by Rick Young | Dec 15, 2013 | Poem
Mike Webster often played in pain.
Died young, with black spots on his brain.
In football, helmets oft collide,
concussing all that’s hid inside.
A nose may break, a lip get fatter:
what becomes of one’s gray matter?
Years of tackles, spears and blocks:
much like butting heads with rocks.
A diagnosis, finally,
showed brain disease called CTE.
Amnesia, pain, severe depression:
sometimes football’s last impression.
Approaching fifty, out of luck,
“Iron Mike” lived in a truck.
All-star center, Hall of Fame:
now a victim of the game.
This sad Steeler’s tale, we’re sorry,
hasn’t changed the post game story.
To deal with damage of this sort
may change the nature of the sport.
by Rick Young | Dec 14, 2013 | Poem
No sexual favors
in cells of his choice.
No showering scenes
with the young girls or boys.
No cursing or joking:
he don’t like the noise.
The celibate turnkey’s on duty.
Ain’t no use in showin’ your booty.
No cigarette drop offs
or dope runs tonight.
Keep contraband magazines
tucked out of sight.
His only obsession’s
with doing things right.
The celibate turnkey’s so straight,
his righteousness seems
more like hate.
by Rick Young | Dec 13, 2013 | Poem, Song
I’m two months out of prison and I haven’t got a job.
I spend my daytimes looking for a place that I can rob.
My father often warned me I would meet a tragic end.
But I paid him no heed, alas. Now no man is my friend.
My years in jail conditioned me to live by evil means.
In stir, yes, sir, it’s black and white. There are no in betweens.
For those who knew me once, I think you’d recognize me still.
But now my eyes are cold and my first instinct is to kill.
An ex-con has ten ways to lose for every chance to win.
I’m livin’ at the corner of cruel memory and sin.
And if I’m seen outside your door, it’s best to hide your kin.
If I knock twice, take my advice and do not let me in.
by Rick Young | Dec 12, 2013 | Poem
He got got seven years hard time.
It felt like forty-nine.
He got caught with several bones.
It wasn’t such a crime.
On his appeal, he made a deal.
He said he’d name some names.
But then refused, he won’t be used,
he would not play their games.
And so he sat inside a cage
just like a dog for years.
He may have bent, but never broke
or let them see his tears.
And on the day of his release,
he swore he’d rather die
than let them take him back again,
then went home and got high.
Better to live like dogs, he said,
unleashed and free of rules,
than subjugate all action
to a code devised by fools.
by Rick Young | Dec 11, 2013 | Poem
I think I’m feeling drowsy.
Or perhaps my arch has fallen.
I can’t get up for work today.
It may be all the pollen.
My elbow is enflamed
and my sinuses impacted.
I choked up when I called in sick.
Perhaps I overacted.
I need another cabinet.
My pills are overflowing.
I feel as if my scalp’s peeled back.
Maybe my brain is showing.
My stomach’s feeling queasy,
the result of this congestion.
Whatever ails prevails,
appears, "voila," at mere suggestion.
My doctor’s secretary
has me climbing up the walls.
Each time I get through to her
he’s accepting no more calls.
