An owl in spring smuggles moonlight
within the cowl of his
flight, sits on my roof,
replays his haunts from
the night before. Dreams
and I part, panels on
the roof drink sunlight,
the owl collects his cache
of sunlight that will
fire the flight of
his dreaming incarnation.
Will he dream of me in a
future reverie? That night,
I dream in silver and gold
I have a skin of feathers
the owl summons me but
my wings will not unfold.
Barry was born and still lives and works in Kingston upon Hull England. He has been reading and writing poetry for as long as he can remember. His favourite poet is Walt Whitman. He encourages anyone who is interested in poetry to read and re-read Leaves of Grass–the greatest book ever written.
I never knew you held a rosary
of lilies in your heart, or meadows filled
with songbirds in your hand, that chirped and trilled
into the night. I could not sense the sea,
or brimming emerald pools that filled your days
and buoyed you up, when morning could not find
one star. Your quiet life is intertwined
with jasmine flowers, washed in amber haze
of dusk €” and I now see your fortitude
in fullest bloom. It laces up the wall,
determined petals, glorious and small.
Their silent strength has oft been misconstrued.
While evening’s muted colors touch your leaves,
I watch them wander upward, to the eaves.
To read Karen’s bio and find more of her verse published on WIZ, go here.
Through the window, peaks,
Which to me indoors reveal
The gradient climb ahead.
Stretched muscle fibers
And in my mind, firmness found,
A peak’s vision forth.
But I stand from within an imbedded circle,
And just as sure as the front lawn sidewalks,
So do the ideals of the circle.
From the center to primavera’s fields
The ideals fruition could perpetuate,
But between, the concrete drowns,
Are the sturdy boots lost.
Wholes in man’s mind gape,
Stuffed frantically with disintegrating substance.
The meadows wave free past the gap, if there I can arrive.
A run through the fibers is now. It is outside of motive’s ruin.
From the peak, tomorrow.
The lake’s breast thickens sweet,
But between the circle and the grass,
Where what is real and what is consequential
Dry up as the newborn without suck.
Not because of the mother’s neglect,
But the son’s insisting that better ways he knows.
The lake is nourished by the canyon’s flow,
Which streams from the peaks,
By the window I see,
In the imbedded circle from which I stand.
Yesterday’s body in the field
Is today’s grass,
But the concrete body is never more.
Sean Watson is a student of Latin American Studies at BYU who found
power in poetry at a young age. Poetry to him is animism, from human
beings to the walls and meadows they inhabit. He will be spending the
summer at the University of Cambridge researching.
“Provo” is an excerpt from Sean’s longer poem titled “Primavera’s Rise on Falls Mechanical Flake.” You can visit his blog here.
God seizes winter earth
and swings her upside down
till blossoms tumble
from her pockets
enough to purchase
one more ticket
at this graceless ballet
To read Carla’s bio and more of her poetry go here, here, here, and here.