by Rick Young | Feb 4, 2015 | Poem
The nest is chocked with sentimental thieves.
Washed-out cries ferment the hose factory.
Criminal justice is replaced with hysterical laughter.
All for the better: the stocks are going rotten,
not a plague in sight, and the bars full of beaters,
painful music producing prodigious polyphony.
Clocks, dropped like breadcrumbs, bewitch.
Compulsive compassion is the last dying thread.
A large blanket of forgiveness has been draped
over the various prisons, and onto the horizon.
by Rick Young | Feb 3, 2015 | Poem
Everywhere I travel,
I always bring some gravel.
It adds a bit of timbre to my voice.
If I don’t sound majestic,
one merely need suggest it.
I swallow some rocks, orate and rejoice.
by Rick Young | Feb 2, 2015 | Poem
I am just a rookie who dropped a pass.
I hit a sixty-two but wound up last.
I’m poetry after the chiefs are gassed.
I’m impossible drift; I’m the trailer.
I kicked a whopper into t.v. land.
I clipped the goal post and the salsa band.
The rule: down over and a grain of sand.
Above it all, I stay, the sailor.
by Rick Young | Feb 1, 2015 | Poem
Manchild at the net
can’t explain
his double fault.
His lob to the baseline
was a bomb.
His sudden
smashing serve
served no one well.
In the end
he left the court
with his balls
in his pocket,
without love,
without advantage,
all ties broken.
by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2015 | Poem
I can’t ignore the puppet strings,
the wire that connects the wood to blood.
I can’t forget the man who sings
such lonely ballads, boots all caked in mud.
I cannot feel the empathy
with hordes who trundle daily through the street.
I cannot muster sympathy
for those who battle for the better seat.
The puppet show goes on all day.
The plot is never-ending.
The heartsung tunes just waft away,
into the blue skies wending.
The milling crowds in business shrouds
may dwindle down by night.
But, come the dark, like stormy clouds,
they’re primed for fight or flight.
by Rick Young | Jan 30, 2015 | Poem
No one puffed their cheeks like Dizzy.
No one’s ‘stash was quite so frizzy.
No one wore a like beret.
No one’s horn was bent that way.
