After breakfast the moon hangs
almost near enough to touch.
I do not resist. Cutting across the lawn
I walk west past the row
of apple trees, climb the log fence,
crush soggy leaves deeper
into the pasture grass, duck under
the next fence. From here on
I choose my way carefully through sagebrush,
scuff my shoes against yellow rocks
until the edge of the canyon stops me.
The morning the tree burned,
nothing stopped me.
I followed its shining until
I touched the trunk
and let the branches spill
their sparks, bright cushions,
catkins, clustered flowers
of fire, in my hair.
Behind me someone starts a car.
But for the moon I would go back,
kiss him good-bye, begin my chores.
Instead, half crouching, I grab
the gray branch of fallen juniper
and inch my way into the canyon.
Sandra Skouson, poet and teacher, grew up on a farm in Idaho just west of the Tetons. As an adult she has lived in many places, Japan, German, Massachusetts, Virginia, California and Arizona. Currently she writes from Monticello, Utah, in the heart of the four corners area.
When the bobcat
flashed angrily through
of Alan’s famous
we sliced the
silence to a primitive
stop and wild
.22s resting cold and
the back seat
from the car
The canyon echoed the crack
crack, crack as we fired
We didn’t know then,
have cured us
and the quiet Spring night
To read more of Steve’s poetry and see his bio, click here, here, here, here, and here.
We drink the same water the dinosaurs drank
That one up there, towards the top, Camarasaurus
That skull provided the first evidence dinosaurs could hear
We found a complete set of ear bones
–David Whitman, Dinosaur National Monument, quarry building
The climate was much like it is today, he said
I imagine them by the river
Eating grass and deciduous leaves, sycamore and poplar
Drinking water and making water
Summer flow falling off
Spring flow increasing
When they heard the springing rush of mighty waters
Did they know it was their destroyer riding with power?
Passing over, tumbling them like rocks to be displayed
In their pride
On a cliff wall, mud long gone to rock
Water circling the earth for millennia of millennia
Filling this well for Rebekah to draw buckets, making water
A friendship offering for a traveler’s camels
As her son will roll the stone from the well and make water
Available to Rachel’s sheep
As Ammon will make water
Safe for Lamoni’s herders,
As Moses will make water
Pour from the rock
As Yeshua will make water
Into wine and call fishers across the water
To leave their nets and thresh the nations
To gather the sheaves grown from the water God made
To water the earth
As I make water
And bread and memory my Easter offering.
To read Harlow’s bio and more of his poems on WIZ, go here and here.
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.