My poem:

seeking

She wanted to love the jazz club, feel a buttery
affection for anyone who, in an online profile, 
used elegant adjectives to describe the kind 
of person they were looking for. In the ten
photographs allotted, four were spent on a charcoal 
terrier amidst a backdrop of flamboyant nature scenes:
a dense cluster of redwoods, somewhere 
in Colorado with a crisp, autumnal view 
of the Flatirons, a Napa Valley barnyard 
foregrounded by two robust pigs. It was 
all there—the deep, earthy wale of corduroys, 
the tousled, peppery hair, the clean teeth
in the fifth shot, a selfie taken in the middle
of a field of fat sunflowers. But walking in, 
the lighting was all wrong, the seating austerely distant
from the stage, where a complex drum set
was being assembled by an angular, sullen-faced roadie.
She was early and ordered a gin Gimlet from the bar.
It was weak, too jammy somehow, the lime absent,
so when she saw the figure entering, it was possible
the fleshy intrigue and goosepimpled optimism 
that emboldened her cursor two nights before
had already lost their juice. It was merely
the opening act. Once they introduced themselves
and shook hands, it took less than five minutes  
to feel an old acidity return, her heart puckering
in a sour wave of disappointment that turned unctuous
with a second Gimlet. She couldn’t have explained the reason
the engine sputtered, or how a steely wind so quickly dislodged
the moorings of her hope, but by the time the long, wobbly 
wail of the trombonist muscled through the middle of “Lonesome 
Old Town,” she had already balled up her coat in her lap, 
eyes shifty on the exit neon, gathering up 
the bright lie that would bridge her escape 
and deliver her to the oaky maw of her anonymous city,
where every face she encountered seemed to be swimming
with the current. Still, it was better to be lost than 
lying. Her goodbye was half-lidded; there were no promises
for a future mimosa. She slid from the frame as the second band
was tuning up. Outside, a velvety fog had coalesced. The bus was 
nowhere near. The streetlights flickered like wet minerals.
She started walking. 

The responses:

As I smoothed the velvety fabric with the palm 
of my hand, I could already envision the opulent 
gown – with me in it.  All my effort would be needed to 
stitch this elegant, classy garment and then not to walk in 

the barnyard to see my new born calf, a Jersey, with a buttery
coat and eyes to grip my heart. It sounds insane, I realize that. 
But everything depends on this creature's life and success.  You 
may think my unctuous ways are silly, considering this is

a four-legged beast.  But, I tell you, her  utterly satisfying ways
bring riches that few can imagine. By the time I groom her clean 
creamy body and accentuate the curves and complex combinations of 
both angular and curvaceous bones, her walk will win the judges' hearts.

A soul fond of bovine can swoon over the most vague but essential 
element of a golden Jersey calf.  And the right number of elements can 
win the master of that calf enough to carry on sufficiently for years 
without a hint of a structured lifestyle or tight schedule. 

- Merrylyn Sawyer

Have you noticed the slant of the sun on this August day, buttery as it falls to the earth -
I’m
driving west across state lines to meet my therapist -
My muse who runs deep and fruitful-
In a chilled car-
August’s heat still clinging to my skin -now cooled and
Crisp.
As I draw closer to my destination
with enough time for fast food
I lumber across the parking lot
through dense air-
thick with noon’s heat to pull open
the door to McDonald’s-
Like walking into a  cooler.
The first rush of chill
I follow a line for pick up
And see a kiosk on my right
to order a happy meal
like we did once for the kids.
Instead -
I choose the woman behind the counter who turns peppery
as I stumble through her robust questions plugging in my order on her screen,
And when our encounter has expired,
I retreat to a spare table-
Round enough to share-
Like my sister and I did
with the kids another day in August-
Then
- stuffed in a booth eating happy meals and colas-
Now
The walls once painted yellow give way
To colors speaking in redwoods.

Back in the day, we called her Mickey Dees and her name rang bubbly in the kids’ ears -
Then
you went up to the counter,
a tray was pulled if you were eating in,
and you placed your order
from the sign above. 
A cup was filled with jazzy soda
unless you craved a Velvety milkshake.

The delivery was fast, a cheeseburger, fries, shaken from a basket to trap the salt
To take back to my sister and the kids.
And we promise them -if they are  good, we will stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for munchkins stuffed with jam, and two coffees flavored by autumn -
But
It’s
Too late in the day,
I can tell,
the last dregs from the pot waiting for us. 
I taste its acid like the resins patient for my return at the bottom of a glass of wine.-
One August evening watching the sun fall in the west-
That’s when
I savor the memory
that holds us
Then and now
A muse making paths straight-
Kids pulling on strings of French fries
All
Held together
one August day at McDonald’s

- Amy Adams

Death is a mess

It was the most austere environment
                  I've ever been in.
The big black shiny car arrived containing
                  what we knew and didn't want to know.
I remember the crisp air, the earthy smell after the rain,
                  the wailing, my cousin forcing half a Xanax
down my throat; a neighbor shoving those dense croquettes
                  down my mouth. You must eat.
My godmother - the new widow - looked sad
                  and elegant dressed in black.
Her husband, now a shadow. The makeup made him
                  look rosy and fleshy, to deceive us
at least for that time being. A hint of a swelling still on
his forehead, from the car accident.
He looked like lee's laying at the bottom, waiting
                  to be stirred. As if at any time he could open his
eyes and be as lively as he used to be. His coffin
                  was velvety. His grave was lined with concrete –
so he won't choke underground, my cousin explained
                  to me. I'm worried then. That he'll remain tight
in there. Can he become dirt, oak? Become free?

