Poems by Iris Elizabeth Sankey

PUSHERS

Pushers, Pushers everywhere An array of Pushers who dare… To the valley of shadows I was pushed Was caught awfully hooked Until I dreamt a stairway to heaven Renewing my life unbroken.

Pushers, Pushers everywhere Another sort I do declare Could tamper with my sanity Where would I be with conformity? Another sense I feel Psychiatrist pushes rotten deal.

Pushers, Pushers everywhere One listening ear would’ve been fair Not hard pills to swallow Holding on to my tomorrows Weaning I dare not forget I’ll embrace Holistic measures yet.

Iris E. Sankey

WRITING AS THERAPY

There’s therapy which may turn into money. For now I’m climbing my ladder for clarity of self— of people, places, and things To enjoy every good, writing therapy brings.

There’s therapy which cost money. Should I purchase what’s freely given? My therapy lets me be me. Writing is my friend—provocatively real.

There’s therapy alleviating no pain. I may rant and rave, and rain myself a storm, but with no regret, I sail anew. Venting in writing is positively therapeutic too.

There’s therapy which is one-dimensional. In mine, I see sounds, hear colors, fly— but my sanity is down-to-earth and naturally alive. I carve, reshape, forgive—make right my own pie.

There’s therapy which can make us suffer. My therapy, like family relations, transcends my will— as though divinely given. Even through tears, my therapy enlivens.

Iris E. Sankey

ELIZABETH

There was no foreshadowing— only a power against life. It captured her, spiraled her thoughts to nowhere like gray smoke trapped inside her mind, where the devil, a dancer in disguise, danced across her threshold, waving a glass pipe. Where dreams melted into smoke. She died that night, leaving behind her studious life.

Behind the scenes, her somnolent spirit was kept on high. Every fragment of the devil’s heart she knew. He was everywhere in colors, enticing more the living dead. Wild Irish Rose red, rock white hemlock chipped to crumb— he defiled anybody. Those were the days before she turned to bone.

But she was seen taken upon the mound, straightforward into “Armes Acres.” Like a broken vessel before a potter’s mighty hand, she was powerless as clay waiting to be molded by nature’s command. It was a power greater than any other— carving her a gift, inflated with life.

Iris E. Sankey

HIV/AIDS

As with chemical warfare, AIDS is a thing, a social happening. Who’s immune from it? Complex yet real, it is surely a big deal. Is sex alone the cause of it? Ever since human advances we became subject to it.

Now we criticize ourselves because of our own will. Even with the strong, there may be inner complications. There are chemicals, cocktails— callous recommendations. Let’s start a new foundation.

As a rule, zoom in on your immune— its life is in your hand, like a mighty tool. The things you crave, the things you touch— ask yourselves, “Is my body in need of such?”

Iris E. Sankey

DIANE VALENTINE

Aunt Diane I call the “Pioneer of our Family.” She was unafraid, boldly carving her own reality— didn’t come into this world to settle for less and wasn’t going to stay poverty’s guest.

“…Let’s not say goodbye,” she told her Mother. She knew her tears would soon turn to laughter. To the finish…her plans were moving— she’d entered the States, her faith undying.

She was keeper of White Houses, but held on to her good wishes, kept her pride while reaching for gold. One mean Sponsor, and she had to be bold.

Her family, church, and school…center of her life. Life in America would cause her no strife. When she became a full-fledged Nurse, more money was stored in Grandmother’s purse.

When she’d visited home following “Hattie Hurricane,” never again was our household the same. The smell of the States and happiness reigned supreme. Then she flew Big Sis, my Auntie, my Father, to where she’d been.

She was unafraid, boldly carving her own reality. She’s come this far with the help of the Almighty. “A Missionary Volunteer” in Caracas, Venezuela she is—for the Lord. With the Adventist Church, she’s a “Missionary Volunteer” for God.

Iris E. Sankey

Inspired by Eloise Greenfield’s poem, “Harriet Tubman” (Harriet Tubman, March 10, 1820—March 10, 1913)