Tag Archives: poems mentioning spring

Walking to the Moon by Sandra Skouson

After breakfast the moon hangs
almost near enough to touch.
I do not resist.  Cutting across the lawn
I walk west past the row
of apple trees, climb the log fence,
crush soggy leaves deeper
into the pasture grass, duck under
the next fence.  From here on
I choose my way carefully through sagebrush,
scuff my shoes against yellow rocks
until the edge of the canyon stops me.

The morning the tree burned,
nothing stopped me.
I followed its shining until
I touched the trunk
and let the branches spill
their sparks, bright cushions,
catkins, clustered flowers
of fire, in my hair.

Behind me someone starts a car.
But for the moon I would go back,
kiss him good-bye, begin my chores.
Instead, half crouching, I grab
the gray branch of fallen juniper
and inch my way into the canyon.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sandra Skouson, poet and teacher, grew up on a farm in Idaho just west of the Tetons.  As an adult she has lived in many places, Japan, German, Massachusetts, Virginia, California and Arizona.  Currently she writes from Monticello, Utah, in the heart of the four corners area.

*Competition entry*

Bobcat by Steven L. Peck

When the bobcat
flashed angrily through
the headlights
of Alan’s famous
Mustang,
we sliced the
silence to a primitive
stop and wild
eyed,
grabbed the
.22s resting cold and
anxious on
the back seat

Like
hunting hawks
dove
from the car
wings folded

The canyon echoed the crack
crack, crack as we fired
at shadows

We didn’t know then,
the cat
could
have cured us
and the quiet Spring night
soothed
our burning

________________________________________________________________

To read more of Steve’s poetry and see his bio, click here, here, here, here, and here.

*contest entry*

Dinosaur Water by Harlow S. Clark

We drink the same water the dinosaurs drank
–News Item

That one up there, towards the top, Camarasaurus
That skull provided the first evidence dinosaurs could hear
We found a complete set of ear bones

–David Whitman, Dinosaur National Monument, quarry building

The climate was much like it is today, he said
I imagine them by the river
Eating grass and deciduous leaves, sycamore and poplar
Drinking water and making water

Summer flow falling off
Spring flow increasing
When they heard the springing rush of mighty waters
Did they know it was their destroyer riding with power?

Passing over, tumbling them like rocks to be displayed
In their pride
On a cliff wall, mud long gone to rock
Water circling the earth for millennia of millennia

Filling this well for Rebekah to draw buckets, making water
A friendship offering for a traveler’s camels
As her son will roll the stone from the well and make water
Available to Rachel’s sheep
As Ammon will make water
Safe for Lamoni’s herders,
As Moses will make water
Pour from the rock
As Yeshua will make water
Into wine and call fishers across the water
To leave their nets and thresh the nations
To gather the sheaves grown from the water God made
To water the earth
As I make water
And bread and memory my Easter offering.
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To read Harlow’s bio and more of his poems on WIZ, go here and here.

*contest entry*

Owl by Barry Carter

An owl in spring smuggles moonlight
within the cowl of his
flight, sits on my roof,
replays his haunts from
the night before. Dreams
and I part, panels on
the roof drink sunlight,
the owl collects his cache
of sunlight that will
fire the flight of
his dreaming incarnation.
Will he dream of me in a
future reverie? That night,
I dream in silver and gold
I have a skin of feathers
the owl summons me but
my wings will not unfold.

______________________________________________________________________

Barry was born and still lives and works in Kingston upon Hull England. He has been reading and writing poetry for as long as he can remember.  His favourite poet is Walt Whitman. He encourages anyone who is interested in poetry to read and re-read Leaves of Grass–the greatest book ever written.

*contest entry*

Deer in the City by Patricia Karamesines

When winter beats its broad path
across fields, kneeling the weed
and setting, too, over sage and oak,
deep white pavement;
after wasps and beetles
have borne off, crumb by crumb,
rusted plum and apple pulp
so far beyond the last gather
the ground where they fell
no longer smells of cider;
when there is light instead of leaf
on the branch, star instead of pear,
deer walk as far into the city at night
as the park, smelling out sapling tips
and the palatable rare hedge.

Deer in the city after dusk—
they are not owls living in night’s
ruins above the streetlamps,
or feral cats that brawl
in the crawlspace beneath parked cars,
or rats, rummaging dim-lit alleys
for day’s spoils and parings.
Deer step as bare-legged
as strayed nymphs
though harrowed snow.
Their tracks form
in neighborhood schoolyards
like mushroom rings.

