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The Web Poetry Corner

Terry Young

of

San Jose, CA, US

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terry@kerouacalley.org (Terry Young)

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Ode to a Lady

by

Terry Young

Ya gotta be tough to sing the blued.
The blues ain't no holiday.
The blues is the BLUES!

You go sing it girl.
Ain't nobody can hurt you now.
Not now, not ever.

Let them blue notes float!
Let them 'ol sad riffs come on.
The hurtin is gone.

Footprints

by

Terry Young

Bending to the wind
a mountain pine sheds its snow.
Where are your footprints?

Moonlight and shadows,
Leaves rustle in the night breeze.
Another star falls.

Only a snow bank
Where you stood last winter.
It’s been a year now.

Flower Child

by

Terry Young

So where are you now,
Little lady with sad eyes?
How you touched me then.

Armed with a red rose,
You confronted the soldiers.
I was a soldier.

No hate in those eyes,
Those sad beautiful dark eyes.
You gave me that rose.

You were but a child,
And I ancient at nineteen.
You melted my heart.

You were my captor.
You with your deadly red rose.
So where are you now?

Chicago Ice

by

Terry Young

Chicago ice nights
On the Loop,
Peering into windows
Of great steaks & chops,

Smelling glorious
Bread & butter
Melting in the snow drifts,

Tasting frostbitten salads
Of the South Side
& warming in the glow
Of a Greyhound’s exhaust,

Drinking steamy coffee
over gloomy
man hole covers
& sampling
Apple pie in
Dark alleys
of Cicero.

Frozen stars crackling
In December wind,
snowflakes covering
the very moon,
I head West.

North Country

by

Terry Young

January in the North Country,

Icy stars
plodding through
Skies of winter,

Just as they always have.

Long dead suns
Of forgotten galaxies
Dogging me
Across an ocean
of time,
casting no shadows
On the pristine snow banks
Of the present.

Somewhere behind
The forsaken moon
Lie the frozen
Dreams of the past,
Crackling like Ice sickles
In the night.

Notes From the Village

by

Terry Young

Bleecker Street
just before
November dawn,

Winking
corner stoplight
flashing only red
to vacant Sunday
streets,

Old newspaper
Blowing,
unread,
down empty sidewalk
of hangover morning,

Gusts of New York
Puffing down sad alleys
Of broken amber glass,

Poor kitty,
Mad with fright,
Poor kitty,
Hidden from sight.

Hands in my pockets,
Coat collar high,
i bow into the
Callous autumn wind,

Past the frigid lights
And locked doors
Of last night’s
Cafes,
Yesterday’s
bookstalls,

Smells of impending
Rain waft through
Red brick
And hang like
Moldy rags
Above the lamp posts.

Facing the creaking
Branches of
Washington Square,
I see old friends’
Faces in
The yellow-orange
Leaves of fall,

Unseen,
Unknown,
I glide,
Wispy and ghost-like,
Sailing past an Atlantic
Sunrise,

And the rest of my
Brittle life.

LA Christmas Card

by

Terry Young

A hundred-million lights
reflecting on an orange
& starless sky,
freeway beams
& December gloom,
cold streets of forgotten angels,
lost children of America’s night,
all huddling in the hopeless
wino alleys of winter.

Oh how those raindrops slap
on the ancient sidewalks,
taunting the sad bums of
LA misery.

California dreams mingle with
Mekong nightmares
on this Christmas Eve.
A rumble of artillery,
A tinkle of bells,
A scent of napalm ,
& a wisp of pine
linger in the Holy Night.

Ol Marie

by

Terry Young

Mississippi by the river banks.

Mark Twain steamboats slipping
past iron barges,
Gliding toward Vicksburg
And the sad mud of
New Orleans.

Old cotton down there.

Old men down there,
Drying in the cruel sun
Of August,
dying in the
Mosquito nights
Of summer.

Heat-flash lightning.

Cajun shotgun man,
Gunning for food
In the dank bayous
Of voodoo-witch midnight
and cottonmouth slime.

Dead don’t stay in ground
Down there,
Too wet, the ground,
Too dead, the dead.
Too dark, the dark.

Gators get em anyhow----
Or ol’ Marie.
Ol’ Marie,
She get em sure.

Better feed them gators.

