by Rick Young | Oct 7, 2016 | Poem
Elmer and Daffy were acting up again,
and, as always, sporting firearms.
They were at a rally in the ‘deep’ south,
a sea of bright red hats and dull pink faces.
Alcohol had made their speech incomprehensible.
Daffy: "Sufferin’ suckers’ tax."
Elmer: "Kill da wabbit!" (Roe v. Wade)
Many tee shirts advocated violence.
Daffy’s was the only black face seen.
Women carried signs which just said, "That Bitch!"
It was like a theme park for the mad.
"Build a wall!" and "Keep our guns," they shouted.
When out of a shining clown town car
a cartoon politician did emerge,
the roiling crowd quite simply went insane.
by Rick Young | Sep 27, 2016 | Poem
Snuffling is not sniveling
except in certain cases
when said snuffler is grimacing
and making funny faces,
and saying things that sound like lies
and are, in fact, not fact,
and covering with alibis,
a crazed autodidact.
He sniffs because he’s so damned smart.
He snuffles ’cause he’s rich.
He sees the poor as servant stock
and women are a bitch.
Why should he pay his own fair share
when shares can well be stolen?
Why should life be sky blue and green
when it can be made golden?
He’s "wrong." He’s "wrong."
His head is filled with ghastly monarch notions.
His heart sings only greed’s dark song.
Protect the land and oceans.
by Rick Young | Sep 22, 2016 | Poem
The song of the crow
was his raison d’etre.
He’d climb a tree, dressed in black,
and recite the words, written in bird.
He never did experience
any great desire to fly.
But every time he passed a cornfield,
he felt a burning hatred of straw men.
by Rick Young | Sep 5, 2016 | Poem
Put the needle on the noodle.
Listen to the pasta play.
It’s the whole kit and caboodle.
There is nothing more to say.
Get some penne and some paper.
Fill the tubes with marinara.
Writing this way is a caper.
Sign your work ‘Scarlet O’Hara.’
Use spaghetti as a paintbrush.
For paint, use alfredo sauce.
Flay the canvas in a great rush.
Critics will be at a loss.
You can be a pasta artist.
All it takes is attitude.
Just insist that those are smartest
who make beauty out of food.
by Rick Young | Sep 3, 2016 | Poem
John Cale was in the House of Anthrax
before we’d even heard that word called terror.
Terror is the unmoving phalanx of cars
stretched twelve miles short of the city.
Terror is a cloud you can’t describe.
Terror is the sound of engines silenced,
unlimited progress on a flat map.
Terror is the recoil of beauty,
a birthmark buried in hate.
Terror is the unthinkable act
played out eternally as afterthought.
