| California Federation of Chaparral Poets |
3rd Place (Formal Poem):
Fat Lady Sonnet
As Philomela went to hide
Among the slaves and mutely write,
So I call out from deep inside:
A woman in a world too tight.
The life I loved is gone, I fear.
All lost. My body is a tomb.
Hello, I'm still alive in here,
But lonely in the spreading gloom.
Unheard, I am unseen as well.
And like the hills I roll, I swell.
I am encumbered, cushioned, numb,
But smaller than I'll be tomorrow.
That's what mitigates my sorrow. |
2nd Hon. Mention (Short Poem):
Power
After visiting
the divorce lawyer
Wanda felt strong again.
She stopped in the pub
to celebrate
with some chowder and a beer.
There were oyster crackers too.
So small and so crunchy.
Wanda didn't hold back.
She chewed them up.
She chewed them up
like an army of disintegrating
little husbands |
2nd Hon. Mention (any subject rhymed and metered):
Nothing but the Blues
My sugar come to my house
He play on my guitar
I like those delta blues all right
But he go way too far
He take hold of my guitar
And he begin to strum
And I'm just sittin here alone
Say honey why you come?
He brought a little present
When he come back today
New strings for her and zip for me
'Bout sent that man away
Don't see him for a long while
And now he's lookin fine
But all he want to do and do
Is pick 'n moan 'n whine
I love the way he love me
He make me feel so good
But he done throwed it all away
For that ole steel and wood
The blues is on his lips, yeah
The blues is in his head
The blues is in his big ole heart
Where I belongs instead
My baby give me nothin
No, nothin I can use
No, nothin but these low low down
These good-for-nothin blues |
3rd Hon. Mention (any aspect of humanity):
Surrender
Hers were the feet of a warrior woman
with fierce anger at whites, my people,
who had killed her people,
destroyed her ancient culture.
When we met, we had history.
She was a Native American activist
and my reflexology client at the clinic.
My breast cancer was in the past.
Hers was now.
We had an hour. As soon as I took
her feet in my hands, she began to cry.
She cried through the whole session.
Are you okay? She said, Yes.
It's humbling to lie on your table.
She surrendered, accepting
my gift to her. I worked on her feet.
She cried, offering me her grief,
her long black hair shining on the pillow. |
1st Hon. Mention any subject, any style):
Sam
Shades drawn against
the morning sun.
Aroma of jasmine incense.
Sam lies still on the
bed under a blanket.
Sometimes his muscles
clench. We talk little.
His eyes are covered
with a folded cloth
so he can't see me.
I wear something pretty
anyway.
I kiss his cheek, leave
a True Berry lip print.
I oil and rub his feet.
That feels good he says.
I see his goosebumps.
Lou Gehrig's Disease.
Sam is losing
all muscle strength
but not awareness,
not sensation.
His breathing muscles
will stop.
I rub his feet,
like a mother or sister.
He falls asleep.
That's good.
Friday mornings.
For the rest of his life. |
Poets' Dinner winner was "Invitation" (2nd place, humor category)
Please go to http://bit.ly/9AeWTv and click on Jeanne Lupton to hear this piece |
| Benecia Love Poem Contest Honorable Mention |
What the Beach Said to the Ocean
I taste salt
I smell of you
I'm seaweed strewn
curlicued with foam
we've been meeting
in the mists a long time
You and I
under baking sun
blown by mad wind
it's been ages
but your kiss
has not grown old
you are delicious to me
tell me again
of flux and flow
You my clean
cool wetness
my adventure
my other
astound me
time after time
surprise me again
roll in
and subside
I yearn
and you return
over and over me
I'm tickled
damp at a suggestion
a kiss awash
come one more time
Ocean
whose deeps I know
come back
let those old pelicans
watch
come back
drench me
lick me clean
come back |
Here's the flash fiction piece that won Honorable Mention in the Soulmaking Contest (www.soulmakingcontest.us)
In the cottage at the edge of the village, late afternoon shadows slowly overtake the room where the old man drifts, feverish, in his bed. His wife seems to him to be the golden September light as she enters. She has brought his tea. He stops moaning, smells the strong brew. He wants to grab the cup from her and fling it, but he cannot move, and then has forgotten. Their argument began with the onset of his illness.
“You must leave the village. Go to your sister in Providence.” He means to be fierce with her but can only plead.
“I’m not leaving. I’m not afraid.”
Stubborn woman, he thinks. The witchcraze has the village by the throat. One, then others accused. Hanged. Women they knew. It’s about the land, of course. It’s all about who gets the land. And she knows herbs. Midwifery. God knows what else. He cannot leave her alone. A hag at the edge of the woods. Woman, let me die.
He says, “You must go to Carrie in Providence.”
“I’ll be fine. This is my home. I have no enemies.”
She eases him up to sip the bitter tea, supporting his pained and wasting body with her strong one in a ritual of care. She’s quietly humming. The old man gazes out the window at the hollyhocks of the woman’s lush garden, the apple trees, and beyond, the stunning oaks in the long light. He listens to the river, and is lulled, and loses himself a while in images of landscape, countryside, the hills and valleys of his wife’s body. With a start he remembers and demands:
“You must go.” His voice is hoarse, hushed, final.
Holding him, she knows he will not recover. She knows that his remaining strength is in this idea that she should flee. She knows she can let him go.
“All right, then. If you want me to, I will go. Now, rest.”
She eases him back down onto the damp pillows. He’s drifting away from the shared world, her cool palm on his brow. No more damn tea. She will be safe. He gives himself up to the fever.
The woman thinks, I have been maiden, mother, and crone, waxing, then full, now on the wane; I will be for a time as the dark of the moon.
Already a delegation is making its way to the cottage. Soon she will rise to greet her callers. For now she sits and hums and holds the old man’s hand in the stretching light. |