by Rick Young | Jan 4, 2014 | Poem
In his tiny fallout shelter,
singing songs like "Helter Skelter,"
Tom Thumb sits alone and cries,
wondering what decides who dies.
It was late in twenty-eight;
infamy will haunt the date.
Skies turned white and mountains tumbled.
All the human race was humbled.
Now it’s narrowed down to one.
Earth’s new Adam is Tom Thumb,
doomed to live without an Eve
in the nuclear reprieve.
Genocidal apes at last
have evolved a future past.
Tom Thumb in his metal box
dreams he could turn back the clocks.
by Rick Young | Jan 1, 2014 | Poem
Multinational jive transponder,
breaking code on a vagrant lake.
On a raft, with an urge to wander,
eating lamb with the need for steak.
All the elements cloud right over,
like the eyes are attacked by night.
Why’d they have to go kill Smokey Stover?
He’s the one guy who seemed all right.
Parameters now blur with meaning.
All the contacts have disappeared.
Former straight things are now quite leaning.
Gossamer is the word most feared.
Telemetrics usurps all the answers.
Water climbs to a higher ground.
Stun the painters and cap the dancers.
Here’s a photo of one last sound.
by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2013 | Poem
I’m flabby philosophically.
I’ve joined a cigar band.
We smoke while playing tubas.
The bland must lead the bland.
I cater now to no one.
It’s later than I think.
I’d rather read than eat, alas,
But can’t give up the drink.
I’ve watched in sheer amazement
The dear departed leave,
Then come back just to decompose
Each tenet I believe.
The history of progress
Has doubled back, it seems.
We’re raking leaves from long-dead trees,
And piling them on dreams.
At night, I disassemble,
Re-gather in the morn.
Two times of three, I favor glee.
But sometimes I’m forlorn.
It helps to have good friendships.
A pet is handy, too.
This ‘elderly’ is new to me.
We do what we must do.
by Rick Young | Dec 30, 2013 | Poem
Santa’s in a mild depression.
Elves were cut back by recession.
Layoffs dampen his enjoyment.
Blitzen’s getting unemployment.
In the workshop hear the noise
made by all the homeless toys.
by Rick Young | Dec 28, 2013 | Poem
Produce breathes life into labor.
Decayed cauliflower wins no hearts.
Take that price tag off my skin.
I live only in consumer memory.
Inventory cannot define me.
Customer satisfaction disgusts me.
I am a shadow, bought and sold,
an old bargain looking for a sucker.
My s.k.u. is like a prison tattoo,
defining me in swapmeet hell.
Do not be fooled by my torn package.
Bring me home: the kids will love me.
Eat me whole, or broken into parts.
Surely you’ve seen me on t.v.
I once was placed this close to Barbie.
That’s not dust on my aged package,
but a roadmap of fondled memories.
Don’t put me down now, lover.
Now that I’ve kissed your fingerprints
forever.
