Selected Photos, Art, and Poetry: Reaching New Horizons

by Dainon Moody

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For the next eight pages, we present the blossoming talents of some of our contest winners. Their efforts reminded our judges of the pioneers who put their faith in the Lord and exercised creativity in building Zion. We hope their efforts will remind you of the pioneers and stir up a desire to start creating new horizons of your own.


Never been offered
the opportunity to bask in the beauty
of black. Now this neighborhood
is mine, each colored brother
my friend. If I stare into your eyes,
I’m admiring. If I’m quiet,
I’m observing. I will be
your best friend.
I will walk amongst
your braided children and smile
and touch and joke with them
and never see colors.
I see deep into the unique,
for we’re twins in that aspect,
cherish the thought
of you and your way of life


is eating ice cream and blueberries
with my sister and laughing
until the ice cream melts into
cold purple soup
that tastes just as good
we’re eating it

conference with Gordon B. Hinckley

apprehensively hushed
everyone sits.
ours is the eager silence
of expectancy
and i imbibe freely
of the Spirit
that is passed around.
the moment comes
and in enters the man.
a man with understanding in his eyes
power in his voice
compassion in his face
and our quiet changes
to the grateful stillness
of fulfillment.

[photo] Photo by Rachel Gray

[illustration] Art by Bryan Drury

[photo] Photo by Elizabeth McPhie

[photo] Photo by Rachel Gray


like a rising sun’s
over a troubled sea,
His teachings are
in everything i see.
and being the True Son
He’s proven Himself
to be,
He will soon return again
to reign o’er this troubled world
and me.


Arms out, filling my sails
with a spirit that lifts me above
rooftops, skims my head on ceiling
clouds, my heart a feather, hymns
playing in my mind out loud.

Shopping for the Perfect Person

I’m sorry,
we seem
to be out
of stock.

Home from Utah

The fields swirled by
in rushing torrents of green,
sweeping away farmhouses
and lopsided shacks,
the pavement pulling me homeward,
but away from him.
I said I wouldn’t cry,
it was only two years,
and for a noble cause.
I said I wouldn’t cry,
but you have to
for someone
who pushed you on the tire swings,
who taught you how to laugh,
who interrogated every suitor.
You have to,
when you see your
big brother
grown up.

[photos] Photography by Elizabeth McPhie

[illustration] Illustrated by Bryan Drury

[photo] Photo by Rachel Gray

Watching My Father Pass the Sacrament Because There Weren’t Enough Deacons

His hands
are not soft.
His face
is not clean
or clean shaven.
His hair sticks to his forehead
for the spring is still wet and mewling.
He does not look strong
as he gives me the bread.
He is not powerful
passing the water.
But his eyes
His eyes
have seen a private suffering
when the spring was still wet and
And I can rely on no better strength
than that.

[illustration] Illustrated by Kim Mickelson

[photo] Photo by Rachel Gray

[photo] Photo by Elizabeth McPhie


Words waving through
screen doors and past
country’s boundaries,
finding the Philippines
in California, seeing
missing teeth and words
that find my smile.
Words that sounded
foreign before, when I
chewed on my tongue
and wrote down run ons,
struggling as a shadow
and ears for eight months.
Words I only wait
to use, humor that
I’ve learned and love,
remain in my mouth
so long they get rusty.
Words break boundaries
and I’m equipped with
a chisel.

Dec. 23

I walk bundled down the street
with 100 other scarfed and mittened
last-minute shoppers.
Lights adorn the lampposts,
music plays at every door,
the falling snow having just enough
to collect on my eyelashes.
I see a crowd of people shivering
on a street corner
waiting for the light to turn green
And I know it is not out of neglect
that one man wears no coat or gloves.
Someone beside him turns
takes off his coat
puts it around the bent man’s
and says, almost
Merry Christmas.
And the light in that man’s eyes
outshone every electric bulb
on the street.
I wish every day could be Merry

Moroni’s Footsteps

In a forest swept silent
By the arm of judgment,
Snow falls like tears
For a destroyed nation.
Bold, but alone,
A man who knows his mission
Walks along,
Preparing to bury the truth,
And let the silence
Pass over the earth,
Until it is broken
By a voice from the dust.


In a room
of mirrors,
nothing ends.
Eternally Together.
We waited,
faith as our
We walked the
path that
asked us
to, and
now we
In a room
full of


Is a warm blanket wrapped about
My shoulders as I sit next to the fire;
It is a standard I feel compelled to
Show to the world—
The undaunted city placed atop a hill,
Bringing all in from the frozen night.
Come, sit next to me
And share of His warmth.

fleeting winter

crystal foam
floats from a
celestial sea
of blue
to form a
white ocean
of mortality


Up I came through the world—
A new and sometimes shining face.
Led by those more experienced,
Those who knew the world well.
There were joyous times,
Times that were colored the most beautiful oranges,
With bright red lipstick smiles
And the happy yellow sunshine.
Then there were other times
When I saw through my hollow tears the color
Indigo—the deepest shade of blue.

[illustration] Illustrated by Jason Jacobs

[photos] Photography by Justin Rowe

No Falta Nada

There is a softness of light in
the eastern horizon of my soul,
it is glowing pink and orange,
and I can feel the
warmth of a sunrise.

[photos] Photo illustrations by Pat Gerber and Scott Welty; photography by Maren Mecham