Selected Photography, Poetry, and Art Winners

by Darrell J. Wyatt


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.

Breakup

A few words
truthfully told
would have hurt but would have
sooner healed
than a few actions
that told me
Good-bye.

River Tree

Skimming, trailing branches;
water skipper wharves,
dead leaf catchers,
paper boat trappers.
Pull them in, tree;
let the river go by.

Untitled

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

Great-grandmother

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.

Heritage

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

Swans

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,
wondering,
Was this the way I
left a life behind
to be born—
Did I jump as frightened
before,
so frightened that
my heart began to beat
and I was here?

[photo] Photo by Joseph Garrard

Nevertimes

Sometimes
a sometime
is a nevertime.
Like when you say,
“We’ll have to do that
sometime,”
And I say,
“Okay.”
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

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

Untitled

While quietly crunching through the snow,
I
came across a
lonely
footprint.
Carefully,
I
picked it up and examined
it.
Then,
I
carefully placed it back where
I
had previously found
it.
I
discovered the poor thing was dead …
someone
had
stepped
on
it.

Web

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.
Unnoticed,
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