When the thaw greens
the high cold country
and suppling twigs may be bitten,
spring’s flower fleece shorn;
when snowmelt wears away lack,
releasing odor and fiber;
and shut trees opening
drop their first pale shadows,
they who have risked
discovery by hunger,
who walked through yard clutter
like pheasants through cut hay,
will go into forests of thunder
on mountaintops,
up onto aging meadows,
where they become themselves:
wild brown deer with black hooves.

____________________________________________________________________

Patricia roams and writes in southeastern Utah. She has received several literary awards for poetry, essays, and fiction, including from Brigham Young University, the University of Arizona, the Utah Arts Council, and the Utah Wilderness Association. A poet, essayist, and novelist, she has published in literary journals and popular magazines locally and nationally. Her novel The Pictograph Murders (2004 Signature Books) won the 2004 Association for Mormon Letters’ Award for the Novel. She writes sometimes for the Mormon arts and culture blog A Motley Vision, but her heart belongs to AMV’s companion blog Wilderness Interface Zone , a dream coming truer and truer.

*non-contest submission*

“Girl Without a Mother to Her Big Brother” by Sandra Skouson

I never saw so many frogs;
You didn’t either. We walked
the tracks, sometimes stepping
from tie to tie, sometimes
walking the rail–holding
our hands out as if
for balance.  It was all show.
Our balance was never
in question.  Besides the danger
ran in the other direction,
along the bridge.  We
could look down, almost dizzy,
and see the river.  But even there,
we didn’t need our hands–
only our feet
and our knowing the way.

They were in the hole
under the beet dump,
flooded with spring sub water,
little frogs, noisy and so many
we ran home, using the road,
using big steps and racing
so we could bring back
a shoe box.  We filled that thing
with frogs and took them home,
taking turns carrying.
We knew what we needed,
but we had no plan.  Only later
we discovered big sisters
do not understand a throbbing
shoe box Monday morning
under the clothesline.

_____________________________________________________________

For Sandra’s bio and another of her Spring Runoff Poems, click here.

*Non-contest submission*

“Nospringland” by Gabriel Aresti Jr.

There is a poem about spring
That I read
Every time you kill
It tells
About rebirth
And joy and peace
It’s sad that we no longer share
The eyes
To read it in the same way.
You forgot it.
You forgot we were brothers.
You forgot about springs.
You say you kill to free
A land
Where springs
No longer
Blossom
In your eyes.
We no longer share those eyes.
There is no more poetry for your fight.
Spring will never be
About rebirth
And joy and peace
When you come back home with your dirty hands.

__________________________________________________________

Gabriel Aresti Jr. is the pen name of Ángel Chaparro Sainz.  Ángel was born in Barakaldo, Basque Country, northeastern Spain around 1976. Currently, he is a professor of English at the University of the Basque Country where he has been teaching literature, poetry and history as well. Some of his short stories have been published in Deia newspaper and some other anthologies after being winners of contest such as Villa de Gordexola, Ciudad de Eibar or Ortzadar–all of them in the Basque Country. He runs a literary blog called lasenoritaeggsphueler.blosgpot.com but it’s a brand new project.

For another of his contest entries, click here.

*Contest entry*

“Spring-Eh-Field” by Gabriel Aresti Jr.

Naturally we’re turning romantic
I guess it’s age
But maybe we were just like this
From the very beginning.
Spring it’s coming, see the birds,
She says,
I say
Yeah, spring is close
It’s the greatest time of the year

She says,
I say,
Yeah, mine too.
But I can’t help but keep on
Thinking what the heck
Has to do spring
With my favourite team’s winning streak.
I guess it’s age
But maybe I was this dumb since
I was up that first morning
When nobody
Was expecting me.
She stops watching the ocean
And turns round to look right into my eyes
Which
Let me tell you this
Are as wide as thin as blue
As the bluest thinnest widest body of water
You could ever use
To make up a poetic image of any kind.
I love you,
And she tries to act as if she really does
I love you too,
And we both smile
And we both kiss
And we both go back to our personal thoughts
Just a second before
I finish the spring poem with a mathematic equation
That demonstrates
That age has nothing to do with stupidity:
Talking about spring,
Isn’t it today when they release the new Simpsons’ episodes?

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Gabriel Aresti Jr. is the pen name of Ángel Chaparro Sainz.  Ángel was born in Barakaldo, Basque Country, northeastern Spain around 1976. Currently, he is a professor of English at the University of the Basque Country where he has been teaching literature, poetry and history as well. Some of his short stories have been published in Deia newspaper and some other anthologies after being winners of contest such as Villa de Gordexola, Ciudad de Eibar or Ortzadar–all of them in the Basque Country. He runs a literary blog called lasenoritaeggsphueler.blosgpot.com but it’s a brand new project.

*Contest entry*