pariah

you have made yourself a pariah,

awash with irony, the ivory will not

polish, and as the eternal reprobate,

you fool no one but yourself.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Syrian Mother

"The snipers, who have

no fear of god, killed him",

and he was ripped from

your children's

pudgy, groping fingers,

that will now forever

be in need of their father's

hand, smell, sweater,

love.

I envision your hidden

lips a withering crescent,

and you, a widow too soon,

will decay alongside

the corpse of your

martyred husband.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Mr. Woods, the Jester

In a banquet hall,

I was the wench

with a fake accent;

breasts to match - and you,

the jester who could

not be quieted.

Here there were

silver platters

piled with food to be served

to the waiting throngs, and

the guests, in want of

fork or knife, continued

to play and laugh on

at it all - because the jester

could not be quieted.

I was glad for you

in my company then,

with all your happy glory;

wayward glances,

forlorn dances through

the glass pane room, on

a night where I finally

found my voice.

Years pass, and now

I hear your banjo strum

with fuel in the lyrics,

voice unyielding in loss.

Who she was I may

always wonder, but

myself, I will forever

know.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

structures

for every

weakened frame

there is

a house to

hold it.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Reckoning

They just roll into one another now,

each year, each wrinkle, each hair turned

gray by passing day, every new morning -

a curse-perfect, blessed thing.

Always humbled by the haste of time,

for some there reamins a need to

gild the armour and prepare for the

onslaught -

men with their pitchforks,

kerosene dipped rags, set ablaze upon

wooden supports, mountainous hordes

outreaching for every piece of us.

They will come. They always do.

But not yet. So onward, all you sordid souls -

onward still over disquiet and worry,

over shame and revenge, over the mounds

of putrid battles there before you -

to the edges of the emboldened sea - follow me,

for I will be your captain.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

5 words

When they rang in his ears,

a space was filled that

previously had no voice or name,

only the empty remorse of

missed birthdays, unpaid bills,

and niecesandnephews never met.

But in the deafening loneliness of

the local grocer's, unexpectedly

facing eyes from his past, his

canned fish aisle life became

evident when a wagging finger

and shaking ponytail lamented

his trouble with meth.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Duel

When faith becomes analogous

with fate, (if it is not already),

you and I will then stamp

out our paces

- opposing each other

and ourselves,

unflinching 'til we turn,

unarmed but for our words.

And here our truths be told -

I, the penitent Magdalene;

you, the finger exclaiming

"whore".

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

bob

that 21 seconds, where he

spider crawled across

the planter in her mind,

and then scaled the couch

with his arachnid arms,

feelers outstretched,

terrified

me at first sight

and keeps me up now,

when all others slumber.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

A few lines going nowhere fast

I really don't have a specific method for writing. Things just pop in my head and I go for them. Sometimes a set of lines, or a specific word just show up in my brainstorming, and I procede from there, building a poem around them. I have these two lines that I have been trying to work with for the last couple of days, and I'm going to post them here, and then post a poem that contains them later. We'll see where they go. I've tried a few times to contain them in a poem, but I'm all over the place in terms of the rest of the content. So, I'll post the beginnings of what I have. Here they are:

I, the penitent Magdalene -

you, the finger exclaiming "whore"

I feel like these are the last two lines of a poem....I just don't have that poem. Ha ha. Oh well. Later.

I just can't write long poems

It's true. I really suck at them. So here's another short one.

Dinnerware

Her resolve shatter-scattered like

plate on ceramic, losing itself with

dust and crumbs beneath the gas stove.

Obsidian eyes followed her denim to the

closet for broom and back, where she

stooped to dispose of the fallen, so

delicate the former design.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.