Three first place awards went to Jeri Moser of Salem for her poem "Inundating the Senses"; Melaney Moisan of Keizer for her poem "Silence After the War"; and Elizabeth Simson of Portland for her poem "The Mosaic Maker's Lament."  Each received a certificate, a journal, and have their poems published in the Salem Monthly.

Inundating the Senses
by Jeri Moser

About the time the hands find twelve
Below the cigarettes' smoke
Behind the bar in the corner
I see you.

Between the salty, sour torsos
Among the bottles of beer
Over the lemon and tequila
I taste you.

Inside the pit-stained arms
On the shoulders of Eternity
Around the necks beaded sweat
I smell you.

Next to the piano man with his snifter
During his last ovation
Below the babble of dishwashers
I hear you.

From the neon lights pulsating us
To the subway vibrating the ground
An hour after bewitching
I feel you.

Silence After the War
by Melaney Moisan

He told how the shell ripped
through his shoulder,
and how his arm,
nearly detached,
not quite his anymore,
dragged in the mud,
so his buddies
held it safe, until
it could become his again.
But his sweetheart
looked into his eyes
with love and said,
"I cannot
    bear to hear
               that."

So he told how he stuffed old rags
into the bugler's horn,
trying to stop
reveille one morning.
When he was discovered
to be the culprit, the ensuing fight
with the company bugler
earned them both KP that day.
And his mother's eyes
filled with tears as she said,
"It was war. How can
           you laugh at                           that?"

So he told how beautiful Germany
was, how not every German
was a Nazi.
"The people treated me
real good," he said.
But the patriots
turned away,
wouldn't look him
in the eye, and said,
"We don't want
                to hear
                that."

So a generation of men
     closed their hearts
           and said
nothing.

The Mosaic Maker's Lament
by Elizabeth Simson

 It is unbelievable, isn't it? That you
should be the one left holding the putty
knife, a bucket of tile adhesive
congealing at your feet?
You used to work in an office all day,
pencil pusher, ha! Some days you
still crave it, smooth lines of lead on
paper drawn out easy as silk from the
worm (the early one even, uneaten and
escaping). But here's the mail carrier
dropping envelopes through the slot
and the dogs clamoring bloodthirsty
though god knows they ate most of last
night's meatloaf. How did you get into
this anyway? One more section
of tiles and then you can grout, open a
bottle of wine, call your sister, celebrate.
What must the neighbors think?
Home at mid-afternoon, no child
coming off the bus, no husband to warm
leftovers, and you, with a fine coat of
white dust in your hair from the plaster,
so many broken shards, the noise and
the mess and that suspicious endeavor ­
-- the art.

Salem Monthly congratulates the winners of the Willamette Writers' poetry contest.