by Rick Young | Dec 8, 2017 | Poem
Death decks out in painful forms,
staggered hours and waiting lines,
fighting foul earth winds and storms,
searching for more grand designs.
Man is fruitless, funny, hollow,
trapped inside a shell of time.
Leaders fall and nations follow.
Death alone can solve the rhyme.
Tick on, clock with broken hands.
Comfort ages. Sorrow stands.
Hope eternal, spring anew,
as we bid our time adieu.
Push a button for a vision.
Drop a coin into a slot.
Man approaches his decision.
Time is slow but death is not.
Dig ye deep and dig ye plenty.
No one knows his length of stay.
Some bow out at ten or twenty.
Others crawl toward judgement day.
by Rick Young | Dec 8, 2017 | Poem
A pit full of waxed nostalgia
awaited the takers of sound,
a groove in the earth like a natural birth,
all the needles gone deep underground.
When a feathery wisp like a dancer
sifted up from the earth to the sky,
a spattering rain, a heartbeat in pain,
etched a music that made the world cry.
And the slow dance of wind that soon followed
brought on night which swept feeling away.
When the curtain of dawn opened up its bright yawn,
there arose the song of a new day.
by Rick Young | Dec 7, 2017 | Poem
I love a tall cowboy who’s lovin’ his saddle.
My horse n’ my beer n’ my hungry guitar.
My yard is a mess n’ my dog looks like heaven.
I don’t think my poor neck will stretch very far.
Look away. Look away, muddy water.
The elastic prairie has snapped in my back
n’ the dirt is all risin’ in buckets.
I run from a crime that I can’t even see
n’ my stomach is filled with gold nuggets.
Look away. Look away, climbing river.
by Rick Young | Dec 7, 2017 | Poem
One day they’ll teach in public schools
how Republicans were tools
of some evil autocrats,
treating folks like fleas or gnats,
promising the rich more wealth
while the nation lost its health.
They were sneaky. They told lies.
Some of them were even spies.
At their head a demagogue
posed as god but was a cog
in an overarching scheme
to bring down a country’s dream.
They would drill in sacred soil.
Nothing was immune to spoil.
They were always on the take,
called all accusations fake.
Their contempt for all our laws
had the public dropping jaws.
So it was when this cabal
found itself nailed to the wall
citizens sang justice songs.
Traitors were jailed for their wrongs.
History calls it failed coup.
Be aware, they’ll seek re-do.
by Rick Young | Dec 6, 2017 | Poem
A very tall man was standing on his roof,
fishing for the moon, which caught the attention
of an insomniac ape who happened to be walking by,
sleep having failed him again.
"I do wish I could catch the moon," said the man.
"I do wish I could get some sleep," said the ape.
"If you help me catch the moon, I will let you
lay down on it," said the man, assuming something
so beautiful and quiet would have to be conducive
to sleep. The ape was atop the roofspot in a flash.
Together they experimented with every hook, line, lure,
rod, bait, pole and reel imaginable, but to no avail.
At last it was decided the moon was being unreasonably
defensive, a fickle temptation no longer worth casting after.
"I am tired," said the ape. "Tomorrow we will try for the sun,"
said the man, "It is much bigger." Right there on the roof,
they started singing like sailors reunited after many years at sea:
"Oh the moon is a prune in a cellophane tree.
And I’ve finally found out it means nothing to me.
I’ve got me a friend who’s as strange as can be.
Together we might hitch a star."
