LOVE POETRY WINNERS

LOVE POETRY WINNERS - 2023

LOVE POETRY CELEBRATION 2023 RECORDING

FIRST PLACE WINNER: LOUISE KANTRO

When you’re sixteen, a ferry ride’s a date.

It costs so little, there are laughs and fun.

The back and forth, it put you in a state.

You think this night could never be outdone.

The spark is there, there’s future with this guy.

It costs so little, there are laughs and fun.

At end of night, you find you’re feeling shy.

You’re both so young, you know it’s not the time.

The spark is there, there’s future with this guy.

There’s school and work, no time right now to climb.

You waver at the edge, a careful art.

You’re both so young, you know it’s not the time.

You’re friends until the time again to start.

You’ve heard about each other through dear friends.

You waver at the edge, a careful art.

You see it’s right with him your life to spend.

When you’re sixteen, a ferry ride’s a date.

You’ve heard about each other through dear friends.

The back and forth, it put you in a state.

SECOND PLACE WINNER: VALERIE SOPHER

A WOMAN TELLS A STORY

A woman tells a story about a time she couldn’t sleep

and got up in the middle of the night.

After some time, her husband noticed she wasn’t in bed

and got up to find her.

Her story continued but this is the part to remember:

her husband realized she was gone and got up to find her.

He felt her absence and woke up. Imagine someone

feels your absence, defies sleep, gets up to find you.

Imagine someone looking for you, someone

who couldn’t sleep not knowing where you were.

Imagine someone looked, pulled you back

from wherever you were, back to bed, sleep, warmth.

THIRD PLACE WINNER: DAN WILLIAMS

MY CONSTANT WIFE

She was born on my birthday

we went to all the same schools

never jealous patiently she

waited my marriage out

witnessed its inevitable demise

walking in my shadow

she watched my confusions

never criticized when I stumbled

I don’t know when but

gradually I came to feel her

presence with me everywhere

It has been many worlds together

we two have traveled upon this earth

a desirable magma of my hot dreams

or a cool wind like voice calling

to all the broken bones telling

them to rise up knitting themselves

together and walk once more

The day I die

you won’t find her weeping

in a chair at my bedside

concerned for a cold future

returning alone to a lonely house

No this love unfurls beyond

separation the single vibrant leaf

that never drops from the tree

when my eyes have finally closed

it is only so the two of us may continue

our stroll holding hands

sharing wonders and especially

laughing at Kansas

LOVE POETRY - 2023 - HONORABLE MENTIONS

DEBORAH SILVERMAN - ONE DAY AFTER YOUR VISIT

No one planted at the kitchen table.

The air is barren and bland.

Words have vaporized

into cloudy skies.

It looks like rain.

No one talking about gardens,

about sex and poetry and politics,

confiding past and present heartache.

You have told of the flames

that ravaged your mother’s home

when she was very young,

the seawater that took her intended

when his ship sunk in combat.

I now grasp why you must ask

before helping yourself to coffee

or pouring a glass of wine,

why you whisper when profane;

why your mother couldn’t abide

fuss or mess or unpredictability,

raked away dead remnants

of all pain and pining.

You have left fragrant memories

of a loving presence but

the chairs in which we sat hours

just inches apart look strangely

disarranged - sad planters askew,

their dry deficient soil growing nothing.

And here comes my sunny husband

who notices I am all talked out,

perceives a wilted longing,

wonders if I couldn’t find a friend

living closer even knowing that

you are a rare flower - one of a kind.

ELLARAINE LOCKIE - VOICE IN PERFECT PAST TENSE

His voice rode the airwaves across a crowded room like the lyrics

in “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific. Except this was a

California school function for parents. And he was one of the fathers

with a voice as malted-milk smooth as Frank Sinatra’s. His words

So you’re from Montana too washed up on the shore of loneliness

for my home state.

The bond formed a friendship for years before that voice became

my husband’s. A voice that DJ’d radio airwaves and sent women

to dab on perfume before calling in requests. A voice that became

our telephone answering machine messenger, each week shapeshifting

into new entertainment for friends, family, telemarketers

and otherwise strangers.

