumph of terrorists.

Dorothy Alexander

With no more introduction than “today’s dead,”
they stare at us from the Lehrer Report,
each static face, accompanied only by name,
rank, age, and home town:  Kalamazoo,
Eagle Pass, Tulsa . . .
Brief notice of their passing from this world,
their silence echoing in a landscape that history
has refined to myth, places faintly remembered
from old grammar school text books:
Tigris, Euphrates, Fertile Crescent, Mesopotamia,
vague and coldly distant, like the “leader of the
free world” who sent them to that place of death.

Dorothy Alexander