Month: July 2017

Where Are The Moon Filled Canyons?

Posted on Updated on

Where are the Moon Filled Canyons? ⇔⇔⇔ A new poem by Dave Young. ⇔⇔⇔

“One sultry lazy night, I took a stroll through my head ⇔ An active thoroughfare of thoughts ⇔ Lit like searchlights fingering the sky. ⇔ There…the first girl I kissed, blonde, older than me, tender, arms entangled, generous and kind. ⇔ To the neatly coiffured low healed life without passion, an image I had tossed by the roadside. Never mind.”

⇔⇔⇔ To READ and COMMENT on the complete poem go to and CLICK on my webpage GRATIA ⇔⇔⇔

pink moon


Poet of the valiant heart

Posted on

⇔⇔⇔Irena Ratushinskaya⇔⇔⇔

Irena Ratushinskaya, poet and dissident, sadly died recently. In 1983 she was sent to a labour camp for 7 years hard labour for anti-Soviet propaganda. Knowing the power of the written word the Soviet officials denied her paper so she memorised her ideas, scratched on bars of soap. Later she turned her memorised ideas into poems written on cigarette papers and smuggled out via her husband. The result was “Grey is the Colour of Hope”, published in 1989. A poet of courage. Poet of the valiant heart.

irena ratushinskaya

To READ and COMMENT on any of the poems on this website go to and CLICK on the appropriate website page.

Believe Me by Irene Ratushinskaya

Posted on

Believe Me. ⇔ Believe me, it was often thus: in solitary cells, on winter nights ⇔ A sudden sense of joy and warmth and a resounding note of love ⇔ And then, unsleeping, I would know, a huddle by an icy wall ⇔ Someone is thinking of me now, petitioning the lord for me ⇔ My dear ones, thank you all, who did not falter, who believed in us ⇔ In the most fearful prison hour, we probably would not have passed through everything – from end to end. ⇔ Our heads held high, unbowed, without your valiant hearts, to light our path. ⇔ “Believe me”. (written in Kiev 1986)
⇔⇔⇔to read and comment on this and other poems go to


Posted on


⇔⇔⇔A new poem by Dave Young.⇔⇔⇔
There are many reasons they fell apart, shall we count the ways ⇔ All that manipulation, the emotional constriction; the terrible jokes, terrible with money…you mountebank. ⇔ The fact she chose marmite over honey. ⇔ There are many ways he never loved her, nor she to him, too much hairgel…you coxcomb. ⇔ The secrets and lies, the drink, the dirty dishes in the sink.

Gert 1

To READ and COMMENT on the above poem go to and CLICK on the webpage GRATIA

Gratia…so far

Posted on

poems on my webpage GRATIA are:-

New poems: Gratia ⇔ Skirts ⇔ Mirror ⇔ West Wind (1) ⇔ Eden ⇔ Loneliness.

Other titles: When you are old by W.B. Yeats ⇔ West Wind (2) by Mary Oliver ⇔ Flying by Roger McGough.


Klee 5





Posted on


a new poem by Dave Young.

Take the abstract out of the day ⇔ the dagger points of dawn ⇔ a sunset ebbing away in silence ⇔ time is your mistress ⇔ so finger tapping slow, lyrical ⇔ self contained in rhyme ⇔ loneliness is ripe in your head ⇔ in the fruits of your labour ⇔ So go to your window ⇔ watch the world and it’s orders.


Posted on

Eden (dedicated to the birth of my 4th grandchild and 1st granddaughter Eden Claire Young). ♥♥♥”The privilege of holding at four hours old. I marvelled at your Eden tricks, a delight of finger lickin’ Eden licks. You sang me to me a Joni refrain, of high and low, a lullaby to soothe the day: maps of Canada and holy wine, the strings of her guitar, that play across the stratosphere like a vapour trail of stars. And then you stretched and showed me more glories to behold; the facial gymnastics, the chilled out pose, the one eye open and the finger grip. Then you stretched again in your button down suit, to show how much you’d grown. I hope for more…there will be more but this will do for now”.♥♥♥

heart 1
artwork by Dianne Bowell

West Wind

Posted on


West Wind

by Dave Young

There is a part of us tempted to leap,
take the headlong fall, pile into the sea.
While under the rocks, love pulls slow, with certainty,
hardly dares to breathe.
But uncertainty tugs more vigorously
at every passing extravagance.
How ticks the world and your impulsive heart
as it gathers honey in the dark.