Some called just to laugh at his latest absurdity: He is on a European tour

collecting antique golf balls, and I’m tattooing acorns

for my latest art project. Or perhaps: He is in the backyard

capturing crickets for our chameleons, and I'm in Montana

adopting my twenty-seventh horse.

People who call now hear his last message: He will forever be

hang gliding in Hungary, and I will be collecting arrowheads in Arizona.

I sometimes call home just to hear it. Some others do the same.

But one caller finds annoyance in the voice of a dead man. Another

finds offense. Perhaps they also find fault in classic songs sung

by Frank Sinatra and rewatches of From Here to Eternity. Or maybe they

just can’t reconcile how a man so much loved and with such a gift

for humor could kill himself.

Ellaraine Lockie

JUANITA MARTIN - LOVE HAIKU

Naked in the deep

As the water moved in and

Out of our silence

TERESA VAN WOY - ODE TO JOYE

You entered our lives in 1974,

and I really don't think you knew exactly what was in store.

A house full of children of different ages and size,

a wee little tidbit to go along with your prize.

The price of a man whom you loved for so long,

A man who needed a woman... fierce and strong.

And strong you were, from that very first day.

And strong you stayed, until your 88th birthday.

Suddenly you gained a new daughter and four sons,

which couldn't have been easy for anyone.

The amount of laundry was hard to bear,

but you folded each piece, down to the underwear.

One By One The Children grew,

only to be replaced by not one, but two.

'When will this ever end,' you must've thought.

But a smile on your face was all I ever caught.

9 years later, you got me.

A feisty 16-year-old whose friends called T.

A wild one I was, undisciplined and frightened.

But the mighty woman you were, my reigns, YOU DID tighten.

'I'm taller than you,' you'd so often kid.

'Wanna bet?' I said, so 25 cents we bid.

Back to back, we stood in the mirror,

a quarter inch taller,' you laughed. Couldn't be any clearer.

You trained me and coached me as best as you could.

To become a dignified lady, not one from the hood.

You lent me your jewelry, and sprayed your perfume.

So one day, I too, could find myself a groom.

You intercepted letters that were so mean and cruel.

And made me feel protected, like your precious little jewel.

And from that day forward, our respect grew.

Yours for me and mine for you.

A friendship we had, two little ladies.

A mother and a daughter who met in the '80s.

So this poem is for you, Joye, way up in heaven.

To show our love for you, from me, my sisters, and my brethren.

LOUISE MOISES - BLOCKS, BLUEBERRIES AND MUDDY HANDS

A dozen wooden blocks clatter to the floor,

he’s knocked them down for the tenth time,

maybe more. Together, we rebuild,

stack, count, balance.

His face glows with anticipation

for the moment of destruction.

Toy bulldozer rams the fragile pyramid.

He jumps up and down, bubbles with laughter.

Bored with blocks, he digs into the toy box

for musical instruments: toots a horn, bangs a drum,

hammers a xylophone. Dance grandma, he says.

I spin around the living room. Faster, he says.

At lunchtime, he refuses to eat.

We put blueberry eyes on slices of pizza,

make monkey faces with bananas and grapes.

He eats everything; asks for a reward.

After lunch, he shows me piles of leaf mold,

home to the biggest fattest worms.

We dig them up, transfer them

to the compost bin, watch them wiggle.

Next he runs in circles, leaps over stumps,

rolls on the sweet smelling grass of summer.

He digs a hole, calls it a construction zone,

fills it with water from the wading pool.

He grins, threatens me with muddy hands.

I run away from him, shake with mock fear.

He jumps to his feet, chases me around

the yard, squealing with delight.

He is faster and more agile than me,

it’s easy to let myself be caught.

He grabs me around the waist,

shouts for all the world to hear..

I love you, Dancing Grandma!

LOVE POETRY WINNERS - 2022

FIRST PLACE WINNER: JOHANNA ELY

Dreaming in the Time of the Pandemic

In my dreams

I’ve stopped searching

for a refuge to protect me

from death,

stopped trying to find

an abandoned house

laced with memories of wisteria

or a dark cave illuminated by candle light,

my silent poems written only

for the petroglyphs.

