Logan City
Poet Laureate
Project
Welcome to A Celebration of Cache Valley Voices, Shanan's Logan City Poet Laureate Project! Many of the following poems were written by Cache Valley residents during poetry writing workshops I led for the 2020 Write @ the Logan Library Writers Conference.
If you are a Cache Valley resident and would like to have your poem considered for publication on this site, please e-mail Shanan at
Dusting
by Adrian Thomson
In pink rooms
Where only lamps cast
Dark halos
On the stucco pink ceiling
Projecting no light
Into dark corners
The edges of the square
Furrows at the base of the wall
Line grayscale highways where
Spiders walk on bouncing feet
And the heavy pink carpet
Like air pocket-less cake
Appears hairy
But there is no way to see it
In the wintertime
When only the lamps splay light
In dark fingers along the pink walls
And not enough in the edges
To discern it from shadow.
So when crocuses below the window
Outside burst from chthonic sleep
And the far-yard pine tree
No longer houses
Shivering rabbits or bedding deer
Beneath its base
And the snows at last retreat
Except for a band in the shadow
Of the high wooden fence
Lace curtains pull open
The highways are seen
The vacuum emerges
The edges are cleaned
The rooms shine warm pink
Like the inside of eggshells
Adrian Thomson is a first-year graduate student in the Graduate Instructorship at Utah State University. He balances teaching with his interest in Creative Writing, which began in Fiction but now focuses on poetry.
Lost at Sea
by Gail Christensen
On the second morning of January,
first cup of coffee in hand,
I stand in the kitchen as if
on the bow of a ship, gazing out
on the sea of maple floor,
the jetsam of pine and glitter,
drops of red wine, chocolate crumbs,
the ghostly shoe prints of sailors,
evidence smeared on the smooth glass,
that something happened here,
something joyful in the cold night,
time that will not in the same way
be again, a spilling still warm
that needs not be so soon swept away,
not before a moment of silence,
not before a proper goodbye;
and so, respectfully, I linger,
unmoored to the impatient hour tapping
its foot on shore, and adrift
in the dead calm that comes before
I pour another cup.
Gail Christensen grew up in Ogden, Utah. She graduated from Utah State University with a degree in English. She also retired from USU where she was a typesetter and graphic designer for various departments on campus. She and her husband have lived in Richmond, Utah since 1980. They have two daughters and three grandchildren, all living in Salt Lake City.
Kiss
by Flora Shrode
Proof that a little can go
a long way.
A familiar treat--
sweet, smooth, evokes
memory and desire
reflected like light on the
creased silver wrapper.
The delicate labeled tag
opens an idea, possibility
beneath a gentle tug.
Flora Shrode lives in North Logan, UT, where she moved from her native Tennessee in 2001. After 28 years as an academic librarian, she opened a new life chapter in 2017 and enjoys activities with various community groups. Flora has varied interests, including reading, writing, hiking, knitting, watching TV, camping, and traveling to Phish concerts with her husband, Paul Jakus.
Early Warning System
by Brock Dethier
Before my fingers even touch the foil
it sends its warning to my teeth:
Beware! Remove all silver before consuming!
Cannot be responsible for freaked-out teeth.
Brock Dethier recently retired from the Utah State University English Department where he worked for 21 years.
Cache Winter
January 25, 2020
Traveled through dense, cold fog.
I heard dump trucks I couldn’t see.
Taste of green pear with arugula, goat cheese,
and candied pecans.
Sticky cherry coke foaming over my fingers.
I heard dump trucks I couldn’t see.
Cache Valley drivers can’t count to four.
Sticky cherry coke foaming over my fingers.
Gray-white shrinking piles of snowy cover.
Cache Valley drivers who can’t count to four.
People talking in low voices, sharing thoughts
or keeping secrets.
Gray-white shrinking piles of snowy cover.
But aha! The bus is running a half an hour earlier now.
People talking in low voices, sharing thoughts
or keeping secrets.
Taste of green pear with arugula, goat cheese,
and candied pecans.
But aha! The bus is running a half an hour earlier now.
Traveled through dense, cold fog.
Group Pantoum created with lines by David Newbold, Brock Dethier, Linda Morse, Aaron Timm, Iris Nielson, Letha Winger, Carol Foht, and Sally Thomas.
Hershey’s Kiss
by Anne Schill
Grandma lays them out
for the grandkids
on Christmas Eve
in a china plate
bordered with blue flowers
that frankly,
look more like soap bubbles
than forget-me-nots
but still hold the most glorious
gift of the holidays.
The glass nativity watches over
as I take a silver drop
from the aluminum pond.
The angel smiles
and the star glows
and I swear I see something in
baby Jesus’s eyes,
like he wants one too,
and maybe that’s what Mom means when she says
God always knows how I’m feeling.
I take one and unwrap it,
the paper slip crinkling
like a page from the Bible.
I try to pull the foil
away without tearing it
but my excitement finds its way into my stubby fingers
and with a twitch,
the wrapper breaks.
I sigh, and cradle it in my hands for a moment to mourn.
Then I rip away the rest of the foil
and partake in the blessed sweet flavor
of Grandma’s humble gift.
I crumple the wrapper into a ball
and stick it in my pocket
as a record of my zealous commitment
to perfection.
I take another drop from the bowl,
its tiny body settling between the grooves of my palm,
and I try once more.
Anne Schill attempts to untangle life through writing, visual art, and music.
