Night Falls by Tod Robbins

Night falls,

then recedes,

mourning sleepless darkness.

€œTempt me not, € saith the Lord God.
The spire’s skeleton reaching upward like a plea for shielding.

May is a slight way,

April an end to Chillihuani

March a crimson memory,

February a bursting crag,

and January a duality of whiteness.

Morning rises,

then proceeds,

mourning spiritual atrophy.


Tod Robbins was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, and now lives in the greater Seattle area where he attends the University of Washington’s Information School, studying library and information science. His poetry is peculiar like his worldview. He is an advocate for cooperative living, gardening, bicycling, and anything else that inspires one to love, to serve, and to build a community. Collections of his verse will be available on his personal website shortly:

To read more of Tod’s writing on WIZ, go here, here, here, and here.

*contest entry*


Once I lay my troubles aside by Tod Robbins

Once I lay my troubles aside
in Adam-ondi-Ahman,
I’ll count my friends, all around me,
new bodies at the coming
of Christ from heaven
and light from within.
Once I lay my sins behind
and bow before the peace of the dove,
I’ll count my children
by the crowns on their heads
and alight my hands on air.
I’ll lay my weary side
upon the fields of Adam-ondi-Ahman.


Tod’s bio and more of his poetry may be found here, here, and here.

Pioneers on the causeway by Tod Robbins

Pioneers on the causeway cast a light before their footsteps.
God’s heels are golden carrots leading the people to an emerald field: Feed them.
My hands are interstates, canals, dams, sewers, street lamps, stairways, and a field.



Transferring translucent treasures,

This vision carried the last to the first beam.


For Tod’s bio and more poetry, go here and here.

When God stood behind me by Tod Robbins


When God stood behind me,
I would have liked a shoulder rub.


He gave me showering light,

Rabbit dens,

Trees that turn the color of eyes,

And that sweet home hearth feeling.
That feeling you can fall asleep to on the rug,
While listening to Rachmaninoff on a Sunday evening.


To read Tod’s bio and more of his poetry go here.