#utah
St. George, Utah, 1953
Look out your window
What do you see?
***** Harry
And winds that mean no harm
Nice big mushroom cloud
Gonna dust your farm
ee-I-ee-I-o
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 9:51 PM UTC
he'll be seen with
others of his sort
for they travel in
a drove's escort
he's not an Angus
nor a Hereford
yet he's of the
bovine accord
over the centuries
he's roamed inside the Utah state
so he can find food
for his stomach's sate
the first nation people
will symbolize him on a totem pole
as this represents
his strength of role
if you can guess what
animal he is
you'll be the one
to solve the quiz
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
warmer winds breathing human heat,
echoing nostalgia, bending curriculum.
***** pack's students wade in,
just as nomadic as their predecessors
past the tour of tilted rocks
towards the swelter shelter.
yellow busses spit diesel clouds,
particulates and their masters matriculating
in an ever ending search for fudge.
fossils forgotten for facebook,
a dismal display of disrespect.
nomads nonetheless.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
1.
The rolling hills
Crest and
Dive and
Move like
Oceans,
Covered in armies of trees.
Trees,
Like thousands upon
Thousands of warriors
Made of leaves and
Dirt and
The souls of prehistoric
Insects that may have
Planted them.
The trees carpeting
The thunderous hills
Have a sort of marching
Energy to them.
Like they
Were frozen
In place.
I am reminded of the
Army of terra cotta
Soldiers.
Unstuck in time,
Stunned in space,
They silently guard their own hill,
Crumbling slowly,
Like cheese.
And the terra cotta arms
And the terra cotta legs
Of the terra cotta trees
Are attempting to drag
Their iron roots
Through the hills,
Sinking like lead
Through the earth,
As if it was meant to be the
Ocean it resembled so much.
Maybe,
Armies of troops once trudged
And fought through swamps
As vast
And troubled
As seas.
And a terra cotta war,
Unconqured by
Shattering warriors,
Is left like
Smoldering porcelin,
Still being fought
On the hills
Of Utah.
2.
You can still
See the remains
Of their clash;
You can analyze
Their placement
And movements
Like battlefeild strategy.
You can wonder what
Terra cotta general
Put them there.
Did the trees respect him
As a father?
His tactics
Funneled down to
Swarming like ants
Or dripping like oil.
There is the occasional
Silent,
Lone,
Watchman,
Angled towards the
Power lines,
The coursing blue veins,
And the sky,
Filled with the
Bright and
Rippling trails
Of their valiant enemy.
3.
The terra cotta trees
Give way
To the stone,
Brick,
And steel,
Of an upright man,
Overwhelming white
Against
Overwhelming green
Against
Overwhelming yellow
Against
Overwhelming blue
Against
Overwhelming black.
The people live unaware,
(With meerkat eyes
And posture)
Of the armies surrounding them,
Signaling the dusk of their time.
The trees will outlive us all
By millennia.
Their war will continue.
Our bodies will become
A wave in the hills
That they march through,
A crater in the commander moon,
A foot soldier in their
War,
A leaf,
A branch,
A bird,
Food for a plant
That is food for a squirrel,
Soaked in through
The churning,
Breathing roots
Of the terra cotta trees,
In the living,
Moving,
Tumbling hills.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
Salt in my veins
Revolution in my heart
Letting loose the reins
Finally getting a start
Twenty four years later
After my birth
Grabbing the Mercator
******* in my girth
No longer ignoring
The calls of the shores
Set forth exploring
Opening the doors
One to a lake
Largest in the West
My option to take
And call it my best
The other a sea
Foreign as mars
Alien life to me
Whole new set of stars
This is my option
Can't be made haphazardly
Not sold at an auction
No time for jackassery
Interviews lined up
Will tell the tale
One for a backup
Should I likely fail
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
Lines trace themselves into my palms
Cracks deepen as the sandy dirt dries
Hair flutters and flickers in wind
Green grasses dance in whispers
Grated teeth withhold heavy meaning
The salt of brine sets water still
Kind natured words flee from flora lips
In the valley green, mountains rise
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home
i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******** feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear
i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs
i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer
i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies
hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main
itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds
i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim
faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in
amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny
i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon
i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring
your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind
yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain
once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah
©2016janetaylor
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
These medications make my emotions hazy.
An inversion in Salt Lake, Utah occurs in my mind.
The surrounding mountains of guilt and shame
create the perfect bowl for smog to stay.
Hiking up peaks to view the city lights
and instead I see halos of gold through fake fog.
Back down to a car that swerves through canyons
while going just slow enough to see the road’s edge.
Walking up and down the streets no one can tell
of the poison we all breathe in together.
Utah, a happy place, where strangers smile at each other
and try to force themselves to believe that they are not fake.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Mountains swell, knuckle, roll.
