by Rick Young | Dec 23, 2013 | Poem
Numbers help me free my mind,
cast my troubles all behind.
When I worry about war,
I think sixes, nothing more.
And when pain of hunger scores,
think of eights, in fields of fours.
When pure hatred gets to me,
I must simply conjure three.
When I need to ease the blues,
no sweat, I envision twos.
Feel the need to combat crime?
Here’s the mantra: just say nine.
For specific knives and guns.
it’s real simple: fives and ones.
Seven lives in number heaven.
One last super hero: zero!
by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2013 | Poem
Meet mate at seven.
Wash shoes in hyperbole.
Employ the suffering viol.
Shimmer with preordination.
Shelve the crankcase.
Eat more minerals, pronto.
Collapse periodically.
Invent, destroy, implicate.
Condone hysterical bleating.
Disgorge bulbous neckware.
Contemplate, intimidate, validate.
Express pernicious sympathy.
Caulk pejorative arrows.
Combine, fluff, deliver.
Attenuate cosmopolitan philosophy.
Cradle the blaspheming affirmative.
Shrinkwrap yellowed conjecture.
Divide, accelerate, inject.
by Rick Young | Dec 21, 2013 | Poem
"Give cheese some pants!"
The war is over,
now that we all have guns.
The new citizen action army
may dress like they don’t care,
but they’ll kill you in a second
if you jive with their peace.
We’ve got several states
that are nothin’ but dead people.
"Peace up, Rhode Island!’
And even though
nobody’s wearin’ bars,
the generals will tell you
who they are.
The lieutenants will mostly
stay inside.
The sergeants, as always,
will mostly die and kill
in even numbers.
And God help the private sector.
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2013 | Poem
I liked the cat the way it was.
With countless heads
and endless claws.
But then I heard
they cloned a cat
who only ate and slept and shat.
Please trade in
your present model.
This time I can’t mollycoddle !
by Rick Young | Dec 19, 2013 | Poem
We sail in the morning.
Three flags are the warning.
These crossbones are eloquent.
I’m on for the ride.
Small ship on a rough sea.
This life is not for me.
We rock on a precipice.
The yaw will decide.
I feel like Edgar Allen Poe.
Into the maelstrom we must go.
And as we swirl I understand
I should have never left dry land.
Next time I’m prompted to explore
I’ll look inside and nothing more.
For there is naught beyond the skin.
Meanwhile, I spin. I spin. I spin.
