Contests

the mountain in the evening by Brad Canfield my grandfather had a black mountain and he picked asparagus in his garden just in front of the mountain he pulled each stalk from the dirt with his thick dirty fingers and dropped it gently into an old coffee can shunk. shunk. shunk. each stalk was a

Payday by Joshua Boettiger I figured I was a forever henchmen, slinging clay one handful at a time from an endless bank of red earth. But now, look— it’s late Fall and I got pockets lined with loot. I’m thick in the right places. The trimmers are back in town with their sticky fingers and

Living Room, Circa 1965 by Colette Jonopulos Gold drapes laced with nicotine. Mother says smoking keeps her hands busy. Father knocks the burning end of his cigarette into the ashtray I made in school. Clay animal head and tail, hollowed-out body filled with spent ashes. Doorbell rings, all our sins are gathered and stored in

Honorable mentions: 1st Honorable Mention: “The Sugar Cane at Harvest Bears Witness” by Nancy Flynn, Portland, OR 2nd Honorable Mention: “A Little Thanksgiving” by Leah Stenson, Portland, OR 3rd Honorable Mention: “Fruit Preserves in Glass Jars” by Nancy Christopherson, Baker City, OR Judge’s comments Sixty-odd poems. Some I surmise were written specifically for the contest.

In Flanders’ Yard by Dan Kaufman In Flanders’ yard, Ned blesses weeds with Rod and Todd, his Christian seeds,   while neighbor Homer, his boy Bart,   mow moral corners, belch and fart. “Okily dokily,” Ned concedes. The Simpsons conflict mostly leads to bedlam at cartoonish speeds.   Yet here dwells peaceful counterpart           in Flanders’ yard. Ned’s live-and-let-live

Affannato by Mikaela Curry Grief, a songbird in hidden heart sorrow tempo, overture start melody on exhalation finding breath a new causation acoustic anguish to impart aching notes upon her chord chart the beat your blood, your tune her art distress, yet too love’s ovation                   Grief, a songbird each dawn comes chance for some restart

Still Burning by Charlotte Abernathy While forests burn, I yearn for light, air finally free of smoke’s choking blight. Each day I wake with tentative fear, draw night’s curtain from the lingering smear still dimming my despairing sight. I grieve for trees, for wild creatures’ plight, pray for victims and brave souls who fight against