by Rick Young | Jun 10, 2017 | Poem
He’s got a fistful of fight but his hands are so small
that to battle makes not one shred of sense at all.
He emerges bloodied from every dust up.
He howls like a wolf then he yowls like a pup.
He’s clearly the loser in his every bout,
but no one’s been able to knock the man out.
He’s back in the ring on the very next day
throwing jabs at the world and just swinging away.
He showers opponents with insults and lies.
When faced with his losses, he simply denies.
His handlers convince him that he is the greatest.
Performance, however, would hint he’s a sadist.
In his corner his trainer and great cut man Bannon
persuades him his power is like a loose cannon.
And so he continues, bruised, dazed but still cocky.
He’s sly and persistent. And our future’s rocky.
by Rick Young | Jun 8, 2017 | Poem
I longed to see
the cupcake of your smile.
I thought you were
my mommy for awhile.
You pushed me on a swing
until my head was lost.
Of course I’d follow you
at almost any cost.
I’d trail behind
your skirt tails like a pet.
I’d kiss you ’til the world
was soaking wet.
And then, at night,
when you turned off the light,
I’d cry and cry
’til you were back in sight.
by Rick Young | Jun 7, 2017 | Poem
My gambling addiction
is passed off as fiction,
but it does cause friction
with the wife.
I bet on the horses
at many race courses
and I am remorseless;
it’s my life.
I’ve borrowed some money
and, no, that’s not funny.
I can’t tell my honey;
she’d be mad.
Now some of my lenders
are denting my fenders.
They could be game enders.
This is bad.
I’m betting a pot
on one last long shot,
the last chance I’ve got
in this life.
So, if I’m found dead,
two shots to the head,
I’ve made my own bed.
Goodbye wife.
by Rick Young | Jun 5, 2017 | Poem
Six weeks ago I bought a gross of ghosts.
I thought they’d make tremendous party hosts.
I didn’t realize they’re unionized.
Before the sale I should have been apprised.
They’ll only show up for approved occurrence.
And now they have demanded health insurance.
Not only do they expect room and board,
they want clean sheets and linens, oh my lord.
And if one feels his pay is in arrears,
he, without warning, up and disappears.
I feel that in this deal I just got burned.
And it seems that ghosts can’t be returned.
by Rick Young | May 23, 2017 | Poem
Dusty milk spots remain
on the old barn floor
where we used to play tag as kids.
They were the safe zones,
like baseball bases,
where one could not be tagged.
Problem was they were oft below
the very cows that made them,
necessitating a baseball-like slide,
feet first, the old-fashioned way,
in order to reach them.
And, in doing so, one had to avoid,
by all means, getting "udder-faced."
To get tagged and "faced"
was a disgrace that might be
talked about for weeks.
by Rick Young | May 16, 2017 | Poem
He was caught in bed with spies,
covered head to toe in lies.
He’d revealed some secret codes,
and, as drastic as that bodes,
there were rumors he’d done worse,
blister on the universe.
Yet his people found him funny,
even as he took their money.
Like an addict to his power,
he grew bolder by the hour,
met his critics with derision,
and his skewed malignant vision
put his populace in danger.
He was clearly a Lone Ranger.
With the one-percent his Tonto,
he was getting richer, pronto.
There would clearly come a day
he’d hi-ho Silver away.
Then a small group did get wise
and this posse gained in size.
When these rebels of fake news
finally verified his ruse,
they said, "It’s not O.K., pal,"
and surrounded his corral.
He was dragged off, spitting bile,
put in custody for trial.
He’d played his country fast and loose
and now awaits impeachment’s noose.
