Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Thanks
I 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.
Little Pieces
I've fallen upon
little pieces of you.
They were perched
in silence, clustered
like birds in the rafters,
heads tucked under
wing to protect them from
the December wind. I've arrived;
unannounced;
throwing open the doors
and letting the gales traverse
the wood-slatted walls,
breaking upon the
little bird pieces,
and watching
their scattered departure
with hope-helpless eyes.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
little pieces of you.
They were perched
in silence, clustered
like birds in the rafters,
heads tucked under
wing to protect them from
the December wind. I've arrived;
unannounced;
throwing open the doors
and letting the gales traverse
the wood-slatted walls,
breaking upon the
little bird pieces,
and watching
their scattered departure
with hope-helpless eyes.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Moustache
like an old-time moustache
riding haughtily upon
a fine gentleman's
upper lip, you
are comical to me
riding haughtily upon
a fine gentleman's
upper lip, you
are comical to me
Monday, May 7, 2012
Workers
We dug all Sunday -
dug those trenches
so long and so straight;
their disappearance over
the horizon a primary school
lesson in perspective.
We dug and toiled and
sweat, right there next
to the 401,
watching Impalas and
Intrepids and Hyundai
Tuscons enter and exit
our lives with not a
thought. We dug all
Sunday; dug, and worked,
and wept, and had
our words on the day
of rest, because for us,
there never is any.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
dug those trenches
so long and so straight;
their disappearance over
the horizon a primary school
lesson in perspective.
We dug and toiled and
sweat, right there next
to the 401,
watching Impalas and
Intrepids and Hyundai
Tuscons enter and exit
our lives with not a
thought. We dug all
Sunday; dug, and worked,
and wept, and had
our words on the day
of rest, because for us,
there never is any.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
Monday, April 30, 2012
I lied!
I forgot about this one I wrote a few months ago:
The Day the Milk Turned Sour
Over puddled cobblestones
she tromped,
arms overfilled
with eggs, bread, cheese,
and milk -
groceries bound for
home, bundled in
brown paper.
Down,
down,
down,
she plodded and slogged
to where the picket gate,
nudged by hip,
opened to a stone walkway.
Even nearing death, when
the dementia had stolen
names of children,
faces of grandchildren,
and most everything else from
her mind, she
could still recall every
inch of that day, when
brown loafers led
little feet over
worn stones
to the whitewashed
walls of her childhood.
Yes.
Every footfall, every
rock's delicate sheen, every
stretch of impossible moss
overwhelming the path,
every piteous ant
that discovered itself in her line,
every damned scent that
entered her nostrils
would be remembered;
on the day milk
smash-spilled on linoleum
and snaked below the icebox,
where, untended to,
it befouled the usually
immaculate kitchen - the day
my Gran found her
father there,
head in oven.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
The Day the Milk Turned Sour
Over puddled cobblestones
she tromped,
arms overfilled
with eggs, bread, cheese,
and milk -
groceries bound for
home, bundled in
brown paper.
Down,
down,
down,
she plodded and slogged
to where the picket gate,
nudged by hip,
opened to a stone walkway.
Even nearing death, when
the dementia had stolen
names of children,
faces of grandchildren,
and most everything else from
her mind, she
could still recall every
inch of that day, when
brown loafers led
little feet over
worn stones
to the whitewashed
walls of her childhood.
Yes.
Every footfall, every
rock's delicate sheen, every
stretch of impossible moss
overwhelming the path,
every piteous ant
that discovered itself in her line,
every damned scent that
entered her nostrils
would be remembered;
on the day milk
smash-spilled on linoleum
and snaked below the icebox,
where, untended to,
it befouled the usually
immaculate kitchen - the day
my Gran found her
father there,
head in oven.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
Long 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).
a determined child is one who,
despite the clear objections of the butterfly,
will pursue, and pursue, and pursue
the poor creature, until her
chubby fingers are allowed one
swift graze of the wing or back,
whereupon the butterfly disappears
like wildfire, and the child's
squeals fill my backyard.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
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!
a determined child is one who,
despite the clear objections of the butterfly,
will pursue, and pursue, and pursue
the poor creature, until her
chubby fingers are allowed one
swift graze of the wing or back,
whereupon the butterfly disappears
like wildfire, and the child's
squeals fill my backyard.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
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!
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