Daniel Y.

Daniel Y. Poems

condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste

The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face
and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace
Even more he despised the humans below
causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.

You are a mystery to me,
God my lover,
the poet with velvet hands
and a heart like a war-drum.

I found a little poem
crying on the floor
whose dark-chocolate eyes were filled with tears
whose center was cleanly torn


The pencil just sat there.
Not being chewed, or sharpened.
Not on the verge of a great novel.
Unused. Unnecessary.

Beaten ‘round its river home,
the icy current on its bone.
Resting shade of passing icthus,
does nothing for its deepest wishes.

At some point,
Siddhartha ate pork,
Though he thought it was rice
Because it was.

You are invited, o those so devoted,
to join the ranks of my friends.
To drink with me, the immortals on pages.

The crystal mountain
The white tombstone

The surfing hills

From the time I was a child
filled with curiosity and awe
I followed your rotation closely with my eyes.
Your magic must be hidden inside your metal box.

Love all.

It starts in the diaphragm,
a deep inhale.

Brown and fuzzy
with a chewed off ear.
His single eye gives love unconditional.
His stubby arms cannot hold books.


They have put me in this room. This dark, quiet, lonely room.
For nine thousand years I have waited here.
Decaying ever gently into oblivion, ever so gently.
You don't know silence.

Death and I, the best of friends
I am old and he is young.
Though he’s seen more years than I,
he has many more to come.

Dressed for a funeral,
the omen clings to sky lines.
When the Raven falls
the gutter-grave has filled again.


He used to be grim:
his emaciated, tent-stake ribs;
his chopstick fingers;
his cavernous diaphragm.

Love unrequited,
please throw me away.
‘Cause I'll never leave you,
and I cannot stay.

Surgery, GO!
Cut open chest with a vertical slit;
and two diagonals to peel a fleshy collar.
The red smell of blood becomes routine

my home is a charcoal sketch
a nuclear shadow of itself

Daniel Y. Biography

Had too many glance and click away. I thought you were here to find out: my life story; or why I write poetry; or who is this person? ? for anger or delight. But those things, like tabloids and stale chips for the unworked brain. Dear, I do not want to bore but poems I do not whore. So read, read, read some more. But do not read with such abandon that you've lost sight of who you are. You are a poet.)

The Best Poem Of Daniel Y.

A Poem Is

condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste

are kept inside a jar inside the fridge
taken out for soup and salad
but never out to binge

just for celebrations
and wrapped with ribbon fare
not even philosophy deserves
this kind of special care

Daniel Y. Comments

Daniel Brick 17 February 2014

I really misinterpreted Hello Again, Stranger when I wrote my comments yesterday. Actually it was early Sunday morning and my brain wasn't fully functioning. But tonight both that poem and WALKING ALONG... make perfect sense; they're two chapters from an on-going narrative. I don't know why I made the assumption that the couple in the first poem were uncommitted, hesitant, not ready to surrender to each other. Now I see from the opening they are connected: We traveled together... braved the unknown. And their rapport is mysteriously confirmed a few lines later: We went/because we were called/you and I. Is that an inner calling, because I don't see an outside agent. I really like the passage about the note he puts under her pillow, because it is a gesture of love. Your character doesn't have to say I love you, which would be a cliché, because he just proved his love with a gesture. (I'm going to stop and send this, because the problem might be the length of my comments.)

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