With mallets, chisels, sweat, and blood,
Workmen cut deep the mountain’s granite bone,
And, with vision borne of love,
Beheld eternity in the rough-hewn blocks of stone.
A few words
would have hurt but would have
than a few actions
that told me
Skimming, trailing branches;
water skipper wharves,
dead leaf catchers,
paper boat trappers.
Pull them in, tree;
let the river go by.
my friend shares this fence rail,
the blue sky,
and my crisp, red apple.
His hands held tools and scraped raw wood until
It smiled in beauty. His hands bled after
Such rough work. There were tables that he built
And chairs and even tiny cradles
Of pure wood. His hands held tools and He
Was strong and rough, they thought, as He would pound
And split whole logs and scrape them raw in silence
With his bleeding hands. He left us more
Than wooden things and more than blood when those
Hands nailed Him to the wood, the wood he loved,
Wood and nails by which He lived, He died,
Pierced through by earth’s thick wood and iron nails.
I have her eyes—
strange, the likeness so near
after going through the generations.
Even from the parched photograph
I can see the dazzle of life
singing from her eyes,
We’ve looked at different worlds
she and I,
but through the same eyes.
They say she loved beauty—
to create it
to paint, to write—
then my desires aren’t mine alone.
I have her eyes.
Night’s black canvas,
A backdrop of stars,
Silently whispers to us
Of a heritage that is ours.
One hand made these stars
And scattered them abroad.
I feel with them a kinship;
I too was made by God.
The stillness, feathered in the hush of trees,
Should have carried our voices on the mist
To where they swam, figurines on glass, and
Turned them to us; easy as you turned to me
When we first met. Instead they swam away.
Sometimes they come in shades of lilac gray
As dusky as a winter’s setting sun
To cross my lake in dreams. They bring a hush
From that cold lake where they once swam,
Where we loved once, and once I turned away.
I jumped from the high dive
board into a painted blue
which was so far below my
heart began to
the water was gone,
or not real,
and I would fall until
I felt a great
concrete hurt I could not imagine.
But it did end,
and I looked up through
stung eyes and water drops
Was this the way I
left a life behind
to be born—
Did I jump as frightened
so frightened that
my heart began to beat
and I was here?
is a nevertime.
Like when you say,
“We’ll have to do that
And I say,
And we both laugh,
we never will.
I am full,
I bend my knee again,
How Scripture Reading Is Like a Cake Mix
A dash of Nephi, King David, and apostle Paul
Sifted into a chilled container and stored overnight
Won’t turn into much.
They must be mixed well, poured over,
And supplied with fresh ingredients.
Repeat often for higher altitudes.
puddles, silent mirrors,
plunge all above
and I, at edge, look down,
see the sky so
sneak quietly away,
fearful at the thought of
“Hey, look at that kid
Squatting over there
Across the room.
He’s talking to that wall!
Why won’t he talk to me?” I ask.
“I don’t know,”
My wall replies.
When sunlight probes my eyelids after dawn,
It is so hard to open them to see
This empty day and know that I will be
In empty rooms and find your shadows gone
With yesterday still close. A bitter blow
That memories now are but a thing of dust.
Tears sting my eyes with pain of broken trust,
For you are gone where I shall never go.
Sometimes a whisper comes to me to tell
My spirit of an angel loved by God,
A son of morning, light to worlds that fell,
And tore hearts with him, sound of one-third’s laud.
So comes again a thought I cannot shake—
How big must be a heart that will not break?
While quietly crunching through the snow,
came across a
picked it up and examined
carefully placed it back where
had previously found
discovered the poor thing was dead …
the walls of this house
are silver thin and see-through
they hang tension-tailored
by a master builder
decorated with rain
that slides like
drops of sunshine
and butterflies die in
the walls of this house
Straight, tall, strong,
you stride the world,
hurdling the chasm of time,
leaving distinct footprints.
Then, when my earth trembles
and I am quaking, too,
I crawl inside your footprint;
a unique refuge created for me.
Seasons rotate, winds whine,
while I struggle resolutely
from one footprint to another
For I can still see you
ahead in the distance.