by Rick Young | Jan 16, 2016 | Poem
I’m ice cold and my hands are blue.
I feel the wind right through my shoe.
I’ve got no roof or home to shelter me,
the human discard of society.
I’m a homeless man in a heartless time.
I’ve got no money. That’s my crime.
Once I had friends and dreams and plans.
But that world slipped through my hands.
On dark streets, disregards the ruling mood.
One begs for change in hopes of getting food.
Eventually the elders turn to drink.
A man can’t mourn his life if he can’t think.
I just can’t get a grip with fingers bent.
I live in shame but that’s irrelevant.
I eat from trash and pack a cardboard bed.
I fight for life while wishing I were dead.
I’m a homeless man in a heedless time.
To treat a soul this way must be a crime.
by Rick Young | Jan 15, 2016 | Poem
Our faction has successfully
the enemy exposed.
It is no surprise, therefore,
so many’ve been disposed.
The body count implants the land
with sullen hidden graves.
The lord abstains, the lord disdains,
abandons earth to braves.
We wake up, then, in dance
and song, in deep security.
The goons pretend to play along.
We’ve pledged serenity.
No bombs go off. No lives are lost.
The band has fed it back.
The drone of history goes on.
The future fades to black.
by Rick Young | Jan 14, 2016 | Poem
Left-handed bowling alleys of the future
will become sudden glory things one day.
The roads that drove the tribe to next to nowhere
will be rerouted, find another way.
The pins that fall are most akin to soldiers
in an army of widespread despair.
In nightmares the desert always smolders.
What war can we possibly win there?
It’s a seven-ten split,
and the Earl don’t give a shit.
The Head Pin Temple Lanes don’t make the news.
But Buddha still wears multicolored shoes.
by Rick Young | Jan 13, 2016 | Poem
The sin also rises, and sets prices.
The market is paying in beanstalks again,
and the giants of industry wear camo.
The center has held.
It’s the outside that’s spinning to pieces.
The casting of extras has abruptly ended.
Scenery is unrecognizable
and losing interest.
Bears have killed the stockade’s only bull.
They say there’s weeping in the condo silos.
The nest egg’s been aborted.
Newer chemicals now define the meat.
Billions and billions of drones
are alit on the head of a pin,
ready to pop the world.
by Rick Young | Jan 12, 2016 | Poem
I’d like to buy a frigate for a song.
The tune would be a rousing little ditty.
The leaders I believed in were all wrong,
went one-by-one insane. It wasn’t pretty.
And now I need a ship to keep me strong,
perhaps to sail away and leave the city.
Ship of state. State of art.
Strip shaped core and shellshocked heart.
The waves of doubt are crashing on the shore,
distorting true reflection evermore.
