Fall 2021 Adult Contest Winners in the Members Only Category
Judge: Susan Leslie Moore’s poetry has appeared in Best American Poetry, The New York Times Magazine, New York Quarterly, Poetry Northwest, Willow Springs, and elsewhere. She is the author of two chapbooks from Dancing Girl Press, She Preferred to Read the Knives and How to Live Forever. She edited the online magazine Caffeine Destiny for 13 years, and is one of the editors of the anthology Alive At The Center: Contemporary Poems from the Pacific Northwest, published by Ooligan Press. She is the winner of the 2019 Juniper Prize in Poetry and her first full-length collection, That Place Where You Opened Your Hands, was published by University of Massachusetts Press in April 2020.
First Place for Members Only: “We Used to Swim in Willow Lake” by Linda K. Hoard
Edged by fluff-filled cottonwoods, arching willows, this once clear lake
was home to loons, shimmering pike, largemouth bass, and my cousins and me,
As we swam sloppily to the raft, jumped off in big splashes.
We’d swim until our fingers wrinkled, then race tiny painted turtles
As they paddled across sand and squishy mud into the shallow water
where native clams snuggled in soft silt, fed on foggy phytoplankton.
I’m not sure when invasive zebra mussels first arrived in Willow Lake
as stowaways, but hundreds of brown and tan striped mollusks, stealthy as sin,
soon glued to any hard surface: rock, willow root, undersides of sailboats, rafts.
Now thousands of knife-edged striped shells encrust the shore where thick algae mats
decay. Zebra clams cluster, suffocate native clams who thrived for ages in glints
of sunlight underneath white water lilies, canoes, children swimming.
And isn’t that how it all starts? The invasion in our hearts? Finding ourselves
Alone or lost, we cling to whatever is closest or calling to us?
Declaring someplace or someone “home,” when we know it’s not?
These invasive mussels don’t belong to this lake like we did. They are as out of place
As a real zebra there would be grazing green lakeside lawn, stepping between sharp shells
Onto slick algae, lowering its huge, striped head to the lake to drink.
Poet’s Bio: Linda K. Hoard is a poet, substitute teacher and freelance journalist. She has won awards for her poetry, and has been published in OPA Pandemic Anthology, Verseweavers, Clackamas Literary Review, Paper Gardens, Coast Weekend, the Oregonian and other publications. She lives in Lake Oswego, and spends a lot of time at the coast.
Second Place for Members Only: “What Any Gay Man Over 60 Might Tell You About Pandemics” by David J.S. Pickering
He might tell you about Tetherball
Glory, about being playground champ,
how they teased him, how he chose it
as his drag name. He might laugh,
tell you to stock up on vodka, keep it
in the freezer with your optimism, buy
a durable dark suit and do your best
not to disappear. He might tell you
how little the government will think
of you, your test result and COBRA
premium. He might quote McLuhan:
the medium is the message, tell you
to pay attention – it’s all around you,
a helix singing Joni Mitchell, Come
with me I know the way. It’s down,
down, down the dark ladder: names
on a quilt, panels turned every hour,
pinwheels in a breathless time. You
walk away and he might say, Look
down. You’re already in the snare.
Poet’s Bio: David J.S. Pickering is the recipient of the 2020 Airlie Prize for his full-length poetry manuscript, Jesus Comes to Me as Judy Garland (Airlie Press, September 2021). His poetry has been published a variety of journals including the Raven Chronicles, Gold Man Review, Portland Review, Gertrude Journal, Raw Art Review, Haunted Waters Press, and the NonBinary Review. David recently retired from a 30-year career in human resources management, and he is thrilled now to write anytime he wants in the best coffee shop he can find. He and his husband, Stephen, live in Hillsboro, Oregon.
Third Place for Members Only: “A Gratitude” by Cynthia Jacobi
Today I ate a perfect summer peach
With baby- fine fuzzed skin
I placed my knife into the cleft
And sliced all around
Then held it in both hands
and twisted
The peach split with a slight suck
lnto two hemispheres
One clutching the rugged pit
With edge of my knife, I peeled
Rosy skin leaving only
flesh of the fruit
Cupped in my palm
Pale and glistening
To be sliced into quarter moons
And arranged on a blue plate
Poet’s Bio: Cynthia Jacobi lives on the Oregon coast at the ocean’s edge. She is a visual artist as well as a poet. Cynthia is serving her community as a Newport City Councilor.