My poem:

checkerboard

At the wedding, the DJ played “Jolene”
ironically and we danced in muddy heels yelling 
“More cowbell!” as our lavish green corsages shed
sprigs of baby’s breath and white rose. 
The sky was pale satin peach, the light
deepening so slowly in July. Everything felt semi-
precious—the ceremony when the mic cut out, the baby
who started wailing as the violinist stood to play,
the over-grilled steak and cold coffee. We were certain 
our best days were ahead, nectared with potential,
and we swung our hips like broncos shrugging off 
their riders in the rodeo dust.  

It was only after the tent came down that we 
began to understand the tender shell of the other, 
and how time would run from us like canyon rapids.
Our vacation tans would fade before the plane 
left the tarmac. We would lose patience, friends, hair.
There would be thin-sheeted hospital beds and IV bags 
dangling like tired udders. All of that was ahead, too. 

But first, the clots of dirt we spun on the checkerboard 
parquet, the lawn aerated by a careless joy we’d memorialize
in a scrapbook bearing a stained dinner menu and three-quarters
of a boutonniere. “Remember when…” we’d ask, turning
sideways in bed on each anniversary, herding some stray 
souvenir back, holding it between our teeth.

We know, now, we are no seafarers, just tourists wobbling
in a rental kayak toward a cloudy sunset. We lean hard
on our oars when the wind kicks up. There’s water 
coming in. There’s no stopping that. 
But not enough to sink.

The responses:

At the pale satin peach wedding
everything felt semi-precious,
nectared with potential.
Only after the tent came down
did we begin to understand:
time would run from us like canyon rapids.
We lean hard on our oars
When the wind kicks up.
The water coming in 
is not enough to sink us.
- Julia Thompson

Past the rodeo dust, in the Semi-precious, lavish
Green hills, I leave behind the Jolene day,
Stop on a beach of
Turbo tan and pale satin peach.

Eying the tender shells in the cloudy sunset,
The sun’s nectar yellow sets In the blue rapids of sea,
Turning the indigo ocean to seafarer Turquoise …..
The sand more cowbell than brown,

Shining and
Joyous.

- Lin Frye

The DJ played “Jolene” and we danced in muddy heels, lavish green corsages shedding
baby’s breath. Semi-precious, the ceremony: The satin peach sky. Slow July. The baby
wailing, the violinist stood to play. 
Our best days.
After the tent came down, time would run from us like canyon rapids.
First, the dirt we spun on the checkerboard parquet. 
Now, the scrapbook, a stained dinner menu, and three-quarters of a boutonniere. 
We lean hard on our oars. There’s water
coming in. 

- Tina Berger

At the wedding, the DJ played “Jolene,” and we danced in muddy heels yelling
More cowbell! —lavish green corsages shedding sprigs of baby’s breath & white rose.
The sky, pale satin peach. Everything felt semi-precious, our best days nectared with
potential. We swung our hips like broncos shrugging their riders in rodeo dust. It was
only after the tent came down, that we began to understand the tender shell of each
other, how time would run from us like canyon rapids. We’d lose patience, friends, our
hair. Turning sideways in bed on each anniversary: Remember the clots of dirt we spun on
the checkerboard parquet, the baby who wailed when the violinist stood to play? Careless joy
memorialized in a scrapbook bearing a stained dinner menu and three-quarters
of a boutonniere.

- Sue Ann Gleason

We were certain our best days were ahead nectared with potential, it was only after the tent came down that we began to understand the tender shell of the other and how time would run from us like canyon rapids.
we know, now, we are no seafarers, just tourists wobbling in a rental kayak toward a cloudy sunset. We lean hard on our oars when the wind kicks up. There’s water coming in. There’s no stopping that. But not enough to sink.

- Kevin Schmidt

We twirled in muddy heels, lavish corsages shedding sprigs of baby’s breath. 
The sky satin peach, July light deepening slowly. 
We swang hips like broncos shrugging off riders in rodeo dust.  
After the tent came down, we began to understand
time would run from us like canyon rapids, vacation tans fading
before the plane left the tarmac. We would lose patience, friends, hair.
There would be thin-sheeted hospital beds and IV bags 
dangling like tired udders. That was ahead, too. 
We lean hard on our oars when the wind kicks up. There’s water 
coming in. But not enough to sink.

- Joan Pew

The wedding DJ played “Jolene” and set us spinning
across the checkerboard floor, yelling “More cowbell!”
Certain of nectared days ahead and skies always pale satin peach
Sweetheart, didn’t we kick up our muddy heels like broncos, didn’t we swing toward
the finish line, almost forgetting the baby who wailed when the violin player stood before
The tent came down. We went on dancing after the white petals fell, losing friends, losing hair
First me, then you,  tucked under thin sheets, those IV bags sagging thint udders.
Remember that time we rented kayaks? The canyon rapids rushing.
Me and you,  leaning into the wind,  wielding our paddles,  
learning all the ways water rushes in.

- Lisa Vice

Ironically, the DJ played "Jolene", yelling "More Cowbell" as our lavish green corsages shed
tears of white rose.
The sky was pale satin peach, the light deepening so slowly. 
Everything felt semi-precious, and tasted of nectar as we swung our hips like broncos
shrugging off their riders in the rodeo dust.
It was only after that we began to understand the tender shell of time, running from us like rapids, 
fading like the tan from our skin in thin-sheeted hospital beds,
under dangling IV bags.
All that was ahead we know, now, as we kayak toward a cloudy sunset. 
There's water coming in, but not enough to sink.

