by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2013 | Poem
I’m flabby philosophically.
I’ve joined a cigar band.
We smoke while playing tubas.
The bland must lead the bland.
I cater now to no one.
It’s later than I think.
I’d rather read than eat, alas,
But can’t give up the drink.
I’ve watched in sheer amazement
The dear departed leave,
Then come back just to decompose
Each tenet I believe.
The history of progress
Has doubled back, it seems.
We’re raking leaves from long-dead trees,
And piling them on dreams.
At night, I disassemble,
Re-gather in the morn.
Two times of three, I favor glee.
But sometimes I’m forlorn.
It helps to have good friendships.
A pet is handy, too.
This ‘elderly’ is new to me.
We do what we must do.
by Rick Young | Dec 30, 2013 | Poem
Santa’s in a mild depression.
Elves were cut back by recession.
Layoffs dampen his enjoyment.
Blitzen’s getting unemployment.
In the workshop hear the noise
made by all the homeless toys.
by Rick Young | Dec 28, 2013 | Poem
Produce breathes life into labor.
Decayed cauliflower wins no hearts.
Take that price tag off my skin.
I live only in consumer memory.
Inventory cannot define me.
Customer satisfaction disgusts me.
I am a shadow, bought and sold,
an old bargain looking for a sucker.
My s.k.u. is like a prison tattoo,
defining me in swapmeet hell.
Do not be fooled by my torn package.
Bring me home: the kids will love me.
Eat me whole, or broken into parts.
Surely you’ve seen me on t.v.
I once was placed this close to Barbie.
That’s not dust on my aged package,
but a roadmap of fondled memories.
Don’t put me down now, lover.
Now that I’ve kissed your fingerprints
forever.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2013 | Poem
The pawns are having fun today.
They’re sacrificed, as is their way.
The castles are aswarm with knights,
the bishops immune to their plights.
While kings and queens,
snug in their beds,
dream Christmas thoughts:
"Off with their heads!"
by Rick Young | Dec 24, 2013 | Poem
A poet dreams upon a ledge,
while painters pace abysses’ edge.
As bulldozers level mountains,
architects build indoor fountains.
Nothing in this life is certain.
Every answer has its curtain.
Words are said and weapons raised
as the gods are being praised.
It’s been said that all professions
come with their own crazed obsessions.
Baby, you must make your choices
once you understand the voices.
Behind madness logic simmers:
too much light, you hit the dimmers.
All that gold, it surely glitters,
‘nough to give a man the jitters.
Sea to sea see former monkeys
writhing now like power junkies.
That spark evolved from two sticks
has us in our final fix.
