October Sky

Yellow dashed lines blur into one
solid and slithering serpent
unwinding in front of me with a speed
and an efficiency
I can't quite comprehend
- unwinding how
- unwinding where
I don't know.
Foot heavy pedal pressure
lean in
lean in
and skuttle across the moraine's trees
red and orange and yellow and brown
and some
an indignant green.
The sky above them
menacing and a million shades of grey
- in the brisk October wind it moves
and moves
and draws me in
encapsulated by the
chagrin and overwhelming
sadness
weighing down on my chest.
My glass pane headache beats
to some old
Neil Young song
about the Southern man, as
the wistfulness
of this October sky
grazes my cheek with
its deft palm,
and I fall under the spell again
of the dashed yellow lines
cavalier
against the black tar road
- unwinding how
- unwinding where
I don't know.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Simple Math

GAH! So little writing done lately....so little motivation! Meh....

Simple Math

I am composed of 1/5
truth and
conviction,
and 4/5 confusion and
coffee.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Thunderstorm Eyes

His eyes are storm clouds
darkening
with the passing seconds
She doesn't want to count.
Eyes
waiting to unleash
their fury
upon her
face
arms
chest.
His eyes -
his thunderstorm eyes
are more him than he'd
like to believe
and he rains
he rains
he rains down upon her.
Filling, brimming
the eye-clouds
stagger and devastate
with no visible
silver lining.
His eyes -
his thunderstorm eyes
are more him than he'd
like to believe
and he reigns
he reigns
he reigns over her.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Marble bench

marble bench
cooled by the night air
quiet and alone
you feel nothing
for you've been
forged from stone
but I can feel
and am chilled
to the bone.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Untitled

I write poems
on old, crumpled receipts
and movie stubs
that I happen upon
in my purse
because it suits me to do so
and because
I find it authentic
and romantic
in a fleeting sort of way

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Dancers

Above me, the dancing
ladies ascend toward
the pallid light -
leaping,
dipping,
twirling and
whirling.
I catch only glimpses
of their movement,
but I stare -
transfixed -
waiting for one more
glance of these lucid
charmers
and their shimmering
skirts of
silver and grey.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Kuusasi's Secrets

Alone but content
with only his thoughts for company
he keeps his secrets hidden
behind his eyes
within himself
safe inside his world

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

This, here

This -
here -
is my current antidote
from problems unsolved
and feelings unspoken
from worries, decisions, and
debts.
This -
here -
is my current antidote
from the solitude
of our living room,
midday during a work week
- hours still remaining.
This -
here -
is my current antidote
from redundancy
from overwhelming odds against
from a wholesome reality
And you -
with your
quiet eyes -
you
are my
universal antidote.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Untitled (or maybe....'Ode to Wine'?)

At home by myself
and I feel fine
I got my books
an' a bottle of wine!

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Bayfield

Summer has begun.

I know this as I
stand here on the beach
- you by my side
watching and anticipating
the setting of the sun
- its disappearance beyond
Lake Huron's waves
imminent.
The sky flourishes with
a symphony of colours
that I have
no words
to describe.
The burgeoning fire
crick-crackles behind us,
warming the air that
surrounds our bodies.
Hand in hand we gaze
- and you kiss me.

Summer has begun.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Health Care

Haven't written for ages! Just got back from vacation....first in New York for my students' grad trip, then to the cottage in Bayfield, now back home again. I went to see Michael Moore's new film, "SiCKO", at the movies last night. I know that everything he does you have to take with a grain of salt, as he often provides only partial stories/facts that help him prove his points. That being said, I still think the amount of money people have to pay, and the politics that goes on with some health care providers, is extremely messed up and corrupt. So anyway, here's my poem. I couldn't figure out how I wanted to punctuate it, so I didn't.

Denied

sit there
cry there
wait and weep
with a child
too sick to sleep
will she live
another day
maybe
maybe
wait and pray
ask and plead
and beg for aid
the desperation in
your eyes conveyed
sorry
sorry
you've been denied
for you
for you
they won't provide
sorry
sorry
that they lied
the ribbons of your life untied
sorry
sorry
your daughter died.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Untitled

As we sat on the couch together
you and I
with legs outstretched and crossed
I was reminded of stories
that shaped my past
and realized
I was more
than myself

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

The Homeless

This I wrote after leaving a Leafs game:

