tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52310624486277195132024-03-08T12:50:25.262-05:00I am from...I always tell my students they shouldn't be afraid to share their writing.....so I decided to stop being a hypocrite. Here is my poetry...Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-90639336055967033852014-09-14T07:13:00.004-04:002014-09-14T07:13:46.964-04:00The WaspI watch a wasp labour<br />
across August pavement,<br />
feet scorched for<br />
want of working wings.<br />
<br />
<br />
I pump my gas,<br />
chew an indignant hangnail,<br />
ponder this wretch's
<br />
end.<br />
<br />
<br />
Misery thick like heat,<br />
fuel stops. I re-holster,
<br />
then euthanize<br />
<br />
with size four flats.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-4284944846387048242012-06-12T14:21:00.002-04:002012-06-12T14:21:59.113-04:00Family DinnerKnives scratch like<br />
warning sirens across<br />
plates and platters;<br />
forks stab listlessly at<br />
leftover hunks of<br />
meat, congealing<br />
in pools of fat;<br />
glasses clunk<br />
hastily on polished<br />
oak; watches are<br />
checked, then<br />
checked again.<br />
Just another family<br />
dinner turned cold,<br />
long before the food<br />
itself.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-14180360879276892192012-06-07T09:55:00.001-04:002012-06-07T09:55:36.780-04:00Syriaman above, see them dying<br />
on the ground, their bodies lying<br />
discarded in the guttered street<br />
final breath, last heart's beat<br />
a silent prayer in communal breast<br />
too many souls to lay to rest<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-36370194874307553272012-05-30T13:32:00.002-04:002012-05-30T13:32:38.692-04:00ThanksI just wanted to write a quick thank you to anyone who has come here to read my writing, even if it was by accident. Ha ha! I can't believe that anyone other than people I know have even been here. In any case, a big thanks - truly.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-83360651560898907162012-05-30T13:25:00.002-04:002012-06-07T10:18:11.486-04:00Little PiecesI've fallen upon<br />
little pieces of you.<br />
They were perched<br />
in silence, clustered<br />
like birds in the rafters,<br />
heads tucked under<br />
wing to protect them from<br />
the December wind. I've arrived;<br />
unannounced;<br />
throwing open the doors<br />
and letting the gales traverse<br />
the wood-slatted walls,<br />
breaking upon the<br />
little bird pieces,<br />
and watching<br />
their scattered departure<br />
with hope-helpless eyes.<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-62995235004705133332012-05-23T20:47:00.002-04:002012-05-30T13:14:07.258-04:00Rain falls from a cloudless sky,<br />
Looking for some leaflife to
nourish,<br />
much like this mother -
full of potential,<br />
but useless.<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-31147880812179496462012-05-21T07:56:00.003-04:002012-05-21T07:56:55.187-04:00Moustachelike an old-time moustache<br />
riding haughtily upon<br />
a fine gentleman's<br />
upper lip, you<br />
are comical to me<br />
<br />
<br />Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-34330896584536116722012-05-07T10:11:00.001-04:002012-05-07T10:11:27.746-04:00WorkersWe dug all Sunday -<br />
dug those trenches<br />
so long and so straight;<br />
their disappearance over<br />
the horizon a primary school<br />
lesson in perspective.<br />
We dug and toiled and<br />
sweat, right there next<br />
to the 401,<br />
watching Impalas and<br />
Intrepids and Hyundai<br />
Tuscons enter and exit<br />
our lives with not a<br />
thought. We dug all<br />
Sunday; dug, and worked,<br />
and wept, and had<br />
our words on the day<br />
of rest, because for us,<br />
there never is any.<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-19362887625150366922012-04-30T09:42:00.001-04:002012-04-30T09:42:30.907-04:00I lied!I forgot about this one I wrote a few months ago:<br />
<br />
The Day the Milk Turned Sour<br />
<br />
Over puddled cobblestones<br />
she tromped,<br />
arms overfilled<br />
with eggs, bread, cheese,<br />
and milk -<br />
groceries bound for<br />
home, bundled in<br />
brown paper.<br />
Down,<br />
down,<br />
down,<br />
she plodded and slogged<br />
to where the picket gate,<br />
nudged by hip,<br />
opened to a stone walkway.<br />
<br />
Even nearing death, when<br />
the dementia had stolen<br />
names of children,<br />
faces of grandchildren,<br />
and most everything else from<br />
her mind, she<br />
could still recall every<br />
inch of that day, when<br />
brown loafers led<br />
little feet over<br />
worn stones<br />
to the whitewashed<br />
walls of her childhood.<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
Every footfall, every<br />
rock's delicate sheen, every<br />
stretch of impossible moss<br />
overwhelming the path,<br />
every piteous ant<br />
that discovered itself in her line,<br />
every damned scent that<br />
entered her nostrils<br />
would be remembered;<br />
on the day milk<br />
smash-spilled on linoleum<br />
and snaked below the icebox,<br />
where, untended to,<br />
it befouled the usually<br />
immaculate kitchen - the day<br />
my Gran found her<br />
father there,<br />
head in oven.<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-87055081801121752922012-04-30T09:28:00.000-04:002012-04-30T09:28:09.651-04:00Long time......no see. Regrettably, I have neglected my writing for some time now. Sometimes I just can't find time for my kids AND me. I am making a better effort at it though. I was actually just checking in here to see when my last post was, and indeed, it has been a longer expanse of time than I thought. So, I actually have no new writing prepared, so I'm going to try a little experiment here. A challenge for myself. That is, in about ten seconds, I'm just going to write the first things/words/ideas that come to my head, and I'm not going to allow myself to go back and correct anything. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, so that's a problem for my brain. Here goes: (I bet it won't be a long one! Ha ha).<br />