Now I dream

with my eyes wide open—

memorize the shape of every tree,

the scent of roses bursting open

in the heat of spring,

the way the sunlight

warms my body

as I sit alone, facing west.

In my dreams,

we hold up our hands

and mirror each other,

place palms and fingers together—

promise we’ll never stop touching.

SECOND PLACE WINNER: MIA RUIZ

OUR LOVE IS A VOLCANO (NUESTRO AMOR ES UN VOLCÁN)

For Barbara J

Every night we lie together

I am starlight cascading

across your moon rose landscape

tu cuerpo querida (your body beloved)

the soft rise, as you

welcome me into your dream

I become human in your arms

a woman of long and graying hair, skin

el color de la Tierra misma (the color of earth Herself)

marked by the sun

Her passions, the heat between our limbs

the rivers where we both began

Las Amazonas, the Mississippi

converged within Her vena cava

Her heartbeat between us

the stuff of volcanoes

We have survived

the dizzying sweat and swelter

the tears frozen on our faces

as our hands turned earth and stone

to hold one another

before el fuego (the fire)

that has already consumed us

She scars Her innermost caverns

con nuestros nombres (with our names)

so Her tectonic walls of basalt, igneous rock, obsidian

know to call us

THIRD PRIZE WINNER: VALERIE SOPHER

moon-pull tide

I have no words to tell you

the poets stole them all

the songwriters hid them

in cracks of three-part

harmonies

I tried other languages

but they have poets too

so I am left with this:

there is air and water

and the moon-pull tide of you

LOVE POETRY - 2022 - HONORABLE MENTIONS

a spotted dog - Charlie McCauley

everything the worn out man

wearing a skull cap and fingerless gloves

owned was stuffed in a Safeway shopping cart

except a short-haired ragged dog

on a long leash tied to a thin leafless tree

as the man limped into Starbucks

the dog sat on haunches staring at the door

with an occasional awkward glance

towards me as i sat alone

at an outdoor table sipping an iced green tea

the shaggy old man returned

with a paper cup of water

then struggled back to hustle coffee

while the dog slurped

then sat back on his haunches

to stare at the door

his master returned with a short coffee

sat at the next table

bent over with a grunt to kiss

the dog curled next to his leg

already asleep safe as tomorrow

afterglow - Charlie McCauley

all the laws

are broken

we mingle

our fragrances

meet between our secrets

like lovers coming on

the miracle slowly cools

flesh trembles

a thin sliver of moon

lights your naked body

on the savaged bed

you know now how

to call the darkness

how to shade

our secret desires

the prayers and pledges

have all been said

i am lost

as my eyelids sink

into your hair

there is nothing

behind us

but melting stars

and an eager sun

on the rise

Even in Silence - Cynthia Patton

If I hadn’t relocated

to this land without

guidebook or map,

would not have seen

the way words swim

in shadowed alpine pools,

how intelligence boils

beneath silent surface.

Would never know

the way your face

lights with fierce flame

when supplied with the phrase

your tangled tongue

cannot produce.

Or how you sign

I love you, touching

three fingers to mine

like a kiss.

You taught

it doesn't take speech

to communicate.

Even in silence

there is brilliance.

Taste the bitter struggle

to control uncontrollable body,

muster whatever shreds

of tattered courage remain.

Your finger taps at vacant

letters, pinpoints of light

leading us home.

The words pile up,

stone by heavy stone.

Building a bridge

to a life you deserve.

Building a bridge

to a life you have earned.

Falling - Valerie Sopher

It’s like that,

gravity

it keeps you in your place

won’t let you lose control.

I broke free of gravity

when I was with you

except for the falling part

that stayed the same,

the dream falling feeling

you won’t reach bottom

the stomach flip feeling

that shocks you awake.

Then you take it for granted again,

gravity

your head won’t hit the ceiling

when you get out of bed

you won’t fall up into the sky

when you step out the door.

That’s what it was like with you,

falling up into the sky.

LOVE SONG - ALLEGRA SILBERSTEIN

In some other galaxy

my love will not be shy.

It will ripple out

like persimmon glow in the darkening sky

and I will hold you close

like a remembered poem

and only let you go

when the deep forest calls you.