To READ and COMMENT the full poem go to and CLICK on the new website page GRATIA

West Wind

Posted on


mary oliver
Mary Oliver

“Poetry is a life cherishing force” so writes Mary Oliver. Her prose poem “West Wind” is a deeply passionate treatise on love and asks the burning question, what does it feel like to live a life of love? What is the alternative? Well…as a compliment/alternative to West Wind I have written a poem with the same title.

It has been written of Oliver’s poem (though not by her) that it is the wiser part of yourself counselling the younger. I disagree, in fact I see it as the reverse, or more accurately the young counselling the young. For evidence look at her final two or three lines:

“when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life toward it”

To me this smacks of impulse and infatuation, often attributed to the young (though not exclusively). So yes my poem “West Wind” redresses the balance of the emotion of the moment. I’m not trying to be wise after the event here, more the view of experience.


To READ and COMMENT on my website go to and CLICK on the appropriate website PAGE



New poetry

Posted on

You can find fresh new poetry on my fresh new poetry page “GRATIA” plus the occasional poem from poets I admire.

Free to READ and COMMENT go to and CLICK on the appropriate page.

New poetry titles: “Gratia”. “Skirts”. “Mirror”.

Other titles: “When you are Old” by W.B.Yeats


Read the rest of this entry »


Posted on


Dave Young
He can’t change the locks and stop history,
he looks in the mirror, one of several that surround him…
Oh cruel world.
All that pride, all that humility
in his world of sniffed out ghosts.
Vanish forever, or reflect the way we look at distant things.
The mirror feeds him tall tales.
Can the dream monster be slain?
gliding it’s way through the underbelly of his sleeping house,
a veil that obscures truth.
Can he be tempted with an alluring smile?
She spoke in sentences of six or seven
and charmed the artist to his knees,
though that story was never proven.
With the camera packed away, and a full stop in place,
he is alone with his dry mouth, toying with chance.
“why can’t old men be happy and crazy
and learn to know the dancer not the dance”


To COMMENT go to and CLICK on my new webpage GRATIA



Posted on


A day spent drinking the salt breath of the sea,
Surprise, as my lengthy word silence is kick started
as we toil over the stations wooden bridge.
A crumb of comfort, if comfort comes in crumbs.
Time may make sense of this, but I doubt it.
A single line can take an hour or more,
then labour on the page as if positioned with little thought.
It should have motion, be animate,
so with that in mind we lift up our skirts and run.
Sliding doors clack and click. Our carriage pulls away
like a weary child, rattling a fence with an errant stick.


To READ and COMMENT on the full poem go to and CLICK on my NEW webpage GRATIA




Posted on


A farewell to the cobbles and the conservatives,
Friday night bipartisanship in The Bay,
adieu to the hard and soft blue lines of the river,
from old Peg Powler’s needled teeth to the willow’s kiss, farewell.
The manicured rape seed fields, the billowing stacks, farewell,
rusting men of steel, low lying slack, farewell farewell.
The shaven headed school boys, unseen wire, a sky on fire,
farewell farewell farewell.

A pilgrim’s return, Gese Muth*, Jesus Mound.
To St. Mary’s Well, gratia inscribed in reformation stone,
to bathe in homecoming, to praise, to welcome.
To the land of Armstrong, Wittgenstein and Higgs.
Did they dream of guns and logic and subatomic particles?


Gese Muth means mouth of the Ouse
“Gratia”, St. Mary’s Well. Jesmond.


Website: new page

Posted on

The new page for my website is called “Gratia”.

Gratia is the 6th collection of poems, the 4th Free to Read, Free to Comment collection on this website. Gratia: grace, from gratus, to praise, to welcome.

Gratia is carved on a capstone in St. Mary’s Well in Jesmond, Newcastle and is believed to date from 17th century, although it is likely to have origins in the medieval period, associated as a place of pilgrimage.