I think I want to change that poem slightly. The title was too explanatory, and I removed a verse.

Utah Valley Revisited

The rocky peak of Timpanogos rules
the valley (where each year more houses spread
in stuccoed testament to fruitful people).

Directions here are given not as right
& left, but east, west, north or south, because
Timp's rocky peak is there to anchor the way.

Generations ago my family came
put shoulder to the wheel & carved a home
both for now & for eternity to come.

Their gardens (grown from dust) were fed by faith;
their straight streets (sprung from a practical bent)
ran like a checkerboard north-south, east-west.

& all in all, they made a world in their
image. The flaming swords of seraphim
punished the idle, while work was rewarded.

But I turned my back on the mountain peak,
the harsh desert & works that raised fields there.
I left the enormity of my youth
& found a world where dew can drop with thunder.

I've been in Utah now for ten days. It's always interesting to return to Utah Valley and see what's changed and what has remained the same beneath it all. I am surprised how familiar the streets and houses are. How formative this place was to me.

We camped near Moab for a couple days. Frequent thunderstorms (rare, but welcome) brought relief to the incredible heat. Red rock walls, long dusty roads. Beautiful and powerful. Meaningless and yet so meaningful. I realized why I want to retreat into a rural hermitage. I realized that without people around, I find life meaningful. I see meaning in its very meaninglessness. Trees, streams, hills, rocks in themselves are valuable and wonderful. Nothing more lies beneath, but nothing more is needed. People, on the other hand, remind me of the shallowness of our human society. How many arbitrary customs and beliefs control us. How little all that we strive for matters. I want a home deep in nature, where friends are made welcome and the bonds of that friendship are worth more than Walmart's profits.

I've also grappled with my youth for the first time in poetry. This poem is hot off the presses, so I have no idea how good it is. But I think it struck down into me and pulled up something I needed to say. For that alone, I value it. I hope it's not too shabby as a poem, too.

On My Mormon Upbringing Utah Valley Revisited

The rocky peak of Timpanogos rules
the valley (where each year more houses spread
in stuccoed testament to fruitful people).

Directions here are given not as right
& left, but east, west, north or south, because
Timp's rocky peak is there to anchor the way.

Generations ago my family came
put shoulder to the wheel & carved a home
both for now & for eternity to come.

Their gardens (grown from dust) were fed by faith;
their straight streets (sprung from a practical bent)
ran like a checkerboard north-south, east-west.

& all in all, they made a world in their
image. The flaming swords of seraphim
punished the idle, while work was rewarded.

They did this through faith, for a faithless world.
They did this in hope, for glory in death,
for purpose, direction. They did this for me.

But I turned my back on the mountain peak,
the harsh desert & works that raised fields there.
I left the enormity of my youth
& found a world where dew can drop with thunder.

I deleted several posts from February 2004. They had to do with a certain Finnish politician. I felt bad for the people searching for her and finding this site. I guess that was the largest non-friendly traffic I generate.

The Stagnant Pool

They pushed for change & rolled the waters back,
the same river flowed past the same worn stones.

& what joy stepping in the same stream twice.

After the AA Game

Above the right field fence
rockets flare
& shine like fragile stars
clean & brief

If only living would
burn so bright
my fractured, wispy heart
might find peace

It was the prettiest thing
he'd ever seen;
Redder than a fire truck,
sleek as a fighter plane.

So he took his time
finding the perfect stone;
It sat in the curl of his palm
smooth as an egg.

& took his time
as he screwed back to throw,
wanting that cardinal
for his very own.

Mulberries cover half my deck each morning, falling from a neighbor's tree; crumbs fallen from the night's buffet.

Sunday morning, sitting on a new IKEA deck chair, sipping black coffee, eating Jewish rye with red current jelly, I watched the local critters eat their own breakfasts; cardinals, mockingbirds, finches, and squirrels. A blue jay's approach unleashed many shrill tweets from a pair of cardinals nesting in a bush outside the back door. They flittered from branch to branch, posturing until the jay flew off, seemingly more bored than frightened. Later I saw the male cardinal tangle in mid-air with another one who ventured too close. Fluttering red streaks swirled crazily until they vanished behind the neighbor's roof.

Later, three squirrels came one by one to taste the sweet mulberries. In what must be a squirrel's ultimate indignity all that remained of one's tail was a frizzy nub. The other two mercilessly chased it around the branches of the tall old spruce that towers over the backyard. Watching them easily hop between the branches, I'm was overcome with the desire to join them, to be freed from my heavy constraints and flit between spruce limbs.

I stood against the behemoth, straight and fierce. I waved my sword, screamed in native fury.

Its stride never broke. My hottest assaults slid off it like water from a mountain. Broken, retreat is my only option.

Now that the behemoth is my foe.