If you are with me

the stones where we walk know us

they shine in our presence

like mountain redwoods after a spring rain

like the glowing green of grass

returning every year.

Phoebe: for Scarlett - Mary Eichbauer

Because I love you,

and because there is a phoebe

outside my window,

I must turn to watch

the flip and flutter of his shy plumes,

listen to his flittering song—

because he reminds me of you,

your boundless energy,

your sweet innocence,

the way your voice pipes “Mimi,”

your name for me.

And when you take the puzzle of an owl,

when you put the owl’s eyes on your face,

the owl’s wings on your hands,

for a moment

you become bird,

essence of life, of flight—

pure delight.

Shaving My Father - Ed Bearden

I start on the left side of his face.

The left side because I am right

handed. Right handed I suppose,

because he is right handed.

Swabbing the lather is easy. Easy

because it comes in a can.

Easy as I add it to his cheeks and chin,

reminded of all the times he made it

fresh and hot. This only has the color white

to mark the similarity, but in a moment it

covers his whiskers, and like the short stubble

of new mowed alfalfa disappears in snow.

I pull the razor along his cheek

splash water as I rinse the razor

and he is teaching me to work. How

to drive a tractor, know when to stop the

flow of water before it escapes, floods the

neighbor next door. I began on the other side,

for he has turned the other cheek. Turned his

face making it easy to reach with the razor.

The way he always showed me the easy

way to do a thing. How to lift a box with

your legs, how to mix paint or spray

for killing pests like aphids or thrips.

His lips are easy. Just short straight strokes.

Over and over as his mouth becomes his

mouth again. Not like that time in 1949,

the California centennial, when all the

men wore beards, their heads covered with

cowboy hats, had their pictures taken with

horses. I close my hand on the razor and

he is showing me how to make a fist, if

needed, he said. Then it comes in a rush:

how to clean a fish you have caught yourself,

how to dress a pheasant you have killed,

how to prepare green olives in a lye bath.

Snowy - Cecile Earle

Snow flakes, snowy day, snow in droplets drifting

like your name lingering between us as I whisper, “Snowy,”

curled against my pillow on the white eiderdown

like a wind-sculpted drift against the barn,

Or a drifted dune in the tropical sand of Sayulita

Or a swirl blowing across the beaches of the Great Northern Pacific.

My fingers plunge in, twirl the warm, white damp

curling hair as you drift in dreaming with a yelp, a shudder,

a sigh before surrender, one twitch, still.

I whisper again your name, “Snowy,”

press my palm on your ear, linger, squeeze,

twirl its dangle around my finger.

I bend down, lean in, whisper, my breath

caressing your name rolling wet on my tongue,

droplets drifting snowy flakes as you quiver

under my sliding palm down your spine,

your tuning fork to a deep guttural exhalation.

When I whisper your name lingering between us

in droplets drifting, your brown eyes turn, float up

out of your curling against my pillow, and your big wet

black nose quivers, catching air, the world—

before it nuzzles its furry breath drifting into my heart.

I whisper, “I love you,” as your wide eyes glance up to mine,

lids drifting halfway down—you lean in, yawn,

tongue hangs smiling in panting, that carried us floating

down years disappearing, leaving only your chewy bone carcasses

and clumpy white hairy toys under the bed.

Snow flakes, snowy day, snow in droplets drifting

like your name lingering between us as I whisper, “Snowy,”

where nothing now is curled against my pillow on the white eiderdown.

Only your bouncing shadow trails me over the hills, down the beaches,

that, when I turn to speak,

isn’t there.

The Cellist and the Nightingale - Deborah Bachels Schmidt

Beatrice Harrison, 1923

One May evening at Foyle Riding,

she brought her cello into the garden.

The air was balmy on her moist skin,

and the mossy stone bench

still held the last of the day’s heat.

This was the season when nightingales

return to the English woods–

but none had been heard here for years.

As she began the Chant Hindou,

spinning its soulful chromatic lines

into the twilight,

another song rose from the silvered shadows,

the song of a lone nightingale.

Pausing between flurries, the unseen bird

seemed to listen and then respond,

releasing coloratura trills, whistles, and warbles,

often matching her pitch, and sometimes

gravitating to harmony.

