by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Those who knew miss Dickinson
Were of one mind: she was no fun.
Her talk of death would get one down.
But Amherst was a party town.
And that strange woman dressed in white
Would never venture out at night.
She tended garden all alone.
She wrote as if in death’s time zone.
She watched her mother fade away.
She pressed dried flowers, hey, now, hey!
And when, at last, her life complete,
She went beneath that cold white sheet.
The rectangle where now we meet
Is plotted on Triangle Street.
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Sally Field has kicked the habit.
She’ll not Gidget any more.
Will it fit Sebastian Cabot?
Brian Keith is on the floor.
Joey Bishop’s blessed foil,
Peter Lawford was a pawn.
Buddy Ebsen just struck oil,
Out on Eva Gabor’s lawn.
Red has Skeltons in his closet.
Serling thinks he’ll spare the Rod.
Someone turn off Farrah Fawcett.
George is burning to play God.
Dick VanDyke can rob no more,
Not the Rose of Amsterdam.
Since sweet Mary tiled her floor,
Rhoda doesn’t give a damn.
Robert Young does not know best.
Opie, Beaver, both are grown.
Robert Conrad’s still out west.
Alfred Hitchcock rests alone.
Jim Arness sings Dillon songs.
Andy Griffith’s tied in Knotts.
Raymond Burr’s addressing wrongs.
Jack Webb’s feet have liver spots.
Danny Thomas still needs room.
Billy Mumy lost his space.
Mister Wizard just went boom.
Mia moved to Peyton Place.
Old Jim Nabors got the Pyles.
Carol Burnett lent her ear.
Garner’s got his Rockford Files.
Captain Kangaroo loves beer.
When I’m down in T.V. Land,
I can’t help but shed a tear.
VHF was quite the band.
Black and white was o’ so clear.
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
Coach Roswell tipped his hat
to the stars.
Soon they were inside his head.
Every day he grew more
unfamiliar with his skin.
The league said there were limits
to this team thing he envisioned.
But tryouts were open to everyone,
from slugs to superheroes.
They played a game without rules,
and he adored them for it.
Sometimes he felt all buttery inside,
even seasoned with ground pepper.
His playbook consisted of dreams.
And every night he split apart
so the dogs could lick his heart.
by Rick Young | Nov 13, 2013 | Poetry
An old cat is like a small storm,
creaking, scratching,
leaving detritus in its wake,
its svelte prowl
has become a stumbling lurch.
It twitches in sleep,
dreaming of the climb.
Its purr is now mixed
with yawns and groans.
Its plaintive cries
fall on its own deaf ears..
Its eyes, once magical,
now hold a mist.
And the worst part of an old cat
is knowing how you’ll miss it
when it’s gone.