Hurrah for the War

by

Terry Young

Where are you sending me,
With my uniform & cap,
& why are you crying,
With that flag on your lap?

We are so proud,
you died for the cause.
You should not complain
for upholding the laws.

So sing hurrah for the war
& be proud that you’re dead.
You’re the envy of all,
With a stone at your head.

When I was a child,
You promised me more.
You never said
I should die in a war.

Hush now,
Be quiet my son.
All the matters
Is the war is won.

So sing hurrah for the war
& be proud that you’re dead.
Some words are too sad,
& should never be said.

Jack Kerouac's Ghost

by

Terry Young

i saw ol Jack's ghost
Back in seventy-two,
Taking one last trip
Down the Great Highway,
Headin for Big Sur
& the terrible surf
Of old delirium tremors
& fog-bound nightmares.

Ol Jack Duluoz,
Beat rucksack
On his back,
Dangling
Saint Christopher
Gleaming in the sad
Moon-glow of
California autumn

Still lost in America.

"Hey, Jack,
You Dharma
Angel-Headed
Bum you,
You ol Mad Saint
Of red brick Lowell
& Midnight Freight Yards,

Where goest thou in the night?"

"To see the Buddha himself
& the Great Pooh Bear
Of The Golden Light

& maybe that ol Cowboy
Neal
who waits for me
with glee
Under a canopy of
old Mexican stars
that twinkle
even as we speak.

Tho I’ve heard
They’re the very same
Stars that sparkle
The Denver nights
& peekaboo through
The Frisco fog.

Anyway, it's all
about those stars now,
& always was."

His footsteps vanished
Into the vast coastal fog
As a freight train wailed
Where no rails
had ever been.

Alabama Summer

by

Terry Young

Weep for Alabama.

Sunday school bombs
& midnight hangings,
Bed-sheets flapping,
Yellow-stained
& hooded
In the star-lit nights of Dixie
Summers.

O Bama of Confederate
Stony graveyards,
Courts of Montgomery,
Jails of Selma,
& the Slobbering
Jaws of Birmingham’s
Flashing-toothed hounds,
Where was
Your hospitality
When Greyhounds
burned on
The baking asphalt of
The past?

Hurrah for the War

by

Terry Young

Jack Kerouac's Ghost

by

Terry Young

San Francisco Street Notes #1

by

Terry Young

Under the dripping
Beams of March,
Into the shadows
Of a dying winter,
Watching a saintly
Gutter rat
Scurry across
A Grant Street alley.

Meow cat
& tap tap
Of rain rapping
A tinny tune,
Too sad to hear
In an ashcan night.

Gleaming streets
Of melting lights,
Shimmering
Sidewalks of
Reflections,
Recollections,

Unseen eyes
Of no one
Peer through
The fog
Of yesterday
Into the plate glass
Of fluorescent
Mannequins.

You were the one
With the sad
eyes of
Autumn,
Smiling at the
Rows of sensible shoes
At your feet.

Drums of War

by

Terry Young

Beat, beat,
your drums of war.
Be all you can be,
you can be no more.

Wave, wave,
your banners of gore.
gather your armies
from the ranks of poor.

Heed, heed,
The bugle's call,
& carve your names
On a stone-cold wall.

Beat, beat,
your drums of war,
then leave us in peace
& say no more.

North Beach Ghosts

by

Terry Young

Remember the days,
Those days of
Flower strewn
Streets & summer
Tides on the pier,
The Golden Gate
Winking through the fog?

Barefoot on the cool
Sidewalks of midnight,
We laughed at the
Neon spattered madness of
Chinatown’s night.

We scoffed at our youth
As those days fell
One by one,
Like petals from
An autumn rose.

Remember the days?

Alabama Summer

by

Terry Young

Seattle Blues

by

Terry Young

O Seattle in the rain,

You & your rain drops
& puddles
Of neon misery!

You with the bellowing
fog horns
Of the angry
bebop night!

You with your dapper dandies
of dangling dollars
& dime store paint!

You with your be-spat
Sidewalks
of beer-stained gloom!

You with your Hooded
mountain of
snow-capped doom,

You with your mocking,
winking,
honking
lights of midnight!

You & your aching
doldrums drumming,
drumming
on my windowpane!

O Seattle in the rain,
You ground me down
And broke my heart.

You ground me down
And broke my heart.