A creature so wild and free

would die if he were caged,

flying again and again

against the bars, compelled to answer

the bone-deep call of migration.

Yet he seemed drawn

to the gentle discipline of her music,

the scaffolding of phrasing and tonality,

pushing and playing against it

like Bach’s right hand,

a descant to her cantus,

or a jazz flutist riffing

over her dusky melody, while she

moved beyond all consciousness

of her long, rigorous training,

beyond the voices of mentors and critics,

becoming, with the nightingale

what she had always yearned to be,

another singer in the garden.

The Picture - Ed Bearden

She keeps his picture on her desk.

It's the two of them. Each looking

spiffy, he with a bow tie, the only

picture ever taken with a bow tie.

He had played waiter at a church

function she supported. It made her

proud and knew it was for her he

played waiter, not for Christ not

for the church spring tea. She could

tell you exactly when the picture was

taken but it's been awhile... and she

doesn't like to remember it that way,

prefers to think of it as just yesterday,

him doing whatever it was she asked.

LOVE POETRY WINNERS - 2021

Love Poetry recorded Zoom event

FIRST PLACE WINNER: LENORE WEISS

MAGIC PENNY

--FOR MY FATHER

Hours on the beach he spent searching

for pennies, dimes, quarters, for no other reason

than to say, look what I found,

and I could find a pretty penny, too, if I kept my eyes open.

We stood in a cape of clouds. I begged

for him to tell me about his childhood

what his town was like, what his family was like, who his mother

was, I knew nothing except his history

began after he stepped off the boat. Not alive any time before

I'd heard about violets growing in the old country

with petals as large as ears, about a wicked witch

who pushed villagers inside a stone oven and let them burn.

For years, I’ve searched for crumbs in the forest.

Never known anything about those who came before.

There had to be others who walked along the shore

in the ocean’s mist. I knew about

adhesiveness, a word that comes to mind,

something that’s hard to pull off

without feeling. To carry my father’s strength

forward like a penny saved inside my skin.

SECOND PLACE WINNER: DEBORAH SCHMIDT

Cherry Blossoms tanka sequence

The old man sits, calm,

hands resting on the table

before him. His eyes,

wintry and knowing, are still

the eyes of the boy he was,

the kamikaze.

He remembers everything,

the gut-clenching fear

of waiting for his orders,

his hairsbreadth escape from death,

the girl who gave him

the scarf of parachute silk

that she embroidered,

in perfect satin stitches,

with falling cherry blossoms.

THIRD PLACE WINNER : DAVID ANDERSON

Returning to the Ruins: a contrapuntal poem for two voices

Includes phrases found in Caelinn Hogan’s “Life Among the Ruins,”

National Geographic Magazine, 2018 Mar; 233(3):60-67.

tall buildings fallen, toilets and kitchens buried inside

the bride lays her hands on the groom’s shoulders

a grenade launcher sits on a casing-strewn schoolroom floor

his arms on her waist, he dances in the folds of her floor length dress

laundry hangs from a few apartment balconies

their dance is slow, the music an Arabic love song

in not-quite ruined buildings, store fronts wield fresh paint

her bridesmaids circle them, aglow in petticoat netting

one light in one room’s broken chandelier works an hour a day

the strobe light spreads colors across their faces and the floor

first thing mornings, children stand to sing in new classrooms

every day Citadel Square fills with chatter from sellers and barterers

the sky fills and lightens with broken clouds

children return from school on streets between collapsed and still-standing buildings

in the outskirts, returnees shelter in warehouses

daily, people in twos and threes fill all the benches in the public park

and come night, with no water or electricity

mosques are being rebuilt in neighborhoods of rubble and debris

they clamber in their dreams over the tourist attraction

and surveyors from Damascus traverse the city with maps to chart a future

the giant letters that spell out I ♥ ALEPPO

LOVE POETRY - 2021 - HONORABLE MENTIONS

A FLOCK OF MAGPIES - JOHANNA ELY

-for Weaving Girl

When you looked at him

across the Milky Way

it was love at first sight,

no turning back.

