Michael T. Young: To Fly
Maybe it’s a vision so clear the dark can’t darken it,
and the mountainous range of roadblocks
and barricades can’t dim the image of it. It’s fixed
and steady. An unchanging map in our blood
Michael T. Young: Reflections on Richard Hugo’s Poetry
I believed the necessity
of that suffering world, hoping it would learn not to do
it again. But I was young. The world never learns.
Michael T. Young: Dutch Hex Signs
They spoke a language that smelled of horsehair
and tasted of apple butter and red beet eggs
Corona's Jaws: An Anthology of Poetry
Poems by Cynthia Atkins, Jose Alcantara, Judith Alexander Brice, Michael T. Young, Sydney Lea, Charlie Brice, John Samuel Tieman, and Adrian Rice.
Michael T. Young: The Gift
I’m rocked into fields
of a lyrical witness, history rolls over
glittering in sunlight
Michael T. Young: The Monster Under My Daughter’s Bed
During bedtime my little spider monkey
asked what we’re doing about global warming
Michael T. Young: Mulch Baptism
The green folds of hillside
in the distance will open like arms to embrace you,
our soils enriched by the return,
the reminder of who we all are.
Michael T. Young: Cataract
Prayers and wonder in these arches flicker
into smoke and ash, a single, blind beating wing
Michael T. Young: Scrawl
He likes to repeat to himself a phrase from a Keats letter: I will clamber through the clouds and exist. It steadies him like leaning against trees, or brewing coffee … Continue reading