by Rick Young | Dec 21, 2016 | Poem
On Clough Road when I was a child
we had some maple trees.
In fall the leaves lay on the lawn,
in places to my knees.
My dad would rake this dried debris
into one giant pile.
My friends and I were then allowed
to play in it awhile.
We’d run and dive into this hive
for all the afternoon.
And when the kids were called away,
they’d always whine, "Too soon!"
I’d come back in the house all leafy,
notice Dad’s chagrin,
as Mom would tell him cheerfully,
"You’ll have to rake again."
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2016 | Poem
Listening to John Cale,
thinking of Foghorn Leghorn.
Might have a fever.
Early morning skull swells,
looking to extricate eyeballs.
Sinuses screaming with graffiti,
yellow-green protests on germ warfare.
Hacking along to every song,
pillow wet with sweat, feet of ice.
Crazed thoughts magnify and pulse.
Scratches on the wall obtain meaning.
Pain can be a prod toward greatness,
sleeplessness the realm of a new clarity.
Push on, O virus-induced mystic.
Hurry now before the pills kick in.
by Rick Young | Dec 19, 2016 | Poem
I walked into black plastic arms and it felt like home.
Perhaps the hard green soldiers had taken this beach.
The beehives formed the outer edges of the strike zone.
Every day the new best song came out. No fear of death.
Just acceptance, and the next parameter of strangulation.
Tightropes were passe but necessary. They were the very very.
Feedback returned us to our cages, where we sniped at each mirage.
The jail was an igloo of coconuts, the sauces our own aspirations.
by Rick Young | Dec 18, 2016 | Poem
Nixon had a running mate named Spiro.
Their combined integrity was zero.
Nixon was a paranoid and liar.
Agnew was a goon and vilifier.
Both fled office to avoid a trial,
leaving legacies most dark and vile.
Those who do remember them at all
felt some vindication in their fall.
by Rick Young | Dec 17, 2016 | Poem
Most of all, I’d like to thank, the big three, Dylan, Bruce and Hank,
Elvis, Van and Jerry Lee, Cash, the Clash and GBV,
Cohen, Bowie, Brubeck, Cream, Nine Inch Nails and Marley’s dream,
Neil Young and his Crazy Horse, Rolling Stones, Beatles, of course,
Richard Thompson, Bobby Bare, soundtracks, "Oliver" and "Hair,"
Miles, ‘Trane, Mingus and the Bird, all the Wainwrights, first to third,
Airplane, Moby Grape and Dead, David Byrne, the Talking Head,
k.d., Bonnie, Emmy Lou, Kurt Cobain and Fighters Foo,
Willie, Billie, Mel Torme, Spoonful, Eleventh Dream Day,
Warren Zevon, White Stripes, Who, Traffic, Waits and Gil Scott, too,
Stevies: Wonder, Ray and Nicks, Louis Armstrong, Monk and Bix,
Hendrix, Marvin, Patsy Cline, Youngbloods, Taj Mahal, John Prine,
Muddy, Fats and Jelly Roll, Kinks, Paul Butterfield and Hole,
Janis, Woody, Arlo, Pete, Nick Cave on his Mercy Seat,
Led Zep, Creedence and the Jam, Canned Heat, Tom Rush, Sam the Sham,
Smithers, Withers, Townes Van Zandt, Frank Sinatra, Gogi Grant,
Holly, DEVO and Chuck Berry, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, Sonny Terry,
Keb’ Mo’, Shins and Arcade Fire, Simon, Beach Boys, Beck and Wire,
The Band, The The, Sonic Youth, Decemberists, Spooky Tooth,
REM, Cramps, Modest Mouse, Sam Cooke, Bauhaus, Crowded House,
Aretha and Nat King Cole, all the troubadours of soul,
Joni, Joan and all the folks, on the big wheel, they’re the spokes,
blues, rock punk, ska and new wave, music I’ll take to my grave.
