by Rick Young | Aug 10, 2016 | Poem
For all my finger lickin’, I came back as a chicken.
I ate a thousand wings, now I’m one of those things.
I’m paying for those benders when I ate many tenders.
Did not realize how gory was chicken cacciatore.
I am a chicken now for chewing General Gao.
I’m paying for that fling with chicken a la king.
I ate it diced and shredded, now I’m poultry embedded.
I spent life as a guy who craved the breast and thigh.
Now it’s too late to beg, ’cause I am of the egg.
And it’s no use to growl, I ran afoul of fowl.
by Rick Young | Aug 6, 2016 | Song
Embattled cattle graze and wander,
chew their cud all day.
Rolling eyes, they sit and ponder,
searching for the way.
Holy cow. Zen is now.
Udderly awake.
This is bull. When they’re full.
they’re turned into steak.
You have killed our gods, McDonald.
You have brought us down.
We would just as soon go hungry,
even eat a clown.
Yes our shoes are made from leather.
We’re no purists, but,
we would rather dine on heather
than put cow in gut.
We reject your quarter-pounder.
We abhor big macs.
Blame goes back to Kroc the founder
for these cow attacks.
by Rick Young | Aug 4, 2016 | Poem
Old cats in black boots and dirty jackets sit
around a fire, burning tire, pass around a hit.
They talk of Eisenhower, Vietnam and J.F.K.,
of families and old friends who are not around today.
Most are vets and some served in the war to end all wars.
How can we stand by and know their lives will end outdoors?
by Rick Young | Aug 1, 2016 | Poem
Robin spied a spotted uncle on her way to the Dansk outlet.
He flitted from branch to branch, his silvered wrists aflutter.
She’d once thought him a nuthatch, but he’d grown into himself.
She would never forget his bright red coat, that one fashionable fall,
or her childhood wonder at his whispered songs of relativity.
His freckles and moles had been enhanced with henna appliques
and a variety of brightly colored small round bandaids.
This is his season, she thought. Perhaps he could be lured by some chai.
