oregonpoetry

Mind Gloss David Hedges Mind in its purest play is like some bat That beats about in caverns all alone, Contriving by a kind of senseless wit Not to conclude against a wall of stone. —Richard Wilbur, from “Mind” Mind in its purest play is like some bat That magically connects with knuckleballs. No matter

Judged by Lynn Otto 1st Honorable Mention: “Missing” by Suzanne Sigafoos, Portland, OR 2nd Honorable Mention: “Women’s Day at Sauna” by Michelle Williams, Portland, OR 3rd Honorable Mention: “Facing Backward on the Train” by Dan Kaufman, Central Point, OR Thank you to all who submitted poems. Reading them while practicing social distancing to prevent the

Cradling Dad Cathy Cain I hooked up to the galaxy of the centrifuge my milky platelets swirling like stars like swifts into the chimney of night I held the dream of him the rhythm of his breath how he loved the Milky Way how he needed the stars     then the swift dark wind those stars

Framing Don Kunz        You build a world from fragments: A row of decaying Brownstones, An empty street in the morning rain, A mud-spattered, much-battered tailgate. You can’t zoom out enough to frame: That half-acre Banyan tree in Lahaina, That treaty site at Medicine Lodge Creek, That macaque colony reclining on Gibraltar. You focus on

Dawn Donuts Dan Kaufman I didn’t figure my universe then as donut shaped, a single surface torus, iced. Predawn, I’d slip the grip of her Berkeley bed for Petaluma in my postal blues, two donuts waxy-sacked beside me as I drove the arc of an exitless bridge, my fingers licked innocent, obeying what I couldn’t

Judged by Andrea Hollander 1st Honorable Mention: “South Africa: A Refugee from Lithuania Reflects on Her New Life” by Vivienne Popperl 2nd Honorable Mention: “Cold Comfort” by Carol Boutard 3rd Honorable Mention: “The House of Winter in Summer” by James R Merrill

An old baby stroller, Heaped to the sky. Bags bulged with bottles and cans, Enough to get by….                                                                                     For a few days, anyway                                                                                     she softly sang:                                                                                     “Go round Mary.  Mary, go round.” –download the PDF to read the rest of the poem Poet’s Bio Evelyn Gardner is a painter. When she arrived

Rain Jim Johnson Virginia Woolf’s sentences slide past one another like waltzing couples rising and falling in a tempo of waves naturally rolling onto the beach often visited with husband and others of her acquaintance. Now at home writing in her room she looks out on a Bloomsbury rainy evening where walkers stroll with umbrellas.