- Shauna Alexander

July. We wedding danced to “Jolene,” shedding sprigs of baby’s breath and white rose beneath the slow, deep satin peach sky.

Our semi-precious ceremony,  best days ahead, nectared with potential.
We swayed our hips like broncos shrugging off their riders in rodeo dust. 

After the tent came down, we began to understand the tender shell of the other: time running, tans fading - patience, hair
and friends replaced with thin-sheeted hospital beds and IV bags dangling. 

But first, careless joys memorised in a scrapbook of ‘remember when’, turning on each anniversary. 

We know, now, we are no seafarers, just tourists wobbling
in a rental kayak towards a cloudy sunset. We lean hard
on our oars when the wind kicks up. Water’s coming in - no stopping that. 
But not enough to sink.

- Leanne Simmons

JULY LIGHT

The sky was pale satin peach, the light
deepening so slowly in July. Everything felt semi-
precious. We were certain our best days were ahead,
nectared with potential.

Only after the tent came down, we
began to understand how time would run from us 
like canyon rapids. Our vacation tans would fade.
We would lose patience, friends, hair. There would be 
thin-sheeted hospital beds and IV bags dangling like 
tired udders. All of that was ahead, too. 

We know, now, we are no seafarers. There’s water coming in. 
There’s no stopping that.
But not enough to sink us. Not yet.

- Janet Carl

A pale satin peach light pushed through a cloudy sunset
Illuminating the sky,a semi-precious tender shell.
We could hear more cowbells beyond
the lavish green bank.But our focus
was drawn to the turbo tanned rumbling river.
Now seafarers we claim the rapids,
Kicking free from the last weeks rodeo dust.
Nectar to our thrill seeking.
“Jolene steps out like the life of the party”
Rushing and rippling and rocking to the beat of the stream.

- Christine Barker

At the wedding we danced to “Jolene”
in clots of mud on our heels.

Yelling for more memories to bear in a scrapbook.

July’s sunset slowly ran deep to the sky.

We remember
Feeling precious -our best days deepening into memory
certain
our best days were ahead.

After the tent came down we began to run before we lost the tender time of patience.

Time like canyon rapids running 
To sink us.

But first we spun dirt on the floor and the lawn bore the souvenirs that we would herd to our bed each anniversary to remember.

Now we wobble in a kayak
Leaning into the wind holding the other -

Water coming in
Stopping what lay ahead-

Certain
Not to sink.

- Amy Adams

I pick up this tender shell and hold it to my ear. 
It wants to remind me of something. 
I listen hard to see what semi-precious nectar it has for me. 

It reminds me of a memory, long ago… 
watching a cloudy sunset on the beautiful beach. 
Two young lovers touching in the moonlight, 
heart’s racing like roaring rapids on a magical summer night. 
During the day we earned our turbo tans while being seafarers on my 15 foot yacht. 
Eating pale satin peaches while the juices ran down our arms. 
But, those summer nights with it’s warm ambiance… just me and Jolene, 
and her bikini, on that lavish green grass on the little island we docked at. 
We kiss passionately in the soft moonlight, before getting caught 
and running back to the boat with our feet covered in sand and rodeo dust from the ride of our lives.

We sail on to the next small town where we stop for dinner and live music. 
We danced to the Cuban Mambo where the sounds of more cowbells 
seemed a delicious way to shake the night away.

I won’t say this was the best night of my life, 
but on my death bed when I am asked to picture heaven or go to my happy place, 
this is where I will be.

- Kristin Schultz

our wedding, 

“Jolene,” 
muddy heels dancing
“More cowbell!” 

lavish green corsages shed
baby’s breath 

white rose.
pale satin peach sky, 

like July. Everything felt semi-
precious—when the mic cut, when the baby
wailed as the violinist played,

over-grilled steak 

cold coffee. 

We were certain
our best days were ahead, nectared potential,
like broncos swinging we shrugged off the rodeo dust.  

but time runs like canyon rapids.
tans fade before planes
leave tarmacs. We’ll shell patience, friends, hair.
give into thin-sheeted hospital beds 

uddering IV bags. 

But first, 

spins on checkerboard
parquet, & a lawn aerated carelessly joyfully 

our scrapbook, a stained dinner menu 

a quartered
boutonniere. 
sideways in bed on each anniversary, herding stray
souvenirs, we bite down.

as clouds fill sunsets.

- Tuni Deignan

You arrive on an ordinary day.
No spectacular entry. A cloudy sunset
framing the tender shell of your body, 
descending the basement stairs.
Your face, pale satin peach in color, but not
precious or pure or sober enough 
to be so highly regarded.
Semi-precious, maybe but the 
rodeo dust of your transgressions
has not yet settled
and the world's lavish green
has not yet returned. It's only
day 1 and every thing is still
anemic, still riddled by the 
rapids of shame.
you ente the gathering fueled by turbo tan coffee
and styrofoam cups. Jolene says it's 
got more cowbell than any amount 
of booze.
maybe.
so you entrust this stranger to be
your seafarer of sorts
as you learn to right the ship of your life
as you learn you're
worthy of nectar.

- Laura Regis