by Rick Young | Apr 26, 2017 | Poem
Madness is in the eye of the beholder,
said a man who lived in a toy box.
It’s accepted when a kid or much, much older.
In the interval between, it shocks.
His walls once were Lincoln Logs and Plastic Bricks.
Each toy in his box had their peculiar tricks.
He would play all day in quietude quite deep,
except for forced interludes of food and sleep.
When asked who were favorites from amongst his friends,
he said one-armed soldier and strange thing that bends.
Holidays and birthdays filled him up with joy
when he introduced to that box his new toy.
Then came dreaded school and time was regulated.
Homework was priority, play now berated.
Soon was introduced a glove and baseball bat.
His toy box was closeted; imagine that.
His room filled with baseball cards and model cars.
Walls were tacked with athletes and music stars.
He bought 45’s, "Hound Dog" and One Fine Day."
That toy box was sealed with tape and put away.
Decades passed and he had children of his own.
None of them reacted when his box was shown.
Stuff today lit up, moved and made lots of noise.
To them it was just a coffin of dead toys.
Many years went by, now he’s back in his box,
having gone through several strokes and aftershocks.
Wooly Willie’s on his shelf with Slinky and those men of tin.
Now it is acceptable for him to be a child again.
by Rick Young | Apr 24, 2017 | Poem
No one saw the last strike coming,
on the inside corner humming.
No one saw the walk off homer,
save the hermit Astrodomer.
No one saw the infield fly
never exit from the sky.
All the rules that once applied
disappeared and our sport died.
Stolen bases weren’t returned.
Fireballers really burned.
What were dugouts became trenches.
Kamikazes roamed the benches.
In the bullpen, short relievers
were the last hope of believers.
by Rick Young | Apr 20, 2017 | Poem
Our military found a way to make cows fly.
Now, every time they take a shit, some folks might die.
A cow flop dropped from fifty feet up might not matter.
But from half a mile the thing makes quite a splatter.
All day, conscripted cows are fed on tasty grasses.
Then, at night, they drop their turds on foreign asses.
One huge one-eyed cow they called ‘Cyclops’
dropped last week the mother of all flops.
Bovine bombs have even disturbed ranks at ISIS,
who must now condemn this U.S. cow crap crisis.
So far, enemies get just one break.
When they shoot one down, they all eat steak.
by Rick Young | Apr 19, 2017 | Poem
Thinking machine warped.
That was the rumor.
Perhaps a pressure on the brain,
a tumor?
No reason for the aberrant behavior.
No defenders, certainly no savior.
And now the time had come
to pay the price.
The options like a pair of loaded dice.
Go back on point
and thus return to normal.
Declare oneself insane
and make it formal.
Regardless, said the judge,
of what your choice is, you must
kill off at least one set of voices.
Or pick eternal quietude instead.
Then spend your days
amongst the living dead.
But, lo, he found the back route
out of hell
that hung inside the haven of his cell.
by Rick Young | Apr 11, 2017 | Poem
I am in the middle of an instant revolution
when the alarm rings and I am sent back
to my sedentary self. No planet has my calendar
on its docket. Eight ball, side pocket.
Suddenly, I’m back on the green and, sight unseen,
I disappear. My hideaway dreams have outbid
t.v shows, and, like that, I’m on the front line
in small letters, watching tomorrow’s fortune today.
by Rick Young | Apr 10, 2017 | Poem
I knew a cow whose fur was made of sparks.
Because of this, he found that he’d been banned from many parks.
He longed to get into Comiskey.
But secret service found him frisky.
So, on his birthday, he drank whiskey.
And later tried to buy some weed from narcs.
He’s an indy cow. Indy cow.
And his yellow belly longs for peace.
He loves Indy chow. Indy chow.
His intestines sing selected songs from "Grease."
PUSH SPECIAL BUTTON SHAPED LIKE COW
choose song & import video now
NOTE: Indy cow can be any religion or sexual persuasion
He’s available for birthday fun or any old occasion
Buy tickets now for next month’s one cow performance:
"I sold my soul to Nike and became some Jordan Airs."
Phil Ochs Died For Our Sins 4/9/76
