Poem | Red Tin Noodles

The Selling of Youth

by Rick Young | Jan 18, 2014 | Poem

Boy who squawks meets promise boy above the straight and narrow.
Everyone is happy with the tally on the square.
Peasants balk perceptively and irk the minefield pharaoh.
Massive waste of paper is occurring everywhere.
Machines learn to babysit and greed is just a specter.
Somewhere sullen women lip-read Nietzsche on the train.
Automatic autocrats devise a better vector:
Easy on the underground but taxing on the brain.
Past the wash of history, the dirt of time unravels.
Cheaters speak of eloquence and highwaymen of peace.
Politicians pontify the latest scams with gavels.
Liquid loving landlords conjure up another lease.
Man who squawks tells promise man that nothing they did matters.
Crowds who cry at movies unexpectedly take flight.
Leaping lords and devil dogs mad dance as kinship scatters.
Oil-encrusted meaning slowly covers mother night.
Ghost who squawks and promise ghost are fading out of sight.

Shell Game

by Rick Young | Jan 17, 2014 | Poem

I’m walking in the city with my lobster pal.
Ragged Claws (after T.S.) always draws
bemused stares, and an occasional passerby
will stop to ask why he’s green instead of red.
This upsets the poor creature to no end.
He blanches to think of friends and acquaintances
who’ve been broken, buttered and consumed.
Bad enough to live one’s life skulking for garbage
on the ocean floor. But to be hunted, scalded, eaten,
was a fate no creature deserved. He calls all humans
"Quasi’s," for Laughton’s magnificent boiling weaponry.
We stop at the occasional store window,
move quickly by pet shops and restaurants,
proceeding toward the Museum of Natural History,
where he’s pledged a shift to protest the new exhibit,
"The History of Deep Sea Fishing in New England."
After that, we’ll get takeout Chinese and head home.
And tonight, again, I will try to extract his d.n.a.
in my fervent attempt to grow a claw of my own,
following my lifelong dream of a career in the WWF.
I’ll call myself Super Snapper, and no hissing sheik,
six-hundred pound farm boy or dog faced muscleman
will withstand the power of my terrible shell.
I envision a red cape, a hood with tentacles,
and, in the corner, my crustacean friend,
egging me on with the frantic wavings
of his own viselike appendages.

Native Tongue Depression

by Rick Young | Jan 16, 2014 | Poem

I asked the major general
to please be more specific.
"Which would you rather capture,
Atlantic or Pacific ?"
He said his plans were secret,
which made uncommon sense.
For, after all, his only goal
was national defense.
He said he had some tanks
on hold and bombers in the air.
He had no qualms on killing
those who said this wasn’t fair.
"You tainted souls on union rolls
who protest by the hour,
remember this," I heard him hiss,
"I’ve got the firepower."

Peg Legacy

by Rick Young | Jan 14, 2014 | Poem

It was said that Chopin
had some ivory
in his fingernails.
Hemingway’s autopsy
showed his entrails
were quite stuffed with quails.
We must ultimately be resigned
to the things we have to leave behind.
Better to be friendly in the long run
than to leave a legacy unkind.

Organ Solo

by Rick Young | Jan 13, 2014 | Poem

What we found
was a heart on the ground
outside the organ store.
Appallingly pink,
but emitting no stink,
it was squishy but firm,
and beating no more.
It didn’t look broken
or aching or frozen.
It didn’t look restless
or cheatin’ or blue.
We poked some inside it,
but couldn’t abide it.
And then we decided
this pure heart was true.
So we left it behind,
hoping someone would find
a replaceable part
for a heartless restart.