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Alan Young Poem
Then we were eight
Boarding schooled, cold showered with hate-
Naked legs dangling and chilblained, not the worst age
Oh, for the holidays and home - me without rage.
Then we were ten
We ride horses in the holidays - saddled by your farm men-
Your room, a low attic sanctuary with a red velvet chair, hidden from sisters
You have ways I don’t understand – my curiosity is unenlisted.
Then we were twenty, thirty, fourty
Lives apart, together only occasionally for tea-
Planets on their long orbits that approach then slide away
“You were not at my wedding” you later mused – for me it did not hold or weigh.
Then we were fifty
Next, living close on the same ocean water, silent and shifty-
Your home with mighty view, my place quietly lying in low scrub near a pond
We tarry for a while – me comfy like a foot in a sheepskin slipper, nothing beyond.
Now we are sixty
Then suddenly, I flee my scrub dwelling, escape to safety-
One ocean and two continents distant, it’s fall
when I reach out – you do not answer my call.
Copyright © Alan Young | Year Posted 2026
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Alan Young Poem
Swarms of worshippers agitate the Sun
Sun unleashes fire on fire
While the morning Moon pines.
Living heart sacrificed, thrust sun-ward still beating
Severed head bounces block-like down wet black steps
Tipping into the open throat of the engorged beast below
Moon unnoticed slips sideways to touch his bright edge
Sun allows her eclipse to close then silently cross
Sun-starved minions slow and stop.
Away from swarm’s gaze Sun softens and sets
While Moon cradles him.
They join beneath the horizon.
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Inspired by imagery from the film Apocalypto, where the union of Sun and Moon eclipses the horrific human drama below, evoking the inner process of individuation.
Copyright © Alan Young | Year Posted 2026
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Alan Young Poem
The gardener sweeps the green screams of fresh-cut grass.
Copyright © Alan Young | Year Posted 2026
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