In that moment,

you stopped weaving

your father’s shirts

with threads of silver light,

and your beloved

no longer herded stars

across vast skies

of ancient constellations.

You wanted the boy

whose eyes were amber moons,

made love with him

in soft grasses, light years away—

forgot the passing of time,

the unfinished shirts

that no longer shined,

the stars, who like dull cows,

wandered off into fields of galaxy dust.

Meeting each other only once a year

was the punishment you suffered

for your passionate spark.

Seventh month, seventh day—

in the midnight darkness

you burn with longing,

while a flock of magpies

forms a bridge of wings

over a river of stars.

BRING THE DUST - JEREMY CANTOR

today as I got dressed to take a walk,

you bent to your sad twice-daily task,

taking care of wounds that never heal

you briefly looked as if you might, again,

apologize for crying,

but instead just told me I should hurry up and leave

we’ve raised our children;

I have written poems;

I’ve even written poems our children like

but my prayers for you remain unanswered

you’re no longer strong enough to help me

hold the boundaries keeping back the world,

which, when it has studied our defenses

and is satisfied it knows at last

our weakness better than we know our strength,

will show us, calmly, patiently, its warrant

entitling it to enter where it will,

to blow in through the door we cannot bar,

bringing wind and rain and weeds and rust

then we will only answer, “If you must,”

and perhaps, add softly, “Bring the dust.”

1967 - NANCY HASKETT

We were seniors in high school,

a weekend retreat for honor students,

a camp in Angeles National Forest.

Instead of our studies,

what I remember

is sitting together in front of a stone fireplace

late at night,

just our teacher and the two of us

warmed by the flames;

the next morning

we ran through deep snow together –

the first time you held my hand.

That night,

I was in a top bunkbed,

small window perfectly placed

to stare outside

at the magic of my first snowfall,

too excited to sleep,

enchanted

BUTCHIE - DAN WILLIAMS

He was rain soaked when I

come home from school alone

found this bull terrier pup

on my porch a gift of the storm

He was a wag of bobbed tail

a prince among street fighters

I loved the strength of him

one torn ear worn like a flag

And in holy autumn a smokey wind

the yellow leaves curling down

where father and Butchie and I set

November fires against a cold twilight

The day my father died

Butchie whined and sulked

under the walnut trees

rested his head on his paws

The day I found Butchie broken

under wheels a red rag in a ditch

remembering his love for father

I raged to think love saves nothing

DEPLOYMENT - BY RICHARD STELLA

The house is quiet now,

the busy sounds of day

surrender to the quiet night,

the ticking of the old clock

the gentle sound of you

sleeping

a lonely car in the distance.

I memorize these sounds,

I memorize the lines of

your face,

the gentle rise and fall

of your breasts,

the reflected lights of the

passing car,

the way your hair falls across

your pillow.

I memorize all this because,

I know it will be important later,

on some other faraway night,

when I’m alone on my cot,

the sounds of

Korea or

Vietnam or

Afghanistan

in my ears.

NESTING DOLLS - BY JOAN GOUDREAU

Great-grandmother

grandma

mother

daughter

generational nesting

rests inside each other

until we open the smallest one

and begin again.

I become the mother of my mother,

the daughter of my daughter.

The wheel reverses—

adult shrinks to child

blossom wilts to seed

moth shrivels to chrysalis.

Babushka holds the egg

her granddaughter paints,

both careful not to

break the shell that

holds the life inside.

ODE TO LEONA CANYON - BY LENORE WEISS

I leave my apartment and cross the street

where wild turkeys flaunt a purplish-black sheen,

in a canyon where coyotes can tease off-leash dogs to their oblivion—

former habitat of the Jalquin/Irquin tribe, members of the Ohlone,

once a resort in the Oakland hills where hotel sheets stretched

to dry between redwoods, and men mined a yellow gold, sulfur—

a place surrounded by buckeye trees that light the sky in spring

with candelabras of white blossoms where I have watched sword ferns

duel with horsetails for seniority and lose every time, places

where I have paused to converse with a bay that bends its leaves

across the stream to caress the top of my head, all-knowing;

dog-walkers and their flocks stop along the trail to swap stories

where oaks undulate as if trying to run away from hills that mold them—

Leona Canyon, through every season I have watched you change,

how eucalyptus leaves swirl and create a numbered crunching of years,

the way song sparrows balance on dried stalks of anise, and

how your creek fills with water in winter like a surprised young girl‘s laughter—

but today there are no cars in the parking lot, Northern California’s in flames,

I imagine there's no need to observe proper mask etiquette, climb

to the first, second, and finally reach the third wooden bench, sit

and pray to any god that will listen.

