by Rick Young | Dec 21, 2013 | Poem
"Give cheese some pants!"
The war is over,
now that we all have guns.
The new citizen action army
may dress like they don’t care,
but they’ll kill you in a second
if you jive with their peace.
We’ve got several states
that are nothin’ but dead people.
"Peace up, Rhode Island!’
And even though
nobody’s wearin’ bars,
the generals will tell you
who they are.
The lieutenants will mostly
stay inside.
The sergeants, as always,
will mostly die and kill
in even numbers.
And God help the private sector.
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2013 | Poem
I liked the cat the way it was.
With countless heads
and endless claws.
But then I heard
they cloned a cat
who only ate and slept and shat.
Please trade in
your present model.
This time I can’t mollycoddle !
by Rick Young | Dec 19, 2013 | Poem
We sail in the morning.
Three flags are the warning.
These crossbones are eloquent.
I’m on for the ride.
Small ship on a rough sea.
This life is not for me.
We rock on a precipice.
The yaw will decide.
I feel like Edgar Allen Poe.
Into the maelstrom we must go.
And as we swirl I understand
I should have never left dry land.
Next time I’m prompted to explore
I’ll look inside and nothing more.
For there is naught beyond the skin.
Meanwhile, I spin. I spin. I spin.
by Rick Young | Dec 18, 2013 | Poem
The best rocks roll uphill.
Fire is an animal on the horizon.
Fur is very, very in.
Little roar means hunt.
Big roar means hide.
Wood is good, but tres passé.
He finds random grunting tedious.
He’d rather be alone than roam in packs.
He’s secretly shedding.
And the whole clubbing and mating thing
is just a waste of time, he thinks.
He thinks.
by Rick Young | Dec 17, 2013 | Poem
Cantankerous Vichy swans !
It’s best beware of birds
in foreign markets.
To be pecked by voodoo chickens
or bored silly by emus
is not a circumstance
that I could bear.
And so I head
for the shrunken heads,
which run a bit more francs
but are quite tasty parboiled.
When chewing on a rubbery brain
one often feels
a sudden jolt of power.
And as the eyes
loll on the tongue,
staring down the gullet,
one sometimes gets
a brief glimpse of this
blind spot we call life.
by Rick Young | Dec 16, 2013 | Poem
While wandering the desert,
I espied a great oasis.
A ballgame was in progress,
Ty Cobb circling the bases.
The Babe was in the outfield
and the Big Train on the mound.
To find a better vantage point,
I looked for higher ground.
Indeed, by the refreshment stand
I found good line of sight.
I figured, being near there,
I might get myself a bite.
Just as I got my burger
and a giant cup of beer,
the crowd all stood as one
and there arose a mighty cheer.
A dubious pinch hitter
was receiving this great hand.
Then doubt set in, there was a hush,
and all turned back to sand.
