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Poetry not for the masses

by on July 27, 2021

I’ve found a large stash of my poems and wanted to share with you guys.

Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals
or
I Rattle When I Walk

by J. Daniel Young
January 17, 2012

A glaring alarm wakes
me in the morning
as I pull myself from
last night’s dream.
I look over at the clock
and glare back at it.
Opening the ‘fridge,
the double rows of a plastic container
stares blankly at me.
With sleepy, fumbling hands
I grapple with the pill container
pouring today’s contents into my palm.
Two orange pills to my better health,
two red ones to my better attitude,
and yet one more, white, fat and round.
I swallow cautiously one or two at a time.

The day ends with me resetting the alarm.
The ‘fridge again.
Another intimate moment with the pill container.
This time I take more of the two orange for health.
Another, this one red and white accompanies it.
The big fat white round one buried amongst the rest.
A small blue one to maintain blood sugar.
Two small white ones, each with differing purposes.
And the grand daddy of them all,
the big-fat-yellow one.
It makes my head ring and causes the weird dreams
that will be playing in the morning
when the alarm tells me to start it all again.

The Last Kiss Goodnight
by J. Daniel Young
12/26/2010

I know who you are, with your white skinless
face shrouded in black.
Bony white fingers clasping a
Curved knife topped staff

I know who you are, tracking my every move
Like a hound, fast on the trail
I glimpse your face, reflected in the
teapot each morning.

I know who you are, holding the contract
We each signed when we first
Screamed our lungs full.
You are there to kiss our
Final breath away, leaving us
In a darkness without end.

Your visage aimed to frighten the
Old man who awaits yours,
The last kiss goodnight.

Young men do not fear you
As you are the specter of the old,
Yet you stalk them too
An unexpected guest, come too soon.

Even in my youth, I know you.
a sickly child learns to smell your
stench; that of the arse of hell
and the sulfer of sewage.

Perhaps you had forgotten
me in my youth, only to
learn my scent as autumnal
winds surround what was
once a summered me.

Yes, I know you, yet I have never
feared your reflection
for I have learned to accept
you like a birthmark on
my hand – always there
and easily ignored.

Airport Observations
by J. Daniel Young
12/6/2012

I am reflective as I watch airport visitors.
Each hustling to their flight, struggling  
with luggage, children, guilt.  
Happiness forced in this land of pixie dust and fairy tales.  
Yet another place people flock to only to find they’ve ended  
with empty wallets and sunburns. 
Some small moment of happiness –  
on a ride or in the arms of some stranger.   
I look at children dressed similarly by their parents  
– some silently observing as I do.  
Others crying, fighting, goofing off.   
People lost in headphones –  
casting out the verbal joys, pains, or complaints of others.  
I watch, listen, ignore, assume.   
The fat infant across from me, oblivious, wearing his father’s eyes. 
All waiting for that monstrosity to fly us back home – or someplace different.  
Black luggage on wheels, sleepy eyes, t-shirts with today’s slogans.  
Shoes clicking and scuffing at the tiles.  
Fidgeting feet and hands – none the idle.   
Business men with headphones, laptops and weary looks.   
Some have stopped for an overpriced beer  
before heading home to the wives they’ve cheated on,  
like last year’s taxes.   
A woman in a hot pink track suit too small for her ass  
– munching on calories unneeded, like so many of us.   
The smell of greasy food, bodily functions and the colognes 
meant to cover or disguise. 
Idle chatter, deep conversation.   
What invisible electric waves  
of email, texts, phone calls pass through our bodies. 
Her eyes are closed, is she asleep? Meditating? Blocking it out?  
Teens all looking the same.  
No one original – cookie cutter results,  
ball caps, t-shirts, shorts, jeans,  
but always the latest fashion, keeping up,  
surpassing someone else.  
Fake concern and false smiles.  
Soda and water bottles by the millions. 

Pieces and Parts 
by J. Daniel Young 
08/20/2012

No matter how many times I try, I cannot 
save the chicken from the hilarity that ensued.
When we three boys in the trailer park caught 
a chicken that escaped from Mrs. Bussell’s wired  
pen, I didn’t understand my brother and cousin’s plan  
for the barnyard animal. 
My cousin’s mischievous grin widened when, pulling 
a pocketed firecracker from his dirt caked jeans, he lit 
the short fuse. The detonation after releasing 
the feathered victim accentuated the squawk of the fowl  
when the burning ember of the fuse met gun powder. 
Never trust three boys with a chicken,  
a firecracker and mom’s stolen lighter. 
The cock’s rump will never be the same again. 

Ode to a Blue Shirt 
by J. Daniel Young 
08/20/2012

I watched you walking by and I wonder, 
how you will look on my floor, the contents 
of which are spilled out on my bed.  The skin 
of the young man that left you there 
shivers beneath my warm hands. 
His sweat is not soaked up by you 
but by my lime green bed sheets. 

From → exploring

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