Foothills slope and slide.
Canyons fold, streams bend,
Salt marshes wrinkle and sink.
These pagan forms alone gave shape
To this valley before God’s people arrived.
Not until the Saints brought
Rectilinear rectitude
And wrote a grid into this arid soil
Did this place become the land of God.
My parallel brethren,
North Temple, First South,
We will meet in eternity.
And now do I sustain the men
Who bear the Logos
From the mountain to the desert,
Past Saint and Mason, Catholic and Jew
And, unbending, reveal
That the straight line is an act of God.
©David Adamson 2015
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
I
We played kick the can
Where the sidewalk cracked,
Ruptured by a cottonwood’s roots.
Then winds from the canyon came rushing
Through the leaves of the tall cottonwoods
(I believed that sound was the sound
Of time rushing away),
And sent us home.
I paused on the front porch.
From across the street a faint mist drifted,
Rainbird spray from Reservoir Park,
Chuff chuff chuff chuff
Chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff- chuff-chuff-chuff.
At the horizon beyond the park,
Jagged streaks of pink tapered into purplish dusk
Above the shrinking mirror of Great Salt Lake.
II
I entered the silent house
Where something strange was taking place.
Darkness billowed from the living room couch.
Ink oozed from unlit lamps.
Shadows deformed familiar shapes:
Chairs, an end table, a portrait, the piano,
A piece of driftwood from the Dead Sea.
I watched my hands flicker,
Merge into shade, dissolve.
I stood trying to grasp
What the darkness was doing.
Then an engine hummed in the driveway,
Tires crunching asphalt,
A car hummed into the garage. Voices.
The kitchen door opened.
The darkness retreated
Behind the sofa and beneath solid chairs.
The simple shapes returned,
Pulled across a boundary into night
From a summer evening on University Street.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
You can’t really picture the place.
You don’t recall who was there.
But you remember surprise
That human ashes are not powdery dust,
Apt to disintegrate like snow,
Or soft like bread cast upon the waters.
Dad’s ashes chafed your palms like jagged seeds
As you clutched fistfuls from a plastic purple box
And flung them down a hillside
Somewhere in Little Cottonwood Canyon.
And you remember the feeling of urgency
As you retreated up the hill.
You had motions to go through,
Space to occupy,
A black and white landscape to walk
Among small figures filing along a dirt track
In the airless September heat.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
You are an attic that my thoughts are still lost in.
Your mind is cluttered with ideas, kindness, secrets and confessions,
all covered under thick dusty blankets of bland conversations.
Every time the sun hit a part of your mind,
you revealed a memory and I like a child
oohed and ahhed at this over told story.
Despite the floorboards creaking “baby you don’t mean a thing” and dust lingering with the goodbye that will never be said,
it was my favorite place.
I would try bringing up my own newspaper clippings and photo albums but there never was enough room in this attic I suppose.
I remember one night I spotted poetry painted on the wall
hidden behind a pile of blankets and your record player voice cracked with the words ‘you're beautiful’ and ‘you're perfect’.
But maybe the words were already painted for somebody else
and You’re voice caught on the vinyl of the moment.
Darling they told me that a family from Utah is
moving in next week,
I hope they treat you well.
Darling the door has been locked and boarded without a warning
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
i would drive to salt lake
just to taste the sodium on your shaky knees
to lick the inside of your eyeballs as they hover above me
for you to kiss where my arm bends and where your dimples are craters
for you to spin me over, ask me to take a shower
twist my neck into yours and say i don’t want to get my hair wet
a motel six won't know much about love like this
but i'll drop a few twenty dollar bills
so i can move into your body and whisper your name until you wake up
for you to reach across my spine and listen to our temporary neighbors
they'll scream out of love, don’t hit me, don’t hit me
and you hold your hand over my ear, and i'll fall back asleep
wake up early to make love, then drive to my job
so i can get paid minimum wage, enough to buy you a drink on a sunday night
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Upon the worn trails of down trodden souls,
The fool, the sinner and the hopeful leave their woes.
On the path of salvation when many lost their way,
Other paths start to branch away.
A conestoga lays abandoned on the trail,
Where many idealists withered and failed.
The industrial city left behind in the dust filled wake,
No turning back from the journey,
You already chose your fate.
Where would you go in the months and weeks ahead?
Possibly to new Zion or make your own land to think that you'll be well on.
Beware of the adventure who is a fool to travel along,
So always journey together or die without a throne.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Candle flicker
Keeps mosquitos away
The wind is picking up
No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens
A **** seagull squaks; only here
This is desert living
Desert loving
We have a porch
It kind of feels like heaven
Just the moon and lamplights
And pajamas with no undergarments
Citronella smell
Dry breeze
Skin no longer chapped
Weathered from my initiation
During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC