by Rick Young | Jan 5, 2015 | Poem
I awoke in a sweat
but the toys were asleep,
the noise of childhood faded.
I had cut my hair, cut my finger,
but couldn’t cut my losses.
Time bled, profusely, into the night.
Laughter is the hardest sound
to resurrect, silence a vacuum.
Let the words entertain, I thought.
Remote control and proliferating
pixels had entered my bloodstream.
The small plastic idols of my youth
sat undecomposed in landfills.
Perhaps last night’s play date
was a dream. Maybe the toys are dead.
by Rick Young | Jan 4, 2015 | Poem
Don’t wed that fool.
He’s still in school.
You’ll work to pay his loan.
His head’s too big,
his eyes too small.
And listen to his tone.
He’s mister smart.
He’s mister right.
He’s got just every answer.
You’d think that
he has done something:
found god, cured aids or cancer.
So back it off
and slow it down.
Make sure that he’s the one.
You’ll be enchained
for all your life.
Now is the time to run.
by Rick Young | Jan 3, 2015 | Poem
Some things in life aren’t too pretty:
acid trips in Kansas City;
motorcades in downtown Dallas;
racks and shackles in the palace;
fast foods made with rats and roaches;
little league abusive coaches;
bible thumpers and their fandom;
drones that seem to kill at random;
mortars, missiles, bombs and rockets;
tortured limbs pulled out of sockets;
monsters, misers, cheaters, beaters;
grimy thugs with gats and heaters.
Some things in life aren’t too fair:
many people just don’t care.
by Rick Young | Jan 2, 2015 | Poem
The flying green ninja
will not harm the ground.
His tactics are all
ecologically sound.
He fights against fracking
and ozone pollution.
He champions thought
as the safest solution.
He doesn’t believe in
the throwing of stars.
And, if he must travel,
prefers hybrid cars.
The flying green ninja
is friend to the flower.
He shuns electricity
for solar power.
by Rick Young | Jan 1, 2015 | Poem
Put me on a government list.
Gotta get me some of this.
I got problems medical.
Need some prophethetical
Gotta smoke to get me well.
Government can go to hell.
Give my name to Uncle Sam.
Give me meds and let me jam.
Get me to the clinic, stat.
Doctor Feelgood, feelin’ phat.
Give me my own dose of weed.
I’ve been patient, but I need
Smoke, not syrup, for my cough.
Fill my script and get me off.
I be lovin’ medicare,
Feelin’ better everywhere.
Aches and pains just disappear.
Uncle Sam, got yours right here.
Light this blunt up with the flag.
I still got me half a bag.
by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2014 | Poem
Counter terrorism
can oft create a schism.
Perpetual surveillance
makes everyone assailants.
