by Rick Young | Jun 19, 2021 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
(Note from the author’s son: Below is a snippet from one of our email exchanges in June 2021. I felt compelled to share this mention of a title for a poem.)
Weight down to 179 today, aiming next at high school mark of 150. Then a zen-like 85. New poem title: “Weigh My Dust.”
by Rick Young | Jun 18, 2021 | Poem
Another long sword’s been unsheathed
against the darts of reason.
Again, we’ve wept. Once more we’ve grieved.
It comes round every season.
When power rules with sharpened tools,
there’ll always be some clashing.
The constant grate ‘tween kings and fools
will set the teeth to gnashing.
“Rise up with the tides,” we’ll chant,
as our followers battle our leaders.
And, when history’s made, either truth or charade,
the past’s granted a future through readers.
But, as long as one knows,
like the blush on a rose,
much of what we suppose leans on light.
There’ll be dream mixed with fact.
There’ll be lies left intact.
In the end, it’s all schemes, wrong and right.
by Rick Young | Jun 17, 2021 | Poem
The world is at a standstill.
There is no such thing as time.
Every inch into the modern world’s
considered blatant crime.
On the fulcrum of extinction,
we are balanced on a peak.
It may all end in a year, a month,
some even say next week.
With rains and floods and fires,
we’ll be ushered out the door.
While remaining time expires,
we live on the killing floor.
Just one small tilt toward an edge
could unloose great destruction.
There are no more bets left to hedge.
There’s no hint at instruction.
We could become a void in space,
a former, not a latter.
Alas, the poor old human race,
run down to anti-matter.
by Rick Young | Jun 17, 2021 | Poem
I’ve been booked for a holiday in hell,
whose soundtrack is a constant ringing bell.
Each meal, exactly same, and sleep, a losing game.
If there’s an escape route, no one will tell.
The personnel ensure they’ll be your friend.
But, what they don’t explain: it will not end.
There’s no plan for return; it’s an eternal burn.
An S.O.S. is nothing you can send.
Goodbye world I’ve known most all my life.
So long home, hearth, kitty cats and wife.
It’s strange I’ll not be missed.
Seems I’ve been Judas-kissed.
And now I hold the wrong end of the knife.
My life’s become a film stuck on repeat,
an endless journey down a one-way street.
It’s home without a range.
The view will never change.
From living soul, I’ve now turned into meat.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2021 | Poem
Bent conundrums plague those who abhor all broken lines.
Some think that the smallest curves deserve the biggest fines.
Run it off the page and you could spend your life in jail.
Straightness is the rage. A bucket list is just a pail.
Don’t hang around with free forms, as their danger is inherent.
And one who talks about norms is a criminal apparent.
Put all your faith in both boxes and walls, anything with angles.
Let corners and lids play with your kids. Adopt a few rectangles.
One just needs to know that the flight of the crow
is the straight man’s new best friend.
Organize things, and cut off all wings.
Containment’s the ultimate end.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2021 | Poem
The medical bounty hunters
are closing in on me.
I insist there’s nothing wrong,
but they say that can’t be.
A man is made of sicknesses,
there’s no such thing as well.
They’ll keep me in their grasp and care
from birth to final bell.
You’ll find they lurk at hospitals
and frequent pharmacies.
The feds and meds and big pharm heads
combine to pay their fees.
Next time you see some men with stretchers
parked along your block,
run like hell, they’re out to get you.
You are on the clock.
