Selected Photography, Poetry, and Art Winners

by Darrell J. Wyatt

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    Temple Builders

    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
    truthfully told
    would have hurt but would have
    sooner healed
    than a few actions
    that told me

    River Tree

    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.

    Wood Finish

    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.

    [photo] Photo by Paul Mower


    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,
    our eyes.
    We’ve looked at different worlds
    she and I,
    different struggles,
    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.

    [photo] Photo by Brent E. Johnson


    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.

    First Dive

    I jumped from the high dive
    board into a painted blue
    chlorined pool
    which was so far below my
    heart began to
    scream that
    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
    still living,
    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?

    [photo] Photo by Joseph Garrard


    a sometime
    is a nevertime.
    Like when you say,
    “We’ll have to do that
    And I say,
    And we both laugh,
    even though
    we know
    we never will.

    Rich Beggar

    I am full,
    Yet unworthily
    I bend my knee again,
    Begging more.

    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.

    [photo] Photo by Greg Bohnstedt


    puddles, silent mirrors,
    plunge all above
    depth-ward, far;
    and I, at edge, look down,
    see the sky so
    far below,
    sneak quietly away,
    fearful at the thought of
    falling through.

    Wall-to-wall Conversation

    “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.

    Sonnet IV

    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?

    [photo] Photo by Jill Higbee

    [illustration] Illustrated by Michal Diane Luch


    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

    I Follow

    Straight, tall, strong,
    you stride the world,
    hurdling the chasm of time,
    leaving distinct footprints.
    I follow.
    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
    with confidence,
    For I can still see you
    ahead in the distance.

    [photo] Photo by Kurt Draper