by Rick Young | Apr 7, 2017 | Poem
Its sprouts look like an onion bulb,
but smell like vanilla, or, in some strains,
cinnamon, the driver explained as we careened
along rain-slicked back roads to his country home.
I was still wearing my suit and had brought nothing.
Curtailing my long explanation, he pointed a hitcher’s thumb
toward the back seat and said, "you can wear my work shirt."
There, on a wire hanger, was a bright blue tie-dyed tee.
Quick as that, everything was cool.
And the world’s greatest song played on his cassette deck.
by Rick Young | Mar 29, 2017 | Poem
The sheep was out of bounds.
Horses, hookers and dolls were o.k.
But everybody hits rock bottom.
Next morn it’s up and climbing.
Every day thereafter is a mountain.
Praying for a foothold.
Cactus is your only friend.
And at the apex, what awaits you
but a downhill slide over scree,
shale, thorn, bark and bother.
Another fall, another winter.
A drop in the bucket of slop
that seems to be the destiny of man.
by Rick Young | Mar 28, 2017 | Poem
Trapped inside, like water.
Outside, chain link and barbed wire.
Concrete mesa and rock ledge.
Broken glass and bottles thrown
from on high. A wave of pulsing oil.
Here comes a train again.
Lost dogs, guard dogs, devil dogs.
Red-eyed and hungry.
Screamed languages unheard,
almost as in song.
Forever chased to dead ends.
Rumors of a river downhill.
If only just one door to knock upon.
Long ago there were friendly faces.
In the times before the glass pipe.
by Rick Young | Mar 23, 2017 | Poem
He wandered into a fantasy of the prairie,
a silver spoon child with such a cute scowl.
He was going to be a cowboy, a spaceman,
a pirate. Pirate was in his genes.
He won all the Monopoly games because
his crying and tantrums made other options
much too painful for the players involved.
He said, "Big blocks good." He loved adjectives.
He would mumble, "Pretty, pretty," as he
stroked the skin of thin young women.
He had trouble reading and cheated at math.
He had no friends and he scared his enemies.
He bullied and lied his way into power.
His handlers claimed his tantrums
made him more interesting and ‘real.’
He pulled many strings and broke promises.
And yet his hangers-on hung on.
He was orange. He was red. He was fuzzy.
He was a muppet in wolf’s clothing.
by Rick Young | Mar 20, 2017 | Poem
Develop your dexterity
in practice of sincerity.
Achieve internal parity.
Such balance is a rarity.
Resolve the mind’s distortion.
Remove outside extortion.
Learn how to reapportion.
Become one with Frank Gorshin.
by Rick Young | Mar 19, 2017 | Poem
The squares have all been rounded up,
a universal wrangle.
While life has lost a certain edge,
there remains the triangle.
The stars have all been taken down,
no mention of a spangle.
The artists are all up in arms.
Their aspirations dangle.
