by Rick Young | Jan 11, 2016 | Poem
When licked,
the hand of our benevolent ruler
tasted just like butterscotch.
He often wore a suit
made from what in the west
are usually called ‘jimmies.’
It was his strange custom
when out walking amongst the poor
to spit chocolates to the crowd.
If noted rulers visited,
he gave them peppermints,
invited them to nibble
on his marzipan crown.
Indeed, the queen
was always made of gingerbread,
constantly changing shape and size.
Some days her hair was caramel,
sometimes licorice or marshmallow.
Then, one day, the prince
of candyland was eaten,
throne and all,
in a calorific coup.
by Rick Young | Jan 10, 2016 | Poem
The rain claws
dig deep
inside the clothing,
the skin, the meat,
the essence and,
finally, the meaning,
producing a dampness
of spirit
ten days of sun
may not dry away.
by Rick Young | Jan 9, 2016 | Poem
Good morning.
Your church
is toast.
Your religion
is jelly.
Your salvation
is scrambled.
And still
you pray
for coffee.
by Rick Young | Jan 8, 2016 | Uncategorized
The root of all egress,
a blessed cure for stress,
time-honored equalizer,
realized, baptized upsizer,
and upscale jones of choice,
I raise my ginseng voice!
A good name for a daughter,
and taken best with water,
my memory’s restored;
my stomach’s like a board.
I hoard it like a treasure.
It’s multiplied my leisure.
I’ve grown an extra wing.
I love you, dear ginseng.
I spread the word in classes.
I’ve given up eyeglasses.
I read it in I Ching:
become one with ginseng.
by Rick Young | Jan 7, 2016 | Poem
I’m just a gypsy barnacle,
searching for a rock
to lie on, to die on,
as the water laps my days.
Encrusted on this old routine,
I spend my time alone and
thinking, "suction…suction."
How soon the moment comes
for me to loosen and get battered
is just another secret of the sun.
How warm this shell has been,
how cold the sea.