LOVE POETRY WINNERS - 2019

FIRST PLACE WINNER : BECKY BISHOP WHITE

FLYING START

"Gravity,"

my daughter intoned.

(She was in the fifth grade.)

"It's not just a good idea.

It's the law!"

A dining table scene.

We all laughed together.

I remember.

I remember her Junior year in college.

She flew farther from home than ever before

with a teacher-led group to China and Nepal.

Gravity. Wings taking her aloft.

Wings taking her aloft.

Adulting, she calls it.

(Having a job, paying taxes.)

Her husband fixes us Thanksgiving dinner.

She phones to ask after my health.

Her wings spread, sometimes now

I have gone under their shelter.

Sometimes now,

I remember.

Gravity.

SECOND PLACE WINNER : JOHANNA ELY

SONG IN THE KEY OF SUMMER

How easy

to praise

the beauty of this summer day--

to hum off key,

compose a symphony.

White hydrangeas larger

then whole notes

float about the fence--

the treble clef merely

a cloud placed in the middle

of a morning glory sky.

Noisy crows clang bravado--

roses shudder and sigh

like small red violins.

In the wind,

blue agapanthus shake

their wild tambourine heads.

My heart when I see you

beats a hummingbird's thrum--

plays a tender scarlet melody,

a song that I have sung,

no matter what the season.

THIRD PLACE WINNER : MERRILEE CAVENECIA

MY BELOVED

She reaches out to touch that time,

now twenty years past,

as she sits in the stranger's car

offering guidance to weary travelers

traversing San Francisco's steep, twisty roads.

"From Benicia?" she asks.

"Oh Benicia, my beloved,

he was from Benicia."

Now twenty years gone, she still feels his touch.

Love surrounds her again,

The adventures, the plans.

Together, together

running across the sand,

hand in hand, heart in heart.

Pink sunset covers them,

The purity of young love

dancing in their eyes.

The purity of young love

dancing in their eyes.

The love of a lifetime,

soul to soul,

each moment a jewel.

And they jump in the car

taking her home to San Francisco.

Slippery road or a mind distracted,

shattering glass, tumbling, sliding, slamming.

Fragile bodies grasp to life.

"I lost him," she whispers.

"And my neck broken,

They saved my life.

That famous hospital on the hill.

I am alive."

She looks at the strangers.

"I will take you there.

I will guide you

to that place that saved me,

those twenty years ago

so I may remember him,

my beloved, from Benicia.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

A GEISHA'S LAMENT - JOHANNA ELY

I am the discrete one,

who quietly enters the steaming onsen--

who lets the thin blue and white yakata

fall from her shoulders.

I am the lovely one,

whose body is a perfectly curved shell,

curling silently into itself.

I am the patient one,

who gazes out at the garden,

looking for a shadow moving

across the dark pines.

I am the sad one,

who sees only a deer

grazing in the moonlit meadow grasses.

I am the lonely one,

whose lover is a cruel dream.

In the empty pool

my hands are small fish,

shimmering motionless in the moonlight.

SUNDOWN BREAD AND WINE - JAN DEDERICK

with age, like finest wines, our love improves.

though seven decades in, it's not too late, it seems,

to dip into and taste you, smell you, touch you,

softly like a glove, the softest kid glove;

to feel your shudder as it spirals through your being,

loosing the held, the wail, the keen needing freed,

the pouring back and forth between two vessels,

symbiotic siphons, love's liqueur, ruby port.

and we rise, we rise with love's leaven,

rise into internal, intertwined heaven;

we bake, we bake us in love's oven,

slather new butter, watch, watch, beholden,

as it slithers, every crevice golden,

the mother-lode of lately-come beloved.