by Rick Young | Dec 26, 2016 | Poem
Pebbles married Pogo and upgraded to a swamp.
Scooby Doo and Snoopy had a wedding with much pomp.
Daisy Duck wed Road Runner; it happened much too fast.
Sluggo married Orphan Annie; it’ll never last.
Dennis hitched with Lucy and got into S&M.
Elroy Jetson/ Little Lulu; hey, good luck to them.
Archie did choose Betty, left Veronica in tears.
Dilbert married Mary Worth; he’d had too many beers.
Dora the Explorer ran away with Richie Rich.
Underdog at last made Pretty Polly his true bitch.
Steve Canyon finally came to earth, eloped with Brenda Starr.
Daffy Duck, en route to chapel, got hit by a car.
Tinker Bell (this hurts like hell) wed crazed Woody Woodpecker.
Betty Boop and Alley Oop bought their first double decker.
Sure, there’s guys who’ll never marry, just to name a few:
Bluto, Beetle Bailey, Goofy, Hulk, Mister Magoo.
And many a cartoon woman will stay an old maid,
sure the Jugheads of their world simply don’t make the grade.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2016 | Poem
Some nights, I just want to drink some Drano.
The world feels like one massive backed-up sink.
I wonder if I have gone insane, oh,
what’s the use is often what I think.
But alas, some intricate reflection
will convey life’s beauty to my head.
After a bit of introspection,
I realize it’s no help being dead.
There are things to do to make life better,
even if it’s on a minute scale.
When the world around us is on fire,
everyone needs to pick up a pail.
Safety is, indeed, the seed of numbers.
Sanity will often tip the scales.
History says when the power slumbers
truth can knock their carriage off the rails.
And so, tonight, I’ll go out draining,
but not in a self destructive way.
Evil at the moment might be reigning.
But, like always, they will have their day.
by Rick Young | Dec 24, 2016 | Poem
Nodding to computer radio,
light years from the a.m. of my youth.
Cousin Brucie fell, alas, to eight tracks.
Vinyl beware of cassettes, forsooth.
Reel to reel’s dying protests were tragic.
CD’s were the new audio rage.
Quality of sound touted as magic;
this was dawning of new airwaves’ age.
There have been a hundred more perfections,
touted in the press and magazines.
On the other side there are defections,
rejecting these shallow hipster scenes.
In the end it all goes back to vinyl,
despite imperfections in the grooves.
Something in the turning seemed so final.
As if music sensed our final moves.
by Rick Young | Dec 23, 2016 | Poem
Oh Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
Just leave some megatons beneath my tree.
My Russian pen pal asked you for the same thing.
And I don’t want him to have more than me.
The game we play is mutual destruction.
And I don’t know, dear Santa, if you’ve heard.
But this will always end up in a dead heat
if mass annihilation is assured.
So Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
I’ve been a little naughty, there’s no doubt.
But if you don’t deliver what I ask for,
I’ll buy your factory and phase you out.
The nuclear arms race has been neglected
for many years now, but must be resumed.
A wave of paranoia is expected.
An end of life scenario presumed.
Hey Santa, I’m not kidding on this wish list.
I’ve got a lot of generals prompting me.
The fate of this world hinges on your presents.
I’d better see some nukes under my tree.
by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2016 | Uncategorized
One mouth circles ominously,
betraying a vast inhalation.
Neck muscles stretch,
making waves in the ears.
It catches on across the room,
an episodic explosion of tangible strength,
a rippling shrug and atmospheric squeeze
that squints the eyes and pops the seized instant
into a different time;
that bank of eternity contagious yawning opens.
