My name is Neal Crook. After retirement, I relocated from hectic Los Angeles to serene Cambria, California. Much of my work is inspired by the beauty of the central coast. Involvement in the Cambria Writers Workshop provides the opportunity to explore my past and has helped generate “memoir” poetry. The rights and struggles of the GLBTQ community and my journey accepting my queerness, influences many of my poems and flash memoirs.

I taught high school for 20 years. I live with my husband, Michael, our cat Rufus, as well as our loyal dog Sterling.

Cleansing Filth

A magenta crested hummer
greets me.
This year, he chose not to make the journey,
but remained
in his own world of torpor.

These fog-filled days
void of touch
weigh heavy on my soul.
A sterile world 
masks and sanitizers shield,
restrictions and regulations confine.

I have endured,
lingering in my own clean, sheltered world 
of lassitude.

It’s time to get dirty,
that is in my control.

The dark-brown garden soil
of my backyard
aromatic as fresh coffee
beckons.

Gloveless,
I indulge, 
massage the earth.
A discontented potato-bug 
waddles away.
Worms embrace
their soil sanctuary disturbed.

Fingernails black,
wrist deep, 
I am cleansed by the filth.

I plant 
Papaver ‘Lauren’s Grape,’
spring sustenance for my
magenta crested friend.

Grandma, It’s Just a Nut

Grandma Alice:

apricot colored hair

the smell of Caleche

and walnuts.

My grandmother loved me, victim of bullies. When I was five, I drew pictures of brides. On visits grandma and I arose, before anyone else. She watched me draw bridal dresses. Intricate veils that shadowed large, lonely eyes. Grandma prepared Aebleskiver, my favorite breakfast. While she sifted powder sugar over the pancake balls, I yelled, “Make it snow!”

 “Keep it down; we don’t want to wake anyone,” she said and winked.

“I particularly like the lace of train,” grandma complimented my art as she ate her Danish delight.

We finished eating, bundled up and crept downstairs. I wheeled my Radio Flyer out of the garage. Our destination, a park with walnut trees. The October Berkeley wind made the morning perfect for nut harvesting. We took turns pulling my wagon. I hopped along the sidewalk avoiding cracks, while grandma pulled.

We found the park’s floor covered with riches. I indiscriminately began filling my wagon. “Only choose kernels that have separated from their husk,” Grandma reminded me.

I respectfully removed the nuts still enclosed in their casing.

Losing interest, I rested atop my meager stash. My grandmother sat next to me holding a walnut that was trying to escape its pale green encasement and placed it in my hand. “This intricate creation is very much like you. They need protection to develop, but their strength hides under their soft exterior.”

I tossed it in my pile and grabbed my wagon’s handle.

Me Submitting Poetry

Search files
Find poems

Search publishers
Locate best fit 

Read publisher guidelines
Read again

Reread poems
Edit each for the tenth time

Check poems
For grammar and spelling

Think of a better word
Replace and save

Why are my
Poems so depressing?

Open word
Attempt a “clever” poem

Realize
I’m not funny

Send new poem
To trash

Check original choices
For formatting

Spacing issues
Reformat and save again

Notice how the sunlight
Reflects off the dusty shelves

Find Pledge Wipes
And go to town
Restart computer
Locate files

Get a piece of chocolate
And something to drink like tequila 

Carefully reread poems
Once again

Send document to a friend
Ask to check for errors

Two hours later
Receive document, make changes

Save document 
Under new file

Search for
Cover letter and bio

Read
And edit

Combine documents
And save

Open Submittable
Have a panic attack

Sit on the floor
Meditate

Reopen submittable
Insert document

My finger hovers
Over the submit tab

Five minutes later
Finger still hovers

Have a swig of tequila 
Bite a lemon wedge

Grimace and
Hit submit

Lean over 
Throw-up