by Rick Young | Sep 14, 2022 | Poem
Some say seventy-five is three-quarters alive.
I’ll make the best of one-fourth that remains.
They say it sneaks up quietly, old age and all that jive.
My brawn may be long gone, but I’ve got brains.
I can’t run fast. I can’t walk far. I rest after the stairs.
I try to eat food that won’t make me die.
I tend to forget some things but it seems nobody cares.
My sense of humor remains wry and dry.
Don’t want to reach a hundred. I see no sense in that.
To live beyond one’s time’s often a gaffe.
I’ll know time’s drawing near when I can’t pick up a bat.
And that it’s time to go when I can’t laugh.
by Rick Young | Sep 9, 2022 | Poem
I’m only one thrombosis away from heaven.
Sat close to death six times, but my lucky number’s seven.
I try to stay out of the sun and avoid all white light.
I sleep and ponder half the day, and stay up half the night.
My raison d’etre is herding cats and keeping dishes washed.
Walking in shoes brings hip pain, thus exercise is quashed.
And so, I’ve turned to reading. And books have saved my life.
I’m happy with my fiction, poetry, felines and wife !
by Rick Young | Sep 8, 2022 | Poem
Classified documents are missing.
It’s time to stop Republican ring-kissing.
Remember in November when you’re picking,
these red state liars need a good ass-kicking.
Democracy itself is now at stake.
Vote out the MAGA-morphs for your own sake.
To pass these fiends along to yet another generation
will just continue ruining our country’s reputation.
We can only hope that ’24 will have distinction
as a free election that prevents our own extinction.
by Rick Young | Aug 31, 2022 | Poem
Goodbye Mikhail Gorbachev,
you sure tore down that wall.
And now your people hate you
for heeding Reagan’s call.
Ronnie pulled the wool, it seems,
o’er unsuspecting eyes.
Began with arms for hostages,
and just continued lies.
And now it’s come to Putin,
our own T-monster’s ‘friend,’
attacking Ukraine’s nuke plant
which could court a grisly end.
Perhaps he’ll get his union back,
reverse history books,
while NATO observes in their fear
and Ukraine slowly cooks.
by Rick Young | Aug 27, 2022 | Poem
I wear a headband of police tape.
My brain is a crime scene.
Sometimes I say what I don’t think
or think what I don’t mean.
My memory’s a jukebox
full of skipping forty-fives.
Too many tunes, too many tracks,
tied to so many lives.
Awake all night, plagued by my plight,
surrendering by dawn,
I rise at noon, aware that soon
the day is almost gone.
I know that aging’s not a crime,
but it could be much cleaner.
It’s surely not a felony,
perhaps just misdemeanor.
