Amy Kitchener's Angels Without Wings Foundation
Presents the 2008 Wyoming Senior Poet Laureate


Eugene V. Shea

EUGENE V. SHEA, 82, Hanna, Wyoming, Wyoming Poet of the Year 2007, says, “We do not have home mail. . . Everybody has a P. 0. box.... Fishing and poetry are my two sins and it's too cold to fish in the winter." The return SPL champ owned a smalltown securities brokerage. He is a Capricorn.

THE WITCH OF LOMAX


I remember years ago while still in my youth
Tales great grandma told us and swore them the truth
Of the feared witch of Lomax that haunted their town
As ugly as sin and equally uncouth.

On the darkest of nights she appeared in the town.
Just a touch of gold trim on her coal black gown,
Some folks claimed she rode in on a broom.
But none were ever able to track the fact down.

That night there was a wedding in the Elks ballroom,
The Mayor's youngest son was the fortunate groom.
Prettiest girl in the town was the radiant young bride.
The final vows had been spoken when into the room

Appeared the Witch of Lomax and stood by their side.
"A hex upon the pair of you for both of you lied."
And stroked the gold lace at the throat of her gown.
Walked out through a wall like a door open wide.

"Just a crazy old woman," groom said with a frown
"Two hours to train time and we'll be out of town."
Next day we got the news on the telegraph wire,
Both dead in a train wreck while Niagara Falls bound.

I couldn't believe it the truth with misfortunes so dire.
Just a story made up to tell grandkids by the fire
Till I asked a great uncle who confirmed it as true
But to talk of it more, he had no desire.

Great Granny spoke of it often as old folks tend to do
But what really occurred, we had not a clue.
Most folks of those days were dead so we learned.
Granny died of old age for the years do accrue.

Long ago Grandpa disappeared and never returned.
Where he went to or why, no one ever learned.
Grandma lived on forever in this old house alone.
To ready it for sale is now the task of my concern.

Items in the attic on which my flashlight shone,
Junk pile in the middle but in a corner all alone,
Shoved down between rafter feet, where light is dim,
An ancient leather valise with contents unknown.

There is nothing much in it. It felt pretty slim.
I dumped the bag out, I suppose on a whim.
A long black gown with a touch of gold trim.
A long black gown with a touch of gold trim.

Eugene V. Shea
Hanna, Wyoming