<br />
a determined child is one who,<br />
despite the clear objections of the butterfly,<br />
will pursue, and pursue, and pursue<br />
the poor creature, until her<br />
chubby fingers are allowed one<br />
swift graze of the wing or back,<br />
whereupon the butterfly disappears<br />
like wildfire, and the child's<br />
squeals fill my backyard.<br />
<br />
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay.....not bad. I see some things I would add, change, correct.....but not tons. I have to stick to my promise, so here I go. Post!<br />
<br />
<br />Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-84587691046534166592012-03-08T22:34:00.002-05:002012-03-08T22:45:43.932-05:00To my husband<div>I hope you enjoyed the</div><div>Ring Pop I put</div><div>in your lunch today.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was our daughter's, and</div><div>I stole it from her.</div><div>(Don't fret - there are more).</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted you to taste your</div><div>childhood again. I hope</div><div>it was sweet, and juicy,</div><div>and deliciously vivid.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mine was cherry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div><div><br /></div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-18754725586896599362012-03-05T09:20:00.002-05:002012-03-05T09:22:06.778-05:00LocustA bloom to dote upon, to<div>celebrate in verse and frame,</div><div>to pluck, to decorate, to admire.</div><div><br /></div><div>A plague that devastates, shadowing</div><div>the land in a heaving swarm; a</div><div>pestilence to fear, to evade, to hate.</div><div><br /></div><div>The dichotomy of a </div><div>single word.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-23920804176038384482012-02-25T22:14:00.001-05:002012-02-25T22:16:05.604-05:00pariahyou have made yourself a pariah,<div>awash with irony, the ivory will not</div><div>polish, and as the eternal reprobate,</div><div>you fool no one but yourself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-13952889219894226972012-02-24T22:51:00.004-05:002012-02-25T22:05:24.784-05:00Syrian Mother"The snipers, who have<div>no fear of god, killed him",</div><div>and he was <span style="font-size: 100%; ">ripped from </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">your children's</span></div><div>pudgy, groping fingers,</div><div>that will now forever</div><div>be in need of <span style="font-size: 100%; ">their father's </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">hand, smell, sweater,</span></div><div>love.</div><div><br /></div><div>I envision your hidden </div><div>lips a withering crescent,</div><div>and you, a widow too soon,</div><div>will decay alongside</div><div>the corpse of your</div><div>martyred husband.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-74715589104784274312012-02-19T22:35:00.003-05:002012-02-21T14:45:16.361-05:00Mr. Woods, the JesterIn a banquet hall,<span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I was the </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">wench </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">with a fake accent; </span><div>breasts to match - and you,</div><div>the jester who could </div><div>not be quieted. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here <span style="font-size: 100%; ">there were </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">silver platters</span><div>piled with food to be served</div><div>to the waiting throngs, and</div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">the </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">guests, in want of</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">fork or knife, continued</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">to play and laugh on</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">at it all - because the jester</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">could not be quieted.</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I was glad for you</div><div>in my company then,</div><div>with all your happy glory;</div><div>wayward glances,</div><div>forlorn dances through</div><div>the glass pane room, on</div><div>a night where I finally </div><div>found my voice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Years pass, and now </div><div>I hear your banjo strum</div><div>with fuel in the lyrics,</div><div>voice unyielding in loss.</div><div>Who she was I may</div><div>always wonder, but</div><div>myself, I will forever</div><div>know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div></div></div></div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-37204695010870396902012-02-16T09:59:00.003-05:002012-02-16T10:00:40.654-05:00structuresfor every <div>weakened frame</div><div>there is </div><div>a house to</div><div>hold it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-62439408553083041022012-02-15T11:34:00.006-05:002012-02-16T09:56:29.391-05:00Reckoning<span style="font-size: 100%; "><span style="font-size: 100%;">They just roll into one another now,</span></span><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span >each year, each wrinkle, each hair turned</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span >gray by passing day, every</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; "> new morning -</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; ">a curse-perfect, blessed thing.