“This World is Yours”

On February 20, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry69 Comments

“This World is Yours”
(c) 2023 by Michael L. Utley

you thought you could
save the world
wee lad
you couldn’t even
save yourself

those bleak nighthawk skies
where dead stars fall
like blood-bloated flies
and fey winds howl
in deafened ears
a behemoth’s fetid exhalation
violent and ignorant
and inexorable

breathe
breathe it all in
the sweat-soaked fear
the bitter tang of futility
fill your lungs
wee lad
this world is yours
as far as tear-blurred
eyes can see

pry up decrepit floorboards
in the dim derelict
cellar of childhood
see the blind white-bellied
squirming things
trundle dumbly, aimlessly
in sepulchral voids
gelatinous excreta
glistening in darkness
a treasure trove
of memories
a box of hell
a gift that keeps on giving
handle these with care
wee lad
lest they consume your soul

you battled the familiar demon
on twilight moors of yore
he wore your scar for years
you’ll wear his for eternity
wee lad
your popsicle stick sword
your pie tin shield
your best intentions
your noble cause
did you really think
you had a chance in hell
of slaying the beast?
what’s a little blood
between father and son?

the elixir of time is a lie
there is no balm for
a childhood stripped
from its moorings
with such casual cruelty

see the sullen sun
heliograph dully
on the lake of fate
see the dun birds
peregrinate incuriously above
see the reflection on the water
the wee old man
with hollow eyes
and broken soul
see the pulsing stormcloud
brooding, ever-present
on the horizon

the myth of idyllic youth
the hue of quicksilver
and autumn wheat
the clever, cloying scent
of false hope
the raucous, pealing thunder
of sundered souls
the thresher’s flail looms
and you fall before it as chaff
blown from this world
on eldritch zephyrs

within the forest of years
the darkling path
opens before you
and closes behind
in peristaltic spasms
as the trees swallow you
in green silence
this quiet place
devoid of time
a resting place
a tomb of giants
a dying place
for those so inclined
no memories allowed here
nor light nor love nor healing
only darkness
and the furtive murmur
of moon-shadows

you were a boy once
for seven years
now your ethereal form
drifts among
strange nameless constellations
across forgotten eons
you won’t find yourself here
wee lad
that kid is long gone
but you must find something
before all is lost

“Thus the Evening’s Stillness Deepens” published at Chewers & Masticadores

On February 18, 2023September 6, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry48 Comments

I’m pleased to announce that my poem “Thus the Evening’s Stillness Deepens” has been published at Chewers & Masticadores. I’m so grateful to Terveen Gill and her team for their support and kindness in publishing my poem. Terveen’s peerless enthusiasm for creative writing is inspirational on so many levels. I’m both delighted and humbled to have my poetry included at Chewers & Masticadores. Thanks a bunch, Terveen!

“Thus the Evening’s Stillness Deepens”

“I don’t want to break the peaceful
stillness of this winter evening
as the gloaming deepens and the
shadows freeze upon the hills…”

I’d be grateful if you would check out the rest of my poem by clicking this link. Also, be sure to follow and subscribe to Chewers & Masticadores–it’s a wonderful place for those who love writing.

“Autumn Leaf & Ferns”

On February 6, 2023 By Mike U.In Photography64 Comments

I have a lot of images from Trout Lake in southwest Colorado, about an hour from where I live. Many of these images don’t feature the lake, such as this one of autumn ferns. The area is heavily forested, snuggled deep within the arms of several mountain peaks. In the summer, wild flowers explode in a profusion of color; in the fall, aspens glow a strident yellow that complements the deep greens of conifers and the cobalt blue sky.

