Monthly Archives: November 2010

Crystalline 1

I whisper the curse
The boy’s tragedy remains
Forever instilled

Fate calls the master
The domino must not fall
No harm continued

Pain is the counsel
The man’s tragedy endured
Never repeated

© 2010-2011 Michael Yost

Weeds Vs Nants

The collection grows larger every day.
Wants, Needs, and Weeds. Changed Weeds from Nants.
Nant going to get it, didn’t have that expecting feel to it; With weeds they grow anywhere any time. In fact I have two neat piles of Wants and Needs but I’m overrun with Weeds! You learn to cut em back and fit em on a pile, kinda like, I need to eat, but I want Ice Cream sorta sorting. Well you get the idea. The one Weed that’s hard to put in a pile is that Sex Weed; it likes both piles and it’s a hold out from the last naming, Nant. I’m nant going to get it so why bother sortin.

© 2010-2011 Michael Yost

The Spell

The words flow by without
so much a sigh

Hearing it’s a lie, and to
ponder why.

So many do cry from words
up on high

Others do try but only
manage goodbye


No Trip or trill, never
heeding of spill

Helping you still, to
succumb to their will

Not using a pill or
drinking their swill

They’ll have their good
fill without any bill


Its magic they say, for
use you will pay

Likely today, there’s no
other way

No use to belay, you
cannot betray

You are nothing but hay
and potters clay


©2010-2011 Michael Yost

Rip Curl

The tap root lay bare exposing its throat in the center of the earth crested wave; surrounding the base of the behemoth taken down by heavy winds.  The height of the root circle was more than ten feet high and on either side the wave continued rip a curl from the earth.  More than a thirty foot total moss covered curl appears to be launching this fallen Goliath into the foaming surf of uprooted grubs, worms and insects.

© 2010-2011 Michael Yost


Memories of our friendship never seem to change in time;
They can’t be taken too, by your new love, well because they’re mine.
You were with me a long time then and now gone longer still.
Your shadow may be gone never to be the same questions fill
You were the first to say so, so it must have been my blame.
The kind that bends your knees bows your back and shoulders the same.
Memories of our time together will never change given time.
That harvest can only be reaped by me, because they’re all mine.
Long walks in the park, and longer happy hours on the porch,
And I don’t think I can look at it any other way having already passed the torch.
It’s hard to remember any cross words we may have spoke
Just part of my memory that my heart was once broke.
Maybe the memories are too good to be true given the time;
That’s okay too, because I choose them, and all in all they are still just mine.

© Michael Yost

Happy Holidaze

The evening cold and snow had already taken over the feelings in his hands and feet.  Adjusting the packages to see his watch; the twenty minutes seemed more like an hour.  When he first arrived, only briefly facing the brisk wind to survey the big white house, he had seen living room bay window still lit and the electric candles in every window.  Behind each candle was a sparkling red wreath reflecting the alternating filament bulb creating a beautiful haloed effect behind the frosted window panes.  The children’s lights have been off for a few minutes, but she was adamant about not seeing them tonight.  I had them for Thanksgiving

© 2010-2011 Michael Yost

It Caresses the Tip

It caresses the tip
Rushes in on a musky sweet wave
Almost like flash flooding creates and behaves
The cool sensuous flesh soon fills the void
Shooting cold chills through her opening Freud
Pushing forward and up clamping shut
just in time
only to lose a couple drops of the sublime
Melon for you
Melon for me
Such aware company

© 2010-2011 Michael Yost 

The Broken Red Lock

Summer heats over a quiet afternoon
In the fall when love fell, azaleas bloomed
The mere mention of love and there it was,
The black box with a ceramic white dove.
Her perfumes‘ persistence mocks 
After having opened the box
With the broken red lock.

Clasping hands with a swing and a strut;
Wanting of emotion, an empty gut.
Silliness of newness, cutting edge of loss
Feelings and images faded, losing their gloss.
At least allow peace or recover some chains
Let me have something tangible to gain
Her perfume still mocks
Hovering over the box
With the broken red lock

Let the dove take wing, carry me away;
Hear my pleas now, give me some say!
Suddenly in the heavens looking down from above
Released from its grip, at last peace from the dove.
Her perfume no longer mocked
Having tossed away the box
With the broken red lock

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Scents of Time

The grinder whines the pipes sing
The beast gurgles brown stew
Tickets whirl the bell does ding
The coffee here you need to chew

Cinnamon arrives before the pie
The apple strapped to its heel
Flaky crust next a tear to my eye
How the scents of time make you feel

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Cold Tile

The cold tile felt so good on my face.

I just couldn’t move but for the

shaking.  It wasn’t the chills; my

body was shutting down from

all the meth I had been taking for

the past week.

Heart attack or panic attack didn’t

much matter right then, I just knew

I was going to die.  The paramedics

took one look and had me strapped

me into the gurney and off we went.

I was feeling a little less anxiety

being with the medics keeping me

talking about how I felt, asking what

happened and not once did they

mention drugs; although I thought I

saw knowing glances between


After several hours of prodding and

monitoring they got my blood pressure

down and with some hesitation let me go

home with a no work slip for seventy

two hours.

I took a week off got rested and returned

to work.  It wasn’t four days and I was

starting to feel sluggish and drained.  I

had a line to pick me up.  I was going strong

but felt a little more would be better.

The cold tile felt so good on my face.

I just couldn’t move but for the life

of me I didn’t understand why I looked

so pale.