- Patricía Diaz

The hibiscus opened its flamboyant fuchsia red petals wide with a robust and unctuous swell. If caught in time lapse, it would show its tight, structured form developing into a refined yet opulent flower.

Not to be left, out the pelargonium unfurled its fleshy cerise blooms bright and bold. They peered above their big, aromatic leaves and flashed a smile at the fat, flabby bee that was inspecting the angular foliage with interest.

The bee, more interested in the sweetness that prevailed, rather than any form of acidity, buzzed around the plant as though inspecting a cigar box; the aroma of which could discombobulate him with its chewy tannins.

As he buzzed, there was a hint of perfume from the plant, but what who could say? For sure it was not a barnyard smell but was it one of cassis? More of a clean rather than complex aroma was hitting the nose of the fat old bee.

Pushing his velvety nose into the flower he was surprised by the peppery scent that arrested him as opposed to the usual earthy tones he was used to. Not to be daunted he continued pressing his body deeper into the tulip shape of the plant. Suddenly he felt the dense, creamy nay, silky feel of the petals on his legs and back and became quite overwhelmed.

Using his laser-like antenna and lively flight, he removed himself. Flying off he went in search of more elegant offerings whilst he still had space in the jammy sacs on his legs.

Flying low over the herbaceous border he spotted the buttery tones of a food friendly creamy coloured rose. He halted on an austere rose thorn and balanced for a moment before losing his grip and tumbling into the juicy green leaves. The foliage provided a soft landing place and, shaking himself off, he noticed it was also an intellectually satisfying backdrop for the crisp cream rose buds.  

These flowers look positively toasty he thought as he swished his way amongst the stamens. Busily he gathered the lees like pollen and deposited it in his steely sacs. Then he detected a more mineral whiff and set off once more to explore.

The pollen from the racemes of lime green flowers of the grand cork oak tree was floating through the air. The oaked aroma drew the bee and he could not resist. He indulged his senses within the soft and feathery blossom until he felt over oaked and so unoaked himself and bade the tree goodbye. Heavy from his haul of pollen the big, fat bee hauled his tired self home, work done for another day. 

- Anna Guerrier

Tomatoes

Fragrant tomatoes picked from the vine, bright and bold. Opulent fruits with juicy flesh which lie prostrate in the blue and white bowl in the kitchen. Their aromatic aroma is flamboyant as I pass and lift one, balanced carefully between my thumb and forefinger before taking a sumptuous bite.

The dense acidity spills down my chin and I laugh at this act which heralds high-summer. The fleshy fruit dripping in my hand. 

And what of summer?

This season of crisp, early mornings followed by austere heat compels us to cower as though it were mid-winter. Grateful for the shelter of four walls to protect us from the sun as opposed to the biting cold. Fans whirling, doors and windows shuttered against the toasty summer winds.

We wait until the day draws to a close before venturing out once more; like a mole leaving its burrow blinking at the setting sun. Flopping down in the gathering gloom we sit in stillness, feeling the gentle evening breeze cooling our skin, the inner heat finally abating.

The pass-times of winter are more akin to summer here in the Alentejo. Days huddled inside lounging on the sofa; books piled high or sprawling where they were last abandoned; projects bubbling away in my head but, heat sapped, there they remain untended. Dogs sprawled across cold tiled floors, cats spread similarly outside the doors. Drained of energy we doze and reach for one robust, red tomato at a time to sink our teeth into. Velvety flesh, fresh with lively juice enters our mouth and trickles down the throat.

- Anna Guerrier

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

Crossroads

I got bold and went for the job in the bookstore, squeezed into the cigar box-size office that smelled of clean, crisp pages yet to be turned.
She offered her elegant hand, told me how the interview would be structured – but my mind was elsewhere, 

Soft in the dense grip of thoughts my mother fed me on whether the role would be intellectually satisfying – juicy – enough, 
And the feel of my fleshy thighs tight in the velvety chair.

It’s complex, how at fifty, I still care.

Now I’m in a silky line of traffic at a crossroads by a playground – there’s been a bump and one man makes flabby gestures to another’s steely glare and oaked disdain, 

As if charcoal-coloured clouds could coach an austere sky to beam bright again. 

Then a boy with peppery freckles and buttery hair is spinning, flamboyant, without a care 

And I remember those days, see the years of scrambling around the barnyard clutter of my brain

Fall away. I’ll turn the pages in my own time—Mature, like a full-bodied, robust wine.    

- Leanne Simmons