On this autumn day in the late 1990s, my mom accompanied me. She enjoyed getting away from the farm whenever she could, and she loved nature drives and breathing fresh mountain air. We took the dirt road that circumscribes the lake and pulled over in a little clearing of ferns among tall pines and spruces. There were a few bright red amanita muscaria mushrooms still stubbornly clinging to life, and while my mom looked at these poisonous fungi (I’d warned her not to touch them), I set about photographing the ferns whose fronds had begun to turn yellow. On the ground nearby, a small leaf the color of arterial blood caught my eye, and I saw an opportunity to show my mom one of the standard composition guidelines of photography: the Rule of Thirds. Not quite a rule as much as a suggestion, the idea is to divide the frame into thirds both vertically and horizontally (like a tic tac toe grid). Placing the main subject on one of the places where these grid lines intersect—the power-points—generally results in a more pleasing image. As with any rule, there are plenty of exceptions. This rule is overused and can produce cliché images that lack depth and emotion, but sometimes the end result is indeed compelling.

I composed the image, placing the crimson leaf on a power-point and explained the theory as my mom looked through the viewfinder. When I got the slides back from the lab and showed her the resultant image on my lightbox, she could hardly contain her excitement. She adored this image and she felt as though she had played a part in its creation. And she was right: every time I look at this image, I’m reminded of her, just the two of us in the little clearing one autumn afternoon, experiencing nature and being glad to be alive. It may appear to be just another pretty picture, but it’s so much more than that. I was able to share my love for nature and photography with her that day, and part of her lives on in this image. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Few Haiku & Senryu (57)”

On January 30, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry69 Comments

(#337)

childhood’s end at seven
I’ve been nothing but a ghost
since then

…..

(#338)

hypervigilance
through dark watches of the night
a young boy’s burden

…..

(#339)

all these long years
the monster dead and gone
yet the fear remains

…..

(#340)

thunder and brimstone
the profane currency
of childhood

…..

(#341)

in the end
he felt no remorse at all
my father’s death

…..

(#342)

how to feel again
when all I’ve ever known is fear
how to live again

“A Few Haiku & Senryu (56)”

On January 28, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry64 Comments

(#331)

dusty stew pot
her memory lingers by
the cold hearth

…..

(#332)

a tiny sun
in this cold dark hell
golden suisen

…..

(#333)

strings of koto
from beyond the bamboo grove
my heart breaks again

…..

(#334)

don’t look at me, moon
I’m not who you think I am
dark night of the soul

…..

(#335)

from my window
the mountain; from the mountain
eternity

…..

(#336)

green silence
and the end of all things
sea of trees

(Note: A bit of a title change for this series. I’ve been writing senryu almost as long as haiku and I figured it was time to clarify that these little collections contain both. Haiku pertain to nature and seasons, while senryu address the human condition. The formats are virtually identical; the subject matter differs.)

“Pussy Willow Catkin on Twig”

On January 23, 2023 By Mike U.In Photography78 Comments

Trout Lake, near the small town of Telluride in southwestern Colorado, is my second-favorite spot on Planet Earth, just behind Heceta Head Lighthouse on the central Oregon Coast. I’ve posted a few images of the lake itself, snugly nestled in the laps of Sheep Mountain, Vermilion Peak, Golden Horn and Pilot Knob amid pine and spruce forests, aspens and a cornucopia of wild flowers. A dirt road circumnavigates the lake, wending its way closer to the peaks and through the woods and bogs. A narrow wooden bridge, which had fallen into disrepair the last time I was there, spans a creek halfway around the lake. It was here, near the collapsed bridge, while photographing elkslip and other wild flowers one summer evening in the late 1990s, that I noticed a lone pussy willow catkin perched on a twig.

I’ve always been enamored with these diminutive delights, tiny and soft and so aptly named (honestly, the term “catkin” is sort of giggle-inducing). There were no willows where I lived on the farm so I’d never had the opportunity to photograph these little guys until now. The light was quickly fading so I set to work. The compositional goal was to isolate the twig and catkin against the background by using a wide aperture setting to blur the background into a solid mass of color in order to make the subject stand out as much as possible. I wanted to express a little story with this image, too, a vignette of the early stages of life, its uphill battle to reach maturity, and the uncertainty that awaits all of us at the end. The catkin was placed on a power-point in the lower left, with the gentle upward arc of the twig leading across the frame to…what? What lies ahead? What of that sudden drop-off at the end of the twig? In life, we may think we have a plan, a goal for the future, but in reality we’re all flying blind. At any moment, our own personal twigs may end abruptly, plummeting us into oblivion. I envisioned the tiny catkin feeling trepidation at the beginning of its journey, leaning back in fear…perhaps steeling itself to perform a Naruto run to the end of the twig and take flight into the unknown. In this brief pause on the cusp of its decision, the air was utterly still, and not a sound came from the forest. Even the ever-present mosquitoes held their collective breaths as they awaited what was coming. I like to think the catkin was preparing itself, screwing up its courage, and calming itself in the cool air and verdant green silence of the woods. And then…

