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Richard Younger

Purveyor of Fine Tunes for All Ages
Music / Movement Specialist
Writer

Articles

early poetry

when I walked the poet's walk and talked the young poet's talk....

the tired sun

The muddy Chari river bottom

shows up brown on

the surface

tree cut hollows and

boats of tied sticks move

slowly

against the bare landscape

the fish that once filled these waters

are dwindling

the drought is relentless

a mass of birds dart under

the black edged clouds

as they fade into shadow

I think of home

watching

the tired sun

burn

into ash



Memory River

Dusk almost

gray light falling

from the African sky

riding a white palamino along the Chari River

the people of the shoreline

preparing dinner

fish and indistinguishable vegetables

galloping along the wide empty beach

on an Arabian horse

miles from the equator



Verse for the Begger

What could I do

for the swollen-bellied cattle

what could I give?

blood,

money,

tears?

bags of skin around bony shells

heads lost in the dusty wind

standing on the side of the road

with nowhere to think of going in

this endless

African summer

the stupid American dollar

blows carelessly in the wind

only the hungry dog

lifts his nose



The Hunter

Sifting out of the woodlands

crowded bodies

wooden bones

midnight on the forest floor

last day in Yellowstone

Slowly ascending the barren heights

dry pale grass blown flat

in dark forboding twilight

gray clouds edged in black

One mile high

on Mount Washburn

wild goats bleating

in the cool thin air

and we stopped,

afraid

wondering how animal minds

perceived us

as mama, baby, brother and sister

scampered up the inevitable slope

icy ran fell

and mountains held blue fires

in the Rocky distance



Thinking of Pate Valley

I’m homesick!

This can’t be home

out, out of this prison city

and down the hint of a trail

that

drawn for miles

delivered me along the

spine of Pate Valley

No glare in the Pacific heavens above

away from all these cultural infections

and back

down

into

the

i

n

t

e

r

i

o

r

where no business suit salesman

can find me

dust kicking up behind me

into the early void

I go



Above a smoke clouded floor

in a lavender light

a trumpet is bending

to an empty hall

ear to the wall

I crouch

listening to the crying

that is held by the man’s hand

and think, “how sad” and “for whom,”

this sweet sad song with no words

a trumpet bends

a broken heart

hands in pocket

I leave the…


In October

we piled the dead leaves high

lawn softened apples

wet thugs

through the bending and the lifting

through the web of branches on the scarcely leaf-clad trees

why did your face

through the foliage I see?

Winter fell before us

duties and other cities called us apart

head bent to the sun-dying west

I turn away



October morning

awake to find myself

on white sand

gazing out at a panorama

as wide and high as the eyes will allow

I remember it now….L’estaque

I sailed there with Cezanne

salt moving unnoticed in the wind

at this small hour

when snails drift with the salty tide

and day pulls itself up the beach

an old man, blamed by tatters

and a long blue face

give to him

he that the saints would not give to

stumbling minister

lost piper at the gates of neon and redbrick


London

I see two legs disappearing into St. Christopher’s

“Quick…” and the hungry heart follows

and later, company on the Strand

river motion singing through the blood.

The round jewel of the nearyoung woman held close

who picked an apple from an unseen cart

and from my soul the mirror of my sorrow

was also picked


Nightbridge over milkblue waters

toward toppling Big Ben

Giant timeface above the hushed and crouching city

Starhung tons of steel above the foglost streets

midnight hymn of twelve doleful tones

The scent of wetted wood

her eyes soft and yielding


Straw and sandcolored hair about low rounded shoulders

juice jeweled skin

the free and upturned breast

“You are terrible.”

Yet she hugs on

in the dim awful ratceller of our dreams


her words

all marble

her eyes

a pulsing flame


Streetside vendors in the morning pushcart lanes

She cups an apple from a passing row

Small stones break the waxed skin

Soft and furrowed teeth of pearl

Slow gainly gate

skirting towards me

Walking towards me

in a seaside fog


I am walking through a crowd

but it is not I

It is I and another

Oxford Street be warned

she will not let me go, and I won’t let her

Aside, aside for the calm moving flower