Barbara Young is still
living and breathing:
Nashville Tennessee (and if you’re going to be in the neighborhood, yell.  I know some good places for music and food)

Married to Jim, who’s from western New York (Warsaw, Buffalo).

No kids. I’m left-liberal, lazy, and chaotic.  Started writing poetry again for the April 2009 Poetic Asides challenge.  I’ve just begun to get into the revision/submission/rejection(sob) phase.

My weaknesses:
Dark chocolate, sage green, bluegrass/jazz



The flower that represents Barbara is Coneflower.


© All postings and intellectual materials on this page are property of Barbara Yates Young.

4 thoughts on “BARBARA YATES YOUNG

  1. Nathan Gatewelder Longs for Spring
    “which in our case we have not got”*

    Nathan Gatewelder put away childish things
    became a member in good standing, an adult
    with sensible shirts and foolish ones, and a dog,
    white with brown splotches, who came whenever called.

    But, in the summer
    Nathan longed for spring

    He moved from an apartment to a brick house
    with an attached garage, a green lawn mower,
    a small maple tree with fringed plum copper leaves,
    and an attic filled with someone else’s past.

    And in the winter
    Nathan longed for spring

    Nathan built a deck with a stone-lined fire pit,
    a chiminea, and a big propane grill.
    He invited friends from work to parties,
    and married a woman with two small children.

    Yet, still, in the fall
    Nathan longed for spring

    when life is restless
    and carbonated
    and a man may be
    excused for wanting
    to stand in the wind
    holding a red kite.

  2. Monchielle: the chatter
    the chatter of poets
    like ordinary chit
    chat and shop talk, makes sense
    in context. The moustache
    and glasses are a pretense.

    the chatter of poets
    is like dogs in the night
    or philosophers’ farts,
    long kindergarten jokes,
    and code between sweethearts.

    the chatter of poets
    can be deafening-
    choral roars; or, hushed shy
    whispers. this one’s silly;
    she’s grand; he sings; some cry.

    the chatter of poets
    (not a collective noun)
    fills this symbolic room
    in the clouds with Cheetos
    bees, belly flops, pink blooms.

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