…it’s up to you to decide what happened next. I haven’t returned to this place in years. I hope the catkin’s journey was a happy one, and as brief as this blossom’s lifespan may have been in the grand scheme of things, its ethereal beauty fit right at home in the green silence of the forest, among elkslip, wild irises and columbines. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Summer’s Field in Winter” published at Chewers & Masticadores

On January 21, 2023September 6, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry47 Comments

I’m happy to announce that my poem “A Summer’s Field in Winter” has been published at Chewers & Masticadores. I’m so grateful to Terveen Gill and her team for their support and kindness in publishing my poem. Terveen’s enthusiasm for writing inspires everyone and is such a wonderful catalyst for creativity. I’m both excited and humbled to have my poetry included at Chewers & Masticadores. Thanks so much, Terveen!

“A Summer’s Field in Winter”

“let us sift through summer’s solemn ashes
let us scavenge rusted hopes from twisted
hulks of yesterdays amid the swelter
and the din of frigid silence
as crows circle…”

I’d be grateful if you would check out the rest of my poem by clicking this link. Also, be sure to follow and subscribe to Chewers & Masticadores—it’s a wonderful place for those who love writing.

“A Few Haiku (55)”

On January 18, 2023January 18, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry80 Comments

(#325)

to write is to breathe
and I am suffocating
in silence

…..

(#326)

speak again of joy
and the warmth of summer days
your lies are comforting

…..

(#327)

pond ice
stretched thin as hope
and equally deceptive

…..

(#328)

some write of joy
I write of experience
would they were the same

…..

(#329)

pardon my sorrow
and forgive my weeping soul
a poet’s lament

…..

(#330)

hope comes and goes
and lasts for but a season
winter snow

Featured Blogger at Myths of the Mirror Blog

On January 14, 2023January 14, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry67 Comments

I’m particularly delighted to announce my good friend and fellow writer Diana Wallace Peach has chosen to feature my blog on her Weekend Blog Share at Myths of the Mirror blog. I’m deeply humbled that she chose to showcase my blog this week. Diana is an accomplished writer and poet and her blog is a treasure trove for anyone who loves good writing and amazing story-telling. She’s also one of the kindest, most supportive and encouraging people you could ever hope to meet. Thanks so much, Diana, for this honor. I truly appreciate it, my friend!

You can check out Diana’s Weekend Blog Share post by clicking this link.

“Sandstone Formation & Tree”

On December 20, 2022 By Mike U.In Photography103 Comments

Lisbon Valley is a relatively nondescript region in southeast Utah near Canyonlands National Park. While its redrock sandstone formations don’t rival the majesty of those found in Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, it has its own hidden marvels, its own unique personality. In the late 1990s, I spotted this rock formation while exploring one late-autumn evening. I was intrigued by several aspects of this scene: the contrasting, opposing oranges and blues; the split-personality of the formation, with half in bright sunset light and the other half in dark shadows; and the looming presence of the formation compared to the diminutive form of the lone juniper tree on the left. And above all, a contemplative stillness. Some might say there’s a David-and-Goliath theme here, a sense of immutable power being challenged by stalwart–if fragile–determination. However, I see something else here…a sense of sorrow, a reaching-out from weakness to strength as the tree casts its shadow on the base of the tower in supplication, as if seeking consolation. A sense of loneliness and isolation. I identify with that juniper tree. I feel deeply that sense of yearning to be a part of something but always finding myself standing on the outside, looking in. Try as it might, the closest that tree will ever come to connecting with that rock is by casting its shadow upon it once a day just before the cold night falls. Such is life in the desert; such is life in this world. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

Silent Pariah

Author: Mike U.