by Rick Young | Dec 6, 2016 | Poem
Games are mathematics diluted in imagination.
Backgammon a stepladder of pure numbers.
Checkerboard a diamond of bad hops.
All war games are spawn of great lord chess.
Monopoly is the capitalist Candy Land.
Dominoes are playing cards’ plump children.
Probability’s bones made of dice and spinners.
Genetic odds and evens in a helix of competition.
An equation whose solution is dusted with distraction.
And the constant variable of passing time.
It’s enough to make one lose his marbles.
by Rick Young | Dec 4, 2016 | Poem
Does watching Snowden break the law?
The government knows what you saw.
Will they now brand you as a traitor,
haul you off to somewhere later?
Once you were a common Joe.
Now you’re in Guantanamo.
Siding with a whistle blower
equates you with a bomb thrower.
Standing up for liberties
now means exile overseas.
Every time you click your mouse,
Uncle Sam is in your house.
Trigger words might make him sore,
then a SWAT team’s at your door.
Goodbye wife and family.
I just wanted to live free.
by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2016 | Poem
Get a bunch of lying, cheating
billionaires together.
It’s a bet there’ll be a spate
of money-making weather.
Bonds will bury dupes in debt;
be the biggest bank heist yet.
Who the hell is pulling all these reins?
Benevolent leader’s not the brains.
What’s the price of selling all our souls?
Years of power on the jelly rolls.
Is there nothing we will pull up short of?
Kidnapping, death, rape and torture, sort of.
We play fast and loose with the convention.
Some say that subversion’s our invention.
One world domination’s our intention.
Like a child, you paid us no attention.
by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2016 | Poem
A rusting pile of iron ore
lies on the floor for purposes unknown.
Down on the block an old gamecock
has found himself upon the clock and flown.
While whistles sigh and poets die,
the people cry for more or less the same.
Rebounding sound drifts to the ground,
is swept round into corners like a game.
The city’s streets are all swap meets
where cheats and grounded fleets waste precious time.
In theory things are dreary but,
like everywhere, one’s gotta make a dime.
It’s not enough when things are tough
to get by on just trickery and guile.
Sometimes when gods or demons call your bluff,
you’ve got to roam the underground awhile.
by Rick Young | Nov 11, 2016 | Poem
Windy and cold and smelling of leaves.
Look to the sky, you can see through the trees.
Chipmunks are storing their harvest of nuts.
Winter is coming, no ifs ands or buts.
