by Rick Young | Feb 3, 2016 | Poem
There is no proper substitute
for a good yodel parade.
Mountain men and cowboys
come from every glen and glade.
They flock into the town of choice
to try to win some prizes,
with their yodel-a-hee voice
in bodies of all sizes.
You’ll get some folks from Switzerland
and several from Peru.
And each is glad to show you
what their crackling voice will do.
The decibels raised by their yells
send livestock on the run.
Y’all come down to Comstock,
’cause this weekend starts the fun.
by Rick Young | Feb 2, 2016 | Poem
The groundhog sees his shadow and we’re all for six weeks doomed.
Whose idea was it to have this poor beast exhumed?
There must be other rodents on whom we could pin our luck,
something not quite so skittish as the underground woodchuck.
Perhaps we’d be much better off in dragging from its hole
an animal unfazed by sun, most probably a mole.
Or maybe shadows aren’t the things that make him want to hide.
It could be all those guys in top hats dragging him outside.
The whistle pig has this big gig that helps decide our fate.
It would be great if on this date we just let him sleep late.
by Rick Young | Feb 1, 2016 | Poem
Gravitational update indecisive,
as indicated by floating peas,
bees sucked into dark holes
and seas flat, motionless.
Whilst in theory we madly spin,
the rope simply hangs.
Beyond the kicking legs of swingers,
the street is dead. The trees just shed.
And now rocks spit from the earth,
stars burst and islands disappear.
Tears fall up like rain reversed.
And the crops move around underground.
by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2016 | Poem
I knew a woman who got things all wrong.
She’d quote a poem, say it was a song.
She’d call a gong a bell, a bell a gong.
She’d go on much too much and much too long.
She’d call a club a spade and diamond heart.
She thought that all things lemon were too tart.
Some things she knew were wrong, yet knew by heart.
She’d call time out before you’d even start.
She didn’t even know the time of day.
A one way street would cause her much dismay.
One never knew just what strange thing she’d say.
"Do you need help?" she’d ask. I’d say, No way!"
by Rick Young | Jan 30, 2016 | Poem
Whatever you do,
don’t go near the quints.
They’ll pluck your eyes
and grind them into mince.
Born to evil
and grown madder since,
their very presence
makes one want to wince.
It’s just as if the devil
split in fives.
Those who near them
soon break out in hives.
They’ll pick your pocket
and they’ll pinch your wives.
Of course they always carry
guns and knives.
Whatever you do,
don’t go near the quints.
Consider these as warnings,
not just hints.
