by Rick Young | May 17, 2021 | Poem
Depleted idols,
shorn subtitles,
fading vitals
rudely reappear.
Undermined by their kind,
loveless, blind,
unwound of mind,
their outlines are not clear.
Relinquishing the pace,
the human race
may lack the tact
of moral grace.
And, slowly, they dissolve.
There’s no one to absolve.
The gods won’t ever find
this hiding place.
A slowly moving river,
cold as shiver,
moves their sand out to the sea.
They’ve lost all implication
from a torn and battered nation
which at one time called them royalty.
How the mighty quickly fall
should well remind us all
that time is really nothing but a ruse.
When night obscures their lines
and their memory designs,
all that’s left behind
is history’s bruise.
by Rick Young | May 17, 2021 | Poem
I’m starting up another sleepless streak,
continuing this wild, untethered week.
At times it all seems well, at others bleak.
It’s like a slo-mo fall from off my peak.
Perhaps I should be grateful for commotion,
for life can ebb and crash much like the ocean.
For pain, there’s always pills or sometimes lotion.
It’s hard to not see old age as demotion.
When breathing gets oppressive
and the manic turns depressive,
life and death in their successive turns reveal
they are partners in the end,
one can admit or pretend,
whether you’re a holy cow or meathook veal.
by Rick Young | May 7, 2021 | Poem
Look out up above, dude, it’s the falling Chinese rocket!
It’s gotta land somewhere, but they don’t know how to clock it.
It could crash in New York, L.A., Rio or Beijing.
It’s twenty tons, nine stories tall, so, really, no big thing.
It’s tumbling out of orbit, eighteen thousand miles an hour.
This is not your typical small mass of space junk shower.
The risk of killing people, Chinese say, is really small.
Perhaps it will fall in the sea, not killing folks at all.
The risk of death by falling metal’s like the lottery.
Some poor sap gets the big one, suddenly is history.
by Rick Young | May 6, 2021 | Poem
Therapy dogs solved my problem.
I used to be an angry cat.
After just a couple sessions,
I forgot about all that.
Now I jump and play outside,
and roll around in dirt.
Therapy dogs encourage that,
as long’s I don’t get hurt.
I hope to spend all of my life
in doggy therapy.
They’ve changed the way I see the world.
I wouldn’t hurt a flea.
by Rick Young | May 2, 2021 | Poem
In June I’ll have a different attitude.
I’ll float above the lanes just like The Dude.
I’ll take the doc’s advice, and try to be real nice,
and cut way down on time in which I brood.
Of course, the world will have to play its part.
Corona has come back now with a shart.
India and now Brazil are targeted for viral kill.
Good news still has to find a place to start.
In June, perhaps, crowds will be back in parks.
The independence crowd will hoard its sparks.
Maybe a Broadway play will open up some day.
And vaccine doses will hit all their marks.
We’ll put aside our masks and see some faces,
and go back once again to risky places.
We’ll work on gun control, and murder of the soul,
to try to cut down on cop killer cases.
By June’s end, there’ll be summer in our hearts,
to realign our lives in fits and starts.
With Biden at the wheel, a lot of people feel
this comeback could be simply off the charts.
But, don’t forget this fact: The Dude abides.
There’s got to be some merging on both sides.
If white supremacy continues, sea to sea,
there’ll be no way across our great divides.
by Rick Young | Apr 29, 2021 | Poem
I am tending now toward broken,
not a good sign for antiques.
I’m full of bumps and spots and dots,
and some assorted leaks.
Joints are aching, locking, popping,
not unlike a dance.
Appropriate in ballrooms, yes,
but not putting on pants.
The head of hair I sported once
has long since gone away.
The close-trimmed beard of fifty years
has grown out wild and grey.
I pay less mind to my own scent,
which once was fresh and fragrant.
My clothing choices tend to lean toward
nursing home or vagrant.
I’m hoping for a few more years
to get used to this change.
This horse is long past time to stud,
and doesn’t have much range.
My needs are simple, music, books,
and, once a day, I’m fed.
I pet the cats. I play guitar.
And then I go to bed.
It’s not as bad as it may sound.
There’s cookies and ice cream.
And, even when you’re old as I,
you’re still allowed to dream.
