The Lumberman by Bud "Weasel" Rice I saw him resting up against a giant gray-brown stump, the lumberman was pausing from his haul, hitch, heave and hump. He stood there in the sunlit forest, head turned to the sun, eyes closed, an upright, peaceful dude; his trunk and limbs glowed dun. He crossed his dirty, yellowish-brown boots on thick, gray socks, as natural as any forest creature, buck or fox. He lifted up his day-old bearded chin and took deep breaths, the air fresh in his lungs and on his skin, neck, pecs, chest, breast. He was at one with nature, if but momentarily, there barely thinking of a thing but being there and free. On Sleeping During Obama's State of the Union Speech by Wic E. Ruse Blade She was not sober when she nodded off at President Obama's oratorial State of the Union speech, that is, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, while attending said event; the fine wine was too easily within judicial reach. Glazed Donuts by Carb Deliseuwe When I was young, I used to love to eat glazed donuts up. They were so sweet—those yeast-raised rings—I was a gobbling pup. O, how I loved their torus shapes—that lovely icinged fluff. They filled me up—those oily treats—I couldn't get enough. And also too, the donut holes were fun to snack upon. I loved to stuff them in my mouth until they all were gone. In Irving's Hist'ry of New York, he mentions "balls of...dough fried in hog's fat and called doughnuts, or olykoeks"—sweet, o. O, now I can but reminisce; they aren't that good for you; still, I recall how glad I was when they were in my view. The Irate Pirate by Lew Beard Iscue He stood stalwart against the wall, his sword drawn forth and out. O, he was ready to attack, and hoping for a rout. He had a hard and rugged head upon a bulwark neck. Tattoos adorned his left-hand shoulder, next to flexed-up pecs. He was a stocky brown-skinned dude with black, short, stand-up hair. He had a sneer that wouldn't quit, a haughty, nasty stare. His arrogance glowed mightily in condescending ooze. He was a danger to all men when he was on the loose. The beard around his mouth was scrag-gle-y, but neat and trim. One never knew what might occur when one bumped in to him. Bruce Dale Wise is a poet living in Washington State who often writes under anagrammatic pseudonyms. He won First Prize in the Society’s 2014 Competition.