We pulsate forward
moving around him
as waves break against
a rocky shore
separating briefly
only to rejoin once past
the interrupter of our flow
averting our eyes from
the failure of our
society
pretending we have missed
the long, unkempt hair
the outstretched hands
the eyes that tell
of more misery and woe
than one life should hold
as waves
we roll on
cresting
foaming
but never stopping
- never ebbing
our relentless and guiltless flow

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

In The Grind

I wrote this when I was studying at the University of Guelph. We were called 'The Gryphons." (What the hell is a gryphon anyway? It's what just kicked your ass!) I always found that saying humourous, because it wasn't based on actual fact, as I rarely went to a sports event that Guelph won.....but I digress. There was a great between class hangout on the campus called The Grind. It changed names my last year there to something else - I can't remember what it was, because everyone just kept calling the place The Grind anyway. I miss it. Oh well - here's the poem.

In The Grind

i watched you today
on the couch frowning
searching and reading

and marking with your
highlighter everything
that seemed important
to you

was there in that book
and you with that
unhappy look didn't

even notice when he
spilled some of his lunch
into your lap

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Butterfly

The world is a theatre for you
- you hurried and flurried beauty
ascending and descending to
accompany the summer breeze
and perhaps allowing those
who so admire you
to get close enough
to imagine themselves free
- as invinsible as your
delicate wings and wanderings.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Nostalgia

nostalgia occurs when
two old friends
with whom you once
finger painted
and created dramatic
productions about
mimes and pirates
with
are now opening
the candle holders
you bought them
for their
bridal shower

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Montreal

A dome protrudes above the horizon
- a refuge for thousands
daily, it houses weeps and cries and pleas
for aid
for hope
for redemption
Atop the rocky cliff
it is a beacon
for those in need
like you
like me
like everyone
The basillica is calling.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Those damn cynical geese!

Sometimes I'm cynical (aren't we all...?)...maybe. That being said, here's a poem I wrote a while ago.

Geese

In lines they follow
- uniform in motion
- struggling for rank
- fighting to lead the others.
The fastest, strongest, most powerful reign
and control the weakest
- those who follow.
Geese -
reflections of humanity in the sky.

Copyright Catherine Young, 2007.

Memories of Autumn

The remaining leaves
covering the oaks and maples
are my memories of you -
hanging precariously,
waiting to fall,
(and to die).
They scatter and flake
like time, and
I love the way they sound -
crunching and rustling
with each step I take
(farther away from you).
A crimson beauty glides through the air,
landing at my feet.
The colours are beautiful
I am beautiful
(I finally realize)
A hundred million voices in my head
whisper goodbye.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Mike

This is about one of my former students...PS. I have noticed that many of my google ads are about either God or grieving. What the F, man?! I grieve seldomly....I 'church' seldomly....is seldomly a word?!?!?!?....the answer is no. I just checked on dictionary.com. I feel sadness that I didn't already know the answer to that....too much rye tonight. Anyhoo....

Mike

Early morning -
sun cresting above the horizon
tinting the sky a cotton-candy pink.
Most eyes crusted with sleep,
most heads on pillows,
most voices silent.
You break the quiet of dawn
singing 'Layla'
with all your might
- without any inhibitions.
You amaze me
and I smile at you
through my sleep.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Princess Days

playandplayandplayand
pretend
we dance through fallen leaves
and "you be the princess,
i'll be queen."
in autumn colours
orange
(and tattered)
the dresses could never
come clean.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

The Call

Why just now did
you call -
to talk of
splashing in puddles,
waltzing in the Polish church,
and you and I
and that time we
held hands
after midnight?

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Your Laugh

I touched your face
- touched your laugh.
It felt like summer,
hotdogs cooked by campfire
and a sense of wonder
at the night sky.
I touched your face
- touched your laugh.
It felt like innocence,
blowing bubbles in gum
and walking barefoot
in the grass.
I touched your face
- touched your laugh.
It felt invincible,
a spandex-clad hero
in the sky
(or my love for you.)
I touched your face
- touched your laugh
- touched your soul
- touched my life
- touched you.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

China Doll

China Doll

China doll with empty eyes
- hidden, secret, awful lies.
Ice cold skin, perfectly dressed,
a lonesome gem in the far, far west.
China doll with empty eyes
When, oh when, will we hear your cries?

Copyright © Catherine Young, 1997.

