Archive for the ‘Scot Young’ Category

–for christopher robin

there are things as a child
we do not understand
and what we do not
we make up

when we ate our vegetables
said our prayers
and left the light turned on
the world was a much
better pace

under a bed tent
made of sheets
i clicked the light
when something moved–
knowing full well
that even brussell sprouts
were no match
for closet shadows

mother said keep
the door closed
they would stay away
but they did not
stay away
they danced out to
juggle my toys
sang my name
in mocking songs

i would fall asleep
white knuckles
holding down the sheets
casting a shadow

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above the tree line by Scot Young

welch wrote
his last poem
at snyder’s cabin
went southwest
w/ a .303 and half
pint of lonesome

at sunset the
wind whistles
the blues through
a ring of bone
blues through
the pine
not stopping
at the tree line
like campfire smoke
you can no longer see
carried by the high wind
through the twisted and broken

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i do not pray
to the god of bukowski
or howl at city lights
wanting to become famous
wanting to be the next best thing
masturbating my ego
with ten will get you twenty
by strangers and hangers on

i do not pray
to the god of bukowski
but have on occasion
sinned by sprinkling
his name like holy water
on old testament
hoping it would save me

i do not sing the poet neon
for these poems are not part
of the poet only
but of the altar
i do not sing
i wanna be a poet
but acknowledge
it is ok for you

my god–
i only strive
to put one
in front of the other
and hold it there
long enough
for it to matter
to somebody

if i get
a small amen
from anyone who rode
the same train
or maybe
a second of time
well that is enough

for me

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brautigan never
wrote a haiku love sonnet
and nailed it to a

street lamp in downtown
san francisco so you would
walk by and see it

on a moon beam night
just like this one—a poem
a bay breeze moving

it just enough so
you will notice before turn
ing on market but

on this night it will be rain
ing in love just like he


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best laid plans by scot young

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found poem, TIME, 2/1/10

Long Gay Line

The Port-au-Prince
cemetery has no
more room, but the
dead keep coming.
Chickens flap free
among the graves
& in the city
what they can

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Dan Quisenberry

i scanned the poetry section
on christmas eve at prospero’s
in kansas city
and stuck between julia vinograd
and the late great allen ginsberg
was a collection by dan quisenberry

pitcher in game six for kc
the game  the bunch from st louis
still cry about 24 years later

i stood and read his book
about baseball instead of buying it—
(i know  i am as guilty
as anyone)
had an ode to dick howser
how he lead this small market team
managed his last year with brain cancer
–quiz quoted howser’s favorite phrase

piss on it—get ‘em tomorrow

when things went wrong
but that only goes so far

and a google search turned up
that this submarine throwing
poet also died
of the same cancer
i should have know that but
i left baseball in 1985—thought
nothing could top that-
nothing has

and on a day like this
i hope someone will write a poem
about baseball
or christmas eve
or dan quisenberry

–Scot Young

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