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


From his open heart he gave of himself
Choosing from the large jars upon his shelf
He showed no concern over the void created
In fact from the delight he was elated

The vacuum, the hole or the empty jar
Was filled with wonder from not very far
Passing a boy blowing dandelion fuzz
Honey bees working away with a buzz

The joy all around us we never see
Is there for your eyes if you ever please
Don’t be concerned for what you give today
Let your heart and your jars show you the way

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

The Gooseberry Garden, A Place for Poets To Share and Get Inspired!

Filling The Bucket

The old man sitting on the stoop was bent over and lamenting about his life.

I stopped and asked the man what was wrong.

He explained he lost everything that mattered to him and was wrought for what to do.

His family and fortune were gone with one wrong decision.

I asked him again making sure I understood all the consequences,” but what’s really wrong?”

He had no answer so I continued my journey telling him, “It’s going to better tomorrow.”

As I began to go he asked how I knew it was going to better and I answered, “I just know.”

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Page 1 of 1 words 5

Page 1 of 1 words: 5
Beginning to hear the new words arrive
Words 13
Getting clearer now less static between
Words 21
The initial impact no longer stuns
Words 28
Now it is time to jump over the gate
Words 39
Tripping all along for this last little rhyme
Words 50?

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


Trapped up to here over in there
Canyons return no breath of air
Mountains hold only cold despair
Once flowered fields reaped for their fair

Every candle can and does burn
Little fingers will flinch and soon learn
Fire is hot and well to be spurned
As moths we need one more turn

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


Soothing winds creating the dins
That flow through the poplar leaves

Soaking up sun and having fun
With the worshiping by the trees

You hear the sigh up in the sky
As the wind goes everywhere

Stir the branches all big and small
With a whisper of clean fresh air

They bend and sway and seem to say
Glory to the one up above

Perched from flight and out of clear sight
Are the homes to the loving doves

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Beatle Boots

I remember the feelings like they were yesterday.

Welling up in anticipation for the Alden’s general

merchandise catalog to arrive.  It was getting

close to starting back to school and the fifth

graders got to have lunch with the sixth graders

and I could hardly wait.

The day the catalog arrived I was the first to get it

and went right for the shoes and there they were.

The Beatle boots were there zipper and all.

All summer long I polished other people’s shoes to get

the money together and I made it with some left over.

I ran to my mom, gave her the money and the order

form.   I asked her to send it in right away because school

started in two weeks and I wanted them for the first day.

The twelve days it took to get to my house was

unbearable but they finally arrived. It was like wearing

gloves on my feet.

I ironed my white shirt and black chinos the night

before and put them on a hanger.  Lying in bed they

were the last thing I seen and the boots still felt like

gloves under the covers.

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Our Glass of Sand

Pushing on past the distinction and space
To be touched by fire her radiant embrace
Chest to breast both our hearts synced in a race
Never wanting to ever leave this place

Scent of her hair ear lobe cool to the touch
Loins rushing red my lips about to brush
Breathe quickened now body soon to combust
This must not only be given to lust

Running fingers down her arms to her hands
Our eyes locked in smile lingering in stand
As if we were part of something banned
Time is all present in our glass of sand

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


Stubby fingers welder soot scratchy face
Garlic breath smokers stench stale beer a trace
Canvas pants cornered now no breath no space
Back bent back arms held high no longer chaste

Let the ink flow where the tears would not dare
Give them what they need leave nothing to spare
Open your soul now show others you care
There is no shame be the one to dare

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


I have found the sea of tranquility
A perfect balance without you for me
No longer does my heart weep and or bleed
Nor am I anxious for past ecstasy

I am not moved when you walk through the room
Your essence not clinging like your perfume
Heaviness has lifted no more sense of gloom
My soul is at peace time healed all my wounds

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

The End of Rhyme

Taken by the moment I wrote these words
Never in my life have I felt so deferred
Given to levity I might have laughed
Not being the case I felt a little daft

Poems are poetry have always been my way
Some poetry not poems now what can I say
Narrative prose disguised without a rhyme
What could be coming next the end of time

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Fear of Success

Wasting of time is eternally lost
No measured margin for its total cost
For situations now that fallen behind
Sets back recompense now there are fines

Compromise self to a greater degree
Giving away more yet increasing fees
Originally no longer an issue
Time for wiping tears away with a tissue

Sabotaging yourself takes more time
Than going down that shortened ladder you climb
More anxiety now than lack of progress
Nothings more a strain than fear of success

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


Checking it again throughout the long day
Overcoming crises great is the pay
Ballast or Baggage is the great debate
Fear is forever can not make it wait

Dread and fright works in the obsessive mined
Knowledge is provisional given time
The pendulum swings down the toll does chime
Echoing attention to the need and the blind

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost


Step into your new image that you create
You’re not set in stone or some higher fate
Don’t twist and turn at each others debate
Rely on the new you and not hesitate

You lift with the winds going up and around
Fearless and searching the wide open ground
Spotting the plunder you angle your glide down
Prey has not a prayer of hardly a sound

The picture you paint should have precision
Character requires some decision
Ensure you provide enough provision
To accomplish whatever you envision

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

The Paper Waits

The paper waits and strains the gates
To heal the heart or some other fate
The inward glance scatters the hate
Oh the pain please abate

The paper expects cooperation
Nothing less than a dissertation
How can I give explanation
I guess I’ll use confabulation

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost

Die Polar

The morning arrives shiny and bright
Flowers uncurling a beautiful sight
Horses nostrils flare snorting with delight
Bounding up a mountain to a new height

The reflections are narrow, dark and deep
Slipping in very slow I did not leap
Clawing up at the walls so very steep
Falling in on itself yet celebrating sleep

© 2010-2011  Michael Yost   booguloo@live.com