by Rick Young | Feb 3, 2016 | Poem
There is no proper substitute
for a good yodel parade.
Mountain men and cowboys
come from every glen and glade.
They flock into the town of choice
to try to win some prizes,
with their yodel-a-hee voice
in bodies of all sizes.
You’ll get some folks from Switzerland
and several from Peru.
And each is glad to show you
what their crackling voice will do.
The decibels raised by their yells
send livestock on the run.
Y’all come down to Comstock,
’cause this weekend starts the fun.
by Rick Young | Feb 2, 2016 | Poem
The groundhog sees his shadow and we’re all for six weeks doomed.
Whose idea was it to have this poor beast exhumed?
There must be other rodents on whom we could pin our luck,
something not quite so skittish as the underground woodchuck.
Perhaps we’d be much better off in dragging from its hole
an animal unfazed by sun, most probably a mole.
Or maybe shadows aren’t the things that make him want to hide.
It could be all those guys in top hats dragging him outside.
The whistle pig has this big gig that helps decide our fate.
It would be great if on this date we just let him sleep late.
by Rick Young | Feb 1, 2016 | Poem
Gravitational update indecisive,
as indicated by floating peas,
bees sucked into dark holes
and seas flat, motionless.
Whilst in theory we madly spin,
the rope simply hangs.
Beyond the kicking legs of swingers,
the street is dead. The trees just shed.
And now rocks spit from the earth,
stars burst and islands disappear.
Tears fall up like rain reversed.
And the crops move around underground.
