by Rick Young | Feb 25, 2016 | Poem
In a whirlwind of lead,
I fled inside my head,
imagined myself dead,
and met the devil.
His horns were pointy red;
"Your soul is mine," he said.
I wished I was in bed.
That’s on the level.
He’s the pencil dust devil,
a voice like Aaron Neville.
He whips his pointed tail.
I wish I was in jail.
Don’t wanna go to hell.
This isn’t show and tell.
I broke my pencil’s point.
I smoked another joint.
And now I’m drawing God.
He’s got a lovely bod.
I’m through with Beelzebub.
My pencil is a stub.
by Rick Young | Feb 24, 2016 | Poem
Quit shaking the scenery, Fuzzy.
Distorted dimensions distress me.
Why is the cow under the moon lowing?
And have the leaves of grass
been mowed and raked?
Eliminate that giant flapping
and pay heed to the rotating crop.
The growth of industry
is laughingly out of proportion.
And shouldn’t the horizon
properly extend to the sky?
Polish the sun a little brighter.
Hide the blasted wiring.
Drop a wild dog or two
into the wasteland.
And do not go gentle past go.
Perhaps this prescription is outdated.
The road least taken
appears to be closed.
by Rick Young | Feb 23, 2016 | Poem
If you tell me what you’re missin’, I will tell you what I found.
No one out here seems to listen. There just ain’t no common ground.
Everything the poor man visions, seems the rich man wanna spoil.
Got no hand in the decisions. They just toil until they boil.
Now the melting pot’s spilled over. And the cleanup has begun.
If you’re not upon the A-list, better be prepared to run.
Don’t rely on constitutions. They’re just words that can be changed.
If you offer bold solutions, you just might be called deranged.
There’s a down side to all nations, though they might claim to be free.
You will find that all the leaders are the rich minority.
So if you ain’t got no money, so if you ain’t got no land,
You’d best marry up, my honey, or be buried where you stand.
There’s a dream in certain fictions that they call equality.
But the world is based on frictions, sadly, not on harmony.
If you tell me what you’re after, I will tell you if it’s there.
Please excuse my maddened laughter. It is only ’cause I care.
by Rick Young | Feb 22, 2016 | Poem
To make the jump to frog
the mind must polliwog.
Would we could all transform
and ribbit be the norm.
by Rick Young | Feb 21, 2016 | Poem
Sore heels slog through
mud-slung meadows.
Vested verities abide
toasted variations.
Slug lines drop and bob
in the print morass.
Plausibility gives pause,
paws at the conscience.
Malignant manipulators
march in a mean parade.
Truth is a trap without bait.
Party decorations never lie.
An ear to the wall hears all.
by Rick Young | Feb 20, 2016 | Poem
Monitored me on t.v.
Took away my privacy.
Outlawed secrets, punished lies;
Nation’s just a bunch of spies.
I want to be a space warlord.
Take away the power’s horde.
Give the buildings to the poor.
Feed the hungry, stop all war.
Man can’t trust the telephone.
Always rings when he’s alone.
Voices stare and hatred sighs
Dominations’s exercise.
I want to be a space warlord.
Raise the plough share, break the sword.
Cease the cash flow, stop the state.
Break the wheel at doom’s dark gate.
Sent my taxes into space,
Better to control the race.
Told me I could vote and pray.
Long as it was done their way.
I want to be a space warlord.
Rediscover freedom’s chord.
Point the weapons at the kings.
Greed will die when justice sings.
