C. Dale Young Poems

Best Poem of C. Dale Young

The Plunder House
Tired of the empty fields,
the saw grass stretching out of ditches,
the yellow-petalled weeds by the roadside,
we came upon The Plunder House,

its grey-blue-wood-paneled walls,
its mossy-green-shingled roof, and no,
there was no pirate above the door
despite the fact we half expected

to . . .
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The Call
in memoriam Cecil Young

I am addicted to words, constantly ferret them away
in anticipation. You cannot accuse me of not being prepared.
I am ready for anything. I can create an image faster than

just about anyone. And so, the crows blurring the tree line;
the sky's light dimming and shifting; the . . .
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