by Rick Young | Nov 14, 2013 | Poetry
Bernard Herrmann, Bernard Herrmann, Bernard Herrmann,
Wasn’t German, Wasn’t German, Wasn’t German.
He grew up in New York City, New York City.
And his music wasn’t pretty, was it pretty?
It was Psycho. It caused Vertigo. It made the Earth Stand Still.
It was a thrill, It was a thrill, It was a thrill, It was a thrill.
It was The Wrong Man in the Gray Flannel Suit Who Knew Too Much.
It was a White Witch Doctor in a Garden of Evil on Dangerous Ground.
It was shrieking Birds and Khyber Rifles, Twisted Nerve and Endless Night.
It was an Obsession on a Mysterious Island At the Center of the Earth.
It was the Snows of Kilimanjaro at Farenheit 451.
It was a Torn Curtain on Cape Fear Beneath the 12-Mile reef.
It was The Ghost and Mrs. Muir in a Hatful of Rain.
And it all got started with Citizen Kane.
Citizen Herrmann. Not German. New York City. It was Pretty.
by Rick Young | Nov 14, 2013 | Poetry
Mantle’s dead.
The world is upside down.
Drunk on fastballs;
missed the hanging curve.
Now no more facades.
Gone the oil and leather.
Left to limp alone
this outfield stretch
of time.
Warning tracks
in the mirror;
shadows of the switcher.
Rounding third,
head down, for home.
Shake with Frank Crosetti,
Yogi at the plate.
Steps are full of Enos,
Moose and Gil.
Got a run for Whitey.
Grim is in the pen.
Smiles again, and
shyly tips his bill.
From the cannon shot
off Ramos to the
knuckleball of Shultz
all the way to Denny’s
freebie five-uh-oh.
From drainage ditch
to abscessed hip,
through bottles
and beyond.
A seven etched
in the heart.
Slow motion dreams
of gray pinstripe.
The Mick’s no more
around.
Old Casey
sent him down.
The perfect drag.
The comet
run aground.
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Six and Two hate Eight.
Nine loves to say no.
Four just hit someone
With a golf ball.
Three broke up a good marriage.
Five gets his fingers into everything.
Seven simply sins.
And One is a loner.
I have Zero good things
To say about those numbers.
They got sum problems!
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Those who knew miss Dickinson
Were of one mind: she was no fun.
Her talk of death would get one down.
But Amherst was a party town.
And that strange woman dressed in white
Would never venture out at night.
She tended garden all alone.
She wrote as if in death’s time zone.
She watched her mother fade away.
She pressed dried flowers, hey, now, hey!
And when, at last, her life complete,
She went beneath that cold white sheet.
The rectangle where now we meet
Is plotted on Triangle Street.
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Sally Field has kicked the habit.
She’ll not Gidget any more.
Will it fit Sebastian Cabot?
Brian Keith is on the floor.
Joey Bishop’s blessed foil,
Peter Lawford was a pawn.
Buddy Ebsen just struck oil,
Out on Eva Gabor’s lawn.
Red has Skeltons in his closet.
Serling thinks he’ll spare the Rod.
Someone turn off Farrah Fawcett.
George is burning to play God.
Dick VanDyke can rob no more,
Not the Rose of Amsterdam.
Since sweet Mary tiled her floor,
Rhoda doesn’t give a damn.
Robert Young does not know best.
Opie, Beaver, both are grown.
Robert Conrad’s still out west.
Alfred Hitchcock rests alone.
Jim Arness sings Dillon songs.
Andy Griffith’s tied in Knotts.
Raymond Burr’s addressing wrongs.
Jack Webb’s feet have liver spots.
Danny Thomas still needs room.
Billy Mumy lost his space.
Mister Wizard just went boom.
Mia moved to Peyton Place.
Old Jim Nabors got the Pyles.
Carol Burnett lent her ear.
Garner’s got his Rockford Files.
Captain Kangaroo loves beer.
When I’m down in T.V. Land,
I can’t help but shed a tear.
VHF was quite the band.
Black and white was o’ so clear.
