by Rick Young | Feb 8, 2016 | Poem
We need a sharp-edged ruler,
who can spy upon us, too,
a real protective leader,
a Governor Gumshoe.
He’ll pound his dreaded gavel
if we have too much fun.
Then, if we don’t settle down,
he’ll go and get his gun.
He’ll walk the streets at night time,
eliminating crime,
and call his own electorate
a thieving vermin slime.
And when the next election time
comes rolling ’round again,
He’ll make damn sure that you vote.
He’ll make sure that he’ll win.
We need an upright ruler
who’ll control all things we do,
a regular dictator,
a Governor Gumshoe.
by Rick Young | Feb 7, 2016 | Poem
An early interception
changed the game’s complexion.
After two substantial kicks,
the spread was back up to six.
Looked as if the football gods
once again had nailed the odds.
But a short-pass-fueled long drive
kept the comeback dream alive,
up until a late-game sack
by a blitzing cornerback
made a last hope necessary,
sixty-seven yard hail Mary.
Interference on the one!
Two ticks left, they called the run.
A billion betters’ knees were weak
as the defense stopped the sneak.
Both teams’ players shed some tears.
Best damned game in fifty years.
by Rick Young | Feb 6, 2016 | Poem
Satchmo, Miles, ‘Trane,
Pharoah, Diz,
tell you what a player is.
Sacramental blue high notes,
wails and honks and sailing boats.
Silence, violence, bleep to bawl,
horn of plenty says it all.
Horn of plenty, Blue Note, Verve,
hits a raw religious nerve.
Every time that these cats blow
God is putting on a show.
Horn of plenty, hear that sound,
six feet off or under ground.
by Rick Young | Feb 5, 2016 | Poem
Corporal Geometry
informed Private Equation,
"W’ell have to take Right Angle Hill
if we’re to save this nation."
But Major Addition
said there was one condition.
It seemed Sergeant Subtraction
had seen too much combat action.
So Colonel Long Division
made a tactical decision.
Send Captain Algebra
up the hill as last hurrah.
"His men aren’t averse to dying,
and they’re always multiplying."
General Mathematics states,
"He wins who better calculates."
by Rick Young | Feb 4, 2016 | Poem
I woke up rooted to the ground,
within sight of no industry.
A farmer with a shovel came
across the field and stared at me,
said, "If you grow and blossom,
that’s the only way you will get free."
And so I pledged my earthbound life
to vegetable reality.