God of Winter
by Alan Briggs
my blizzard wrecks terror
millions of unseen flee,
screaming before the swath
of frost hurling from my path
who is the norse god of blizzards?
of ice storms?
of the myriad words for snow
I am.
directing my polar divinity's fury.
until I turn
forgetting long learned arcane preparations
and icy winds knock
me from my arctic Parthenon
a forgotten patriarchal oracle
don't spit into the wind
cold sheets smother my face.
slobbering fenrir with slushy poison
heralding ragnarok
and I am vanquished and
entombed
until icy fingered
i curse runiecally
and turn the snowblower chute
to make another pass
across the driveway
Alan Briggs writes poetry because he never learned to tap dance. He should have lived more; breaking pieces off the Berlin Wall and trying to get arrested by the KGB were ethereal pleasures. He lives in Nibley with his wife (who still likes him most days), his son, two chickens who refuse to lay eggs in winter, and one cat. He has drafted three books and published one. The night he can watch the moon rise over Cache Valley and can distill it into pungent, reverent, soulful prose will be the culmination of his life.
Weeding
by Star Coulbrooke
Weeding is my meditation, my therapy.
—Iris Nielsen
For the light blue mat of star flowers,
fragile-seeming, powder light,
I pull with all my energy—I pull for them.
I pull their tough entangled stems,
their sticky hairs all meshed together,
pulling them from mat on mat of partners
all in bloom, all blooming with these tender
stars, cloud-light and feather-soft, stars
that drop to dark earth as I pull, a patch
of soil now seeded with what must
come up again in season, so many of them,
like stars encrusting my home sky
out in farmland by the river where the Milky
Way encrusts the already-starful dark,
no lights to blot their separate blooms
all falling, falling like these blue star
flowers I hesitate to weed, these blooms
we call weeds, thick as stars.
Star Coulbrooke is the Inaugural Poet Laureate of Logan City Utah, founder and coordinator of the Helicon West reading series, and director of the Utah State University Writing Center. Star’s poems are published internationally in journals, magazines, and anthologies. Her most recent poetry collections are Thin Spines of Memory, Both Sides from the Middle, and City of Poetry.
Strangers on the Street
by Carol Foht
Each day is a gift we
should count as a blessing.
If we stop the rushing
we might observe what we’re missing?
Our lives are geared to live a fast pace.
We barely take time to see face-to-face.
Would a glance with a smile be that hard to share?
Just to let someone know…we see them there!
A man in a hurry pushes on by…leather shoes,
a suit and a tie, a perfect business dress.
His surroundings don’t matter.
His world is focused on building success.
A couple huddles closely together;
voices whispering low.
With thoughts and secrets
they don’t want strangers to know.
A young boy--red eyes swollen;
a face lacking expression
Heavy thoughts weigh him down.
Today he fights his depression.
A group of girls pass; giggling and sharing their stories of boys.
It’s good to hear such a cheerful noise.
Their age holds innocence and good times for sharing.
With a spring in their steps; there’s no time for caring.
Wrapped in a tattered old coat and ragged old clothes.
Walks a man defeated with the weight of a war he fought years ago.
Faded words on a misshapen hat that sits cocked on straggly hair.
“If you enjoy your freedom thank a veteran” is the message he wears.
Passersby, look away as if not to see.
Who do they notice most and try hardest not … is it him or me?
An old couple hold hands, moving slower each today.
Do they wish for moments they let slip away?
Has time pushed passed them like strangers out on the street?
Do they look back on moments ignored; lost in a heartbeat.
If we stop the rushing
we might observe what we’re missing.
Carol Foht moved to Cache Valley with her husband 5 years ago after retiring as a Realtor. She’s always been a "wannabe writer" and is getting more into poetry which she’s dabbled in over the years. Also, she’s writing a fictional novel on the Oregon Trail. Carol’s writer's group here has given her the push to continue where she left off when she became too tied up with work. She retired from John Deere before becoming a realtor. She worked on her novel for 2 years in between careers then put it aside till she retired and moved to Cache Valley. My people have been stuck in Wyoming waiting for her to write them out of there and get them back on the trail again!
Springing in the Wasatch
By Iris Nielsen
The temperature rises
from freezing to thaw in the phase of a moon.
The Snowdrops and Hellebores
struggle to spring their shoots upwards,
through the churned-up leaves of the bygone Autumn,
they pierce through the decay of Winter.
Beneath the snowbanks lies the Crocus and Hyacinths,
their heads buried as Spring in the Wasatch stumbles in.
Through the melting crust, they thrust upward
basking in the sunlight, that warm caress of Spring.
Arriving too soon they are covered in a white blanket,
their nodding heads pressed down by the weight.
Diligently they survive, struggling to remain straight
frozen solid, their tongues stuck out in defiance.
The sun rises on the horizon; they unfreeze,
springing forth in their quest for life.
That smell of Spring, that fresh clean scent,
that promise of life.
The lamb slays the lion
and Winter yields its grasp.
A hummingbird suckles on the
Quince’s crepe paper flowers.
with the short fast beats of their wings-
Spring then… surrenders to Summer.
Iris Nielsen has always written poetry, and she has examples of poems that she wrote dating back to the third grade. As a teenager she often channeled her angst into poems. Then she put down her pen for many years, partially due to technical issues in her writing and partly due to discomfiture. Only in the last five or six years has she started writing again, older and more comfortable in her own skin. She opened up to creative expression for its own sake, understanding some people will not understand or like what she writes, and that is fine. She writes with her own voice, as she sees the world, full of beauty but sadly also too much negativity.