</span><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Always humbled by the haste of time,</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">for some there reamins a need to </span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span >gild<span style="font-size: 100%;"> the armour </span></span><span style=" ">and prepare for the </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span style=" ">onslaught -</span></div><div face="Georgia, serif" size="3" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">men with their pitchforks,</div><div face="Georgia, serif" size="3" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">kerosene dipped rags, set ablaze upon </div><div face="Georgia, serif" size="3" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">wooden supports, mountainous hordes </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">outreaching <span style=" ">for every piece of us.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style=" ">They will come. They always do.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style=" ">But not yet. So onward, all you sordid souls -</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style=" ">onward still over disquiet and worry,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style=" ">over shame and revenge, over the mounds</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >of putrid battles there before you -</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >to the edges of the emboldened sea - follow me,</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 100%; ">or I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 100%; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); ">will be your captain.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-72721262479655102472012-02-14T11:53:00.004-05:002012-02-14T12:13:00.881-05:005 wordsWhen they rang in his ears, <div>a space was filled that </div><div>previously had no voice or name, </div><div>only the empty remorse of </div><div>missed birthdays, unpaid bills, </div><div>and niecesandnephews never met.</div><div>But in the deafening loneliness of </div><div>the local grocer's, unexpectedly </div><div>facing eyes from his past, his</div><div>canned fish aisle life became </div><div>evident when a wagging finger</div><div>and shaking ponytail lamented</div><div>his trouble with meth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-76547000389447685162012-02-08T12:14:00.001-05:002012-02-08T12:16:46.468-05:00DuelWhen faith becomes analogous<div>with fate, (if it is not already),</div><div>you and I will then stamp</div><div>out our paces</div><div>- opposing each other</div><div>and ourselves,</div><div>unflinching 'til we turn,</div><div>unarmed but for our words.</div><div>And here our truths be told -</div><div>I, the penitent Magdalene;</div><div>you, the finger exclaiming</div><div>"whore".</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-23449014789230282202012-02-07T11:35:00.002-05:002012-02-07T11:37:15.160-05:00bobthat 21 seconds, where he<div>spider crawled across </div><div>the planter in her mind,</div><div>and then scaled the couch</div><div>with his arachnid arms,</div><div>feelers outstretched,</div><div>terrified</div><div>me at first sight</div><div>and keeps me up now,</div><div>when all others slumber.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-88364442863375941062012-02-07T11:23:00.002-05:002012-02-07T11:29:36.100-05:00A few lines going nowhere fastI 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:<div><br /></div><div>I, the penitent Magdalene -</div><div>you, the finger exclaiming "whore"</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like these are the last two lines of a poem....I just don't have that poem. Ha ha. Oh well. Later.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-76297958246125771542012-02-05T22:58:00.003-05:002012-02-05T23:03:41.654-05:00I just can't write long poemsIt's true. I really suck at them. So here's another short one.<div><br /></div><div><b>Dinnerware</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Her resolve shatter-scattered like </div><div>plate on ceramic, losing itself with</div><div>dust and crumbs beneath the gas stove.</div><div>Obsidian eyes followed her denim to the</div><div>closet for broom and back, where she</div><div>stooped to dispose of the fallen, so</div><div>delicate the former design.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-6860504153856753772012-01-31T19:46:00.003-05:002012-01-31T19:48:59.860-05:00Haiku - MangoesFirst haiku attempt since a grade five assignment, where I wrote:<div><br /></div><div>The hen lays her eggs</div><div>in a soft, delicate nest</div><div>and waits for her chicks</div><div><br /></div><div>This is technically more of a haiku than the one below, since it is about nature. Oh well.</div><div><br /></div><div>husband and daughter</div><div>slice mangoes in my kitchen</div><div>lovely to taste, see</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-57969036527817226962012-01-23T20:43:00.003-05:002012-01-23T22:22:22.018-05:00To the shop clerkseeing my arms overfilled<div>with baby and worry,</div><div>you mounted</div><div>your stallion</div><div>and </div><div>whisked me</div><div>off to a closed lane </div><div>that became open</div><div>at your word.</div><div>you bagged my</div><div>bananas and eggs</div><div>and</div><div>frozen pizzas,</div><div><br /></div><div>and with the smallest</div><div>of gestures</div><div>made the greatest of</div><div>impressions.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012</div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231062448627719513.post-49145163349980090422012-01-21T23:52:00.004-05:002012-01-22T15:08:15.479-05:00These words are strung together,<div>cascading vines</div><div>descending from great lumbering</div><div>masses of trees,</div><div>wandering and trailing away,</div><div>losing themselves in</div><div>the tepid night.</div><div>Excusing an insufficient bearing, </div><div>they writhe in a bed of decaying</div><div>foliage, and slink off</div><div>through the umbrage,</div><div>edging</div><div>through forested thoughts,</div><div>advancing upon</div><div>perdition.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06429216397755249291noreply@blogger.com0