by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2017 | Poem
Kid, they will write on your back,
scratch your name on the walls
with your own petrified eyelids.
They told me and they will tell you
to climb up and jump down.
Stares, vague and lifeless,
will be lined up like book backs
on the shelves of your memory.
Terrific dragons will turn to lawnmowers
and castles melt before the sun.
Push on, push on; the dreaded cry
will become a sharpened knife.
Remember your doorways, your shoe size,
your airs. Crouch low in the belly of dreams.
And always keep reaching.
Someday someone will see your hand.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2017 | Poem
That I cannot play the guitar any better than I do
after fifty years of trying’s disappointing.
Bad hand neurons.
Brain lanes blocked by Mighty Mouse and Whitey Ford.
My only little league hit was a bunt. Live pitching
was very different from pinkball off the garage door.
Hand-eye coordination disturbed by strange vibration.
Probably "Sweet Little Sixteen." Chuck often took the blame.
And bad sneakers was always a good excuse.
by Rick Young | Dec 26, 2017 | Poem
The bespectacled one is out flying his kite,
losing his house keys, adding some weight.
Surely this storm will make the diary.
Poor Richard is, of course, asleep early,
dreaming of swimming the English Channel.
While Franklin’s urethra has been acting up
ever since his strained militia stint.
And these damned buckle shoes don’t fare
well in the warm Philadelphia mud.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2017 | Poem
Light is reigning down in plunging coverlets of gold
around the cradle.
Someone passed a bowl of blood-thick soup among the group;
where is the ladle?
I am here in Bethlehem. I was dragged along by them.
I have gone to much expense purchasing this frankincense.
But no one seems to care if I exist.
If I slipped away would I be missed?
I don’t know why everyone’s gone wild
over some damned ring around this child.
I got the wise man blues again.
Two guys woke me up at ten.
Had to give my camel water;
had to leave my wife and daughter;
follow some star to the savior.
I’m not used to weird behavior.
Wound up here amongst these strangers;
I don’t often frequent mangers.
Guess it happens every now and then.
I got them wise man blues once again.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2017 | Poem
All I want for Christmas is a gun,
just like little Ralphie, except real.
Armor-piercing bullets would be fun,
and a barrel made of polished steel.
Santa, bring me ammo clips,
body targets, liquor nips.
Arm me for a firefight.
A silencer would be all right.
Shoulder holster would be cool.
Rapid fire killing tool.
I’ll get a license, keep it legal,
swear upon the U.S. eagle.
And I’ll only use it to defend.
I’ll never kill a relative or friend.
by Rick Young | Dec 23, 2017 | Poem
Whose dusty boots are those,
standing at attention
in the car stripped of its plumage
near the desecrated rag?
The ground, so hard in the winter sun,
a pellet in the soft heart
of a warm-breathing deer,
masks death with a facade of glory,
and a worm, frozen to the wood
of an old tree’s casket,
falls without a sound as tribute.
Hubless tires, like so many
travelled eyes among shapes
in this graveyard above the brookpond,
stare at the sky, unspinning,
perhaps forever; and, in their shadow
a stalwart weed pokes its tongue
through the jagged mouth of a rusted can,
mocking the symbiotic plan.
Below, the water, robbed of beauty,
mirroring the hillside’s desolation,
drains drip by drip and drip back toward the heart.
On the last day of October,
I caught the water lilies crying.
Not too long thereafter came the ice.
