by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2021 | Poem
Bent conundrums plague those who abhor all broken lines.
Some think that the smallest curves deserve the biggest fines.
Run it off the page and you could spend your life in jail.
Straightness is the rage. A bucket list is just a pail.
Don’t hang around with free forms, as their danger is inherent.
And one who talks about norms is a criminal apparent.
Put all your faith in both boxes and walls, anything with angles.
Let corners and lids play with your kids. Adopt a few rectangles.
One just needs to know that the flight of the crow
is the straight man’s new best friend.
Organize things, and cut off all wings.
Containment’s the ultimate end.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2021 | Poem
The medical bounty hunters
are closing in on me.
I insist there’s nothing wrong,
but they say that can’t be.
A man is made of sicknesses,
there’s no such thing as well.
They’ll keep me in their grasp and care
from birth to final bell.
You’ll find they lurk at hospitals
and frequent pharmacies.
The feds and meds and big pharm heads
combine to pay their fees.
Next time you see some men with stretchers
parked along your block,
run like hell, they’re out to get you.
You are on the clock.
by Rick Young | Jun 15, 2021 | Poem
Death will find me friendless and alone,
chewing on my conscience like a bone.
Those I tossed aside will wave to me,
all together, from a boat at sea.
While the dead ignore me, underground,
light will leak away without a sound.
Those who once walked with me on life’s path
will find nothing now except vague wrath.
Histories we shared in times uncertain
now appear a useless, tattered curtain.
Every pathway walked has disappeared,
shadows turned to darkness as I neared.
Soon I will be buried in the dirt,
probably amongst those I have hurt.
If only one could go back at the end
to smooth the surface or straighten the bend,
perhaps a life, in retrospect, could heal.
But that’s not in the cards. There’s no re-deal.
by Rick Young | Jun 15, 2021 | Poem
Oh, the work force down in Labor Town
went off to seek their fortune.
In mills and stills and mining hills,
the summer sun was scorchin.’
When hope ran dry, they turned their eye
back toward the place they’d left.
But the streets were dead and the lakes were dry,
the whole scene was bereft.
Labor Town had seen its day,
money piling up like hay.
Now the crop had gone away,
the buildings fit for arson.
Two men roamed the dusty street,
forlorn, hungry, in defeat.
Beneath a tree, they had a seat,
beggar man and parson.
When one leaves his place of birth,
pledged to roam the challenged earth,
there is one key step to take:
make sure it is no mistake.
Some roads lead to castle, palace,
others bordered, oft, by malice,
run downhill to fiery ends,
empty of both love and friends.
Labor Town once prompted toasts.
Now it’ home to angry ghosts.
Those who jettison their past
find a future that won’t last.
by Rick Young | May 26, 2021 | Poem
AI has brought you back into our dream.
We’ll kiss your robot face until you scream.
It’s the only thing of measure
to resemble former pleasure.
It takes a village, or, in this case, team.
The wires which compose your fragile bones
do not seem out of place with your earphones.
The vocal microchip hidden neatly in your lip
can be set to many pitches, strengths and tones.
Just seeing you in silence sit and stare
gives grand illusion that you’re really there.
And those synthetic strings which pass as hair
remind us of your real self, once so fair.
They’ve warned us, though, your battery might die.
The signal is a flicker in the eye.
Will second life suffice, or must we pay the price
of bidding you eternally goodbye?
