Sandra Rose Hughes

I just recieved word from, "Midnight Screaming," a poetry magazine, that one of the poems I had submitted last October was accepted! www.midnightscreaming.com My fantasy poem, "The Green Man," will be published in Volume 2, Number 2, this April. It is a piece I wrote when I was studying abroad at Oxford, and I have always really liked it. I can't include it here because they have the rights to its first publication, but I will include a poem I wrote earlier this school year when contemplating what is wrong with so many of my high school students. It's a wonderful angry poem. Angry poetry is the most fun to write, but it doesn't always turn out so well. Cramping Your Style- September, 2009 So you had a kid. Maybe you didn't "plan" for that to happen, or maybe you did because you wanted a friend. Or you wanted your boyfriend to stay with you. Or you were bored. Did you think it would be like raising a puppy? So your kid gets tired and cranky.

This humorous peice is part of my "cavy collection." I got a lot of positive comments from people in my town when this was put in the paper. A Guinea Pig Narrative Since my husband and I became married four years ago, I have been fighting the maternal-you-must-have-a-baby-right-now-or-you-will-explode urges that many newly married women feel once they are established in their new home with a caring husband. For many logical, personal reasons, we have been putting off having children for the time being. However, no matter how many persuasive, factual logical arguments I can make to myself for waiting to have a child, that doesn’t change the fact that my body and my hormones most certainly want to reproduce. So, I have adopted animals instead. About nine months after our wedding, (coincidence? I think not!) I started becoming pre-occupied with the idea of adopting Guinea Pigs. Guinea Pigs…they were small enough to keep inside, but not as tiny as hamsters or mice. My husband ha

I wrote this poem in college after I gave a few dramatic monologues with very little positive response. Lemonade When the limelight turns on, I stand in the center with a clear plastic pitcher. I pour out my heart like lemonade (sour and sweet) and I serve it to the crowd in those little dixie cups, and they sip a little, and toss out the rest as they walk out the door. They walk together and say, "pretty good," "decent," "fairly good beginning," "that was a start." When the limelight turns off, I stand in the center- all by myself, with an empty pitcher. They thought my heart was mediocre.

Here is an article I submitted to the Kern Valley Sun when I was still free-lance writing for them. They chose not to run it, probably because it was too long. I knew it was too long when I submitted it, but I just couldn't bear to cut any part of it! It might also have been a little too sarcastic for them. A Fundraising Horror Story The State of California has worked hard to make becoming and remaining a teacher difficult. To become a teacher, you must spend four years in college for your Bachelor’s degree, and two for your credential. Then, they give you a “preliminary” credential, which means they’ll let you into the classroom, but they won’t act very happy about it. After you enter the classroom, they take the brand new teachers who are completely swamped and send them to seminars before, during, and after school. This takes up their nonexistent free time for two years in a program which they call, “BTSA,” which, in my opinion, stands for “Beginning Teacher Suffering

This is one of my favorite poems that I have written. I was really trying to tell my whole testimony in imagery. I was happy with how it turned out. The Tree 9/13/09 The seed was planted in me almost before I remember. Its then-tiny hair roots spread gently through the soft childish soil in a corner of my heart. For some years it grew, a tiny sapling, Watered and cared for by my mother and father. Then the day came when the leaves on its two thin branches unfurled and tiny Bud-like fruits appeared, And I began to try to water it myself. But the only water I could find was brackish, and the weeds in the soil were ensnaring and tricky. I tried to beat them back, and I wore myself weary trying to find good water. The weeds wrapped themselves around the plant’s roots and many tendrils atrophied. I felt sure that the plant would die and I despaired. But the seed had come from such strong stock that the tap root simply waited, until the Weeds eventually disappeared. To my amazement, the tree

I wrote this poem in college after a string of unpleasant dating experiences. This poem was actually accepted by __Concise Delight__, a very nice poetry magazine. Pedestal After I have shaved and deodorized and sprayed with perfume, And wiped away all the traces of my humanity, Then we can go and dance the night away, Believing we are in love, And you can enjoy the image of me, Without the disgust of my humanity.

I really like this poem. I know it's silly and kind of weird, but it's just fun. Unfortunately, Cricket and Highlights Magazine didn't agree. The Mer-cats Did you know, my darling pet, that there are kittens in the sea? They sing a mewing mer-cat song, They sing their song for thee. They wish that you could play with them And chase mer-mice in the waves, That you could go exploring And visit Mer-cat Caves. Mer-cats look just like you, But instead of feet, they have a tail, Their whiskers are longer than their heads, And their eyes look like a snail’s. And every day the mer-cats Lie out under the sea In special mer-cat cat beds Made of kelp, you see. And did you know that mer-cats Have mer-people for pets? Mer-people swim to bring them fish from special mer-cat nets. But did you know, my darling pet, that you will never get, To visit mewing mer-cats, And their under-water pets? Because you’ll never place a paw Anywhere near the sea. You are terrified of water, Though the mer

My mother always told me I was a good writer. That's my mother in the picture with the goose. Hi, Mom! Unfortunately, the publishing companies don't agree with her. Rejection letters all sound alike. I should know; I have quite a collection. I think it's the subtext, the words read in-between the lines, that is most interesting. They usually look like this: Dear Author (You are so insignificant we couldn't even put your name on this letter.) Thank you for your submission to our literary magazine. (Did we say thank you? We meant, 'Thanks for wasting our time!') Unfortunately, your manuscript is not right for us at this time. (We keep referring to it as 'manuscript' because we didn't actually read it. We use a truffle-hunting pig named Milton to sniff out the good submissions. Milton felt that your piece was too cliche'd.) We regret that the high volume of submissions we recieve means that we can't in any way critique your work. (We're goi