Meeting for the first time....again

Wander into me
- part my seamless soul
until there is nothing else to know.
Into the hollow
we dive headlong
crashing and bouncing
off quiet lonliness
listening to stories
and memories yet
untold.
To our ears
these stories are
- a mother's lullaby
- a cake on a birthday
- a dog welcoming you home.
Here we dabble in blue-green
daydreams
and forgotten lore
falling and
falling
and falling
beyond infinite time.
Into the hollow
we dove headlong
and ended up on
the bright side of tomorrow.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Skirt Weather

Skirt Weather

This is the time of year
when the light lasts a little longer,
seedlings grow a little stronger,
hearts become a little fonder,
and the girls come out
in their flirty skirts.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Crumbling

I wrote this about a friend whose parents were threatening to permanently separate after many years of marriage. (but they stayed together)

Crumbling

I'm watching your shore
- your foundation -
crumbling away beneath you,
and I'm seeing you swept up in the waves
hope and faith eroding into the tide
the relentless current of the waters
pulling and tugging you down
deeper and deeper into some
unseen abyss,
until you are completely submerged
unable to breathe
no way to reach the land that exists
just beyond your outstretched hands
and I stand here
helpless
useless
without a life preserver.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Cactussy Goodness....

The Cactus

Beautiful and dangerous,
with flowers as bright as the sun
and thorns large enough to
pierce the skin and
draw blood.
An enigma,
a puzzle,
a wonder to behold.
Fighting and battling
through the arid climate,
and the harsh, unforgiving landscape.
Dedication....(desperation)
striving to survive
in a world where
underdogs often
perish.
But here -
here in the desert -
the cactus
the underdog
is ruler of all the land
beautiful and dangerous.


Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Ghosts of the Ganges

A work in progress below....don't think I'm quite finished with it yet...we'll see...

Ghosts of the Ganges

We are the ghosts of the Ganges.
Some years -
some weeks -
some hours ago we lived.

Our ashes
- our remains -
lay buried,
concealed beneath the eroding banks of
Allahabad,
Patna,
Bhagalpur.
Across the eponymous plains
we may travel,
shifting and moving
closer to the tides of Bengal -
farther from those who
loved us.
We may, we may.

We are the ghosts of the Ganges
-the memories of loved ones passed.
Some years -
some weeks -
some hours ago we lived.

I -
a boy who threw rocks
to menace the local mongrel,
who relished in (stolen) fruit
from the Jwalapur market,
who once kissed the neighbour-girl,
hair tied up in white ribbons.
I -
a mother and wife,
who pleased my husband
with a spotless home,
who left five children behind,
the oldest no more than twelve.

We are the ghosts of the Ganges.
Some years -
some weeks -
some hours ago we lived.

The living sometimes join us
to wash -
to bathe -
to cleanse their spirits of sin
in the arms of the goddess -
to carry away the blessing
of Lord Vishnu’s feet.
In Kashi,
they take the water away
in sealed copper pots
- the living.
But here we shall remain.
- the breathless
- the lifeless
- the dead.

We are the ghosts of the Ganges
- the memories of loved ones passed.
some years -
some weeks -
some hours ago we lived
- the breathless
- the lifeless
- the dead.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Experiment in Alliteration

Spring

Beautious blue skies
brimming with welcomed warmth
- wintery winds fast forgotten
by children
- joyous and jubilant as they
run
run
run
and tumble.
Laughter ringing - lingering
in the impartial breeze.
Lovers walk as
winsome wanderers,
lips faithful and feverish
when they meet.
And with all this
comes a subtle sense

of hope.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

Tribue to W.C.W.

I really enjoy the poetry of William Carlos Williams. I find it simple yet complex, a quality I'd like to achieve in my own writing. To that end, and to amuse myself while I should be working, I have written the poem below, a tribute to the infamous Williams poem, The Red Wheelbarrow. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Wheelbarrow

The Silver Tercel

so much depends
upon

a silver
tercel

rusting with the passing
years

upon the darkened
drive

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007

Tuesday Night

i smell the
country biscuits you
are baking for us.

...and i smile.

the familiarity of it all
wraps around me
like a worn, woolen blanket
- keeps me sheltered, warm

love like this
is second to none
(second to none
but you and i)

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2007.

I am from...

I am from
rows upon rows of post-war homes.
I am from
sitting on my Papa's lap on his 72nd birthday,
his sweater thick with pipe smoke.
I am from
mashed potatoes and typical vegetables.
I am from
"treat people the way you want to be treated."
I am from
the rolling, muddy banks of Loch Lomond.
I am from dancing with my husband, even when there
is no music
I am from
fishing on Long Lake in the shadow of the setting sun
I am from
sarcasm
I am from
living my life to the fullest
every chance I get.
This is where
I am from.