Troy Younts

Troy Younts Poems

A skillfully loosed dart
flies from my bow-strung tongue
straight through your heart.
More sure than Cupid's arrow long ago
...

This world does not mean
what you think it means
So whatever dreams
whatever fantasies
...

I watched a painter at her work
dipping and swaying before her canvas
brushes and pallette in her hands were
transformed into magic wands and pentacle.
...

Two.50 calibre rounds destroyed the old man's head
there was nothing left in the space
where once eyes, nose, mouth had lived
his face was shredded
...

The human genome machine betrayed me.
It got me drunk and horny and seduced me
with Life's burning need for itself
and I've infected my wife with my seed.
...

Right now
I have only this ache
in place of a heart.
I watched as it formed
...

Troy Younts Biography

Troy Younts, firstborn of three boys, entered the world via the rural landscape of Oklahoma two years before the Summer of Love. He watched the moon walk and the fall of Saigon on televison and wanted to be an astronaut. As a daydreamer gifted with a powerful imagination, Troy was enrapture by poetry at an early age by the works of Percy Byce Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Walt Whitman Emily Dikinson, John Keats, Lord Byron and Robert Frost. He discovered the Beats late in life and was thrilled will their emancipation of the poetic art. Adding Ginsberg, Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, Dianne Di Prima, Amiri Barakka and others to his favorites, he began to practice the art of poetry himself. Troy is still perfecting his poetics studies and skills and has not published believing that his talent is not yet ripe enough to charge a price.)

The Best Poem Of Troy Younts

Love's Withdrawal

A skillfully loosed dart
flies from my bow-strung tongue
straight through your heart.
More sure than Cupid's arrow long ago
this one strikes a vile, mortal blow.
I watch you fold and wither
like a rose assailed by winter unforetold.
Surprised, as a knave that slays
the scarlet breasted songbird of spring
yet, unmoved by the death of an innocent thing,
aloof, a fool, unwittingly a tool
in the hands of all dark, mean-spirited things,
I stand by and watch our Love die.
Where is Remorse?
Where Sadness?
Where Regret at the death
of gladness in our hearts?
Alas! Love stealthily departs!

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