by Rick Young | Dec 10, 2016 | Poem
Suddenly, everyone was wearing red hats.
Those that didn’t were vilified, even pushed around.
Beneath their crimson brims they screamed of country.
People without proper hats were scared to go outside.
They had to sneak around at night, keep out of sight,
risking harm in their own neighborhoods.
Some preferred blue hats, but would never say so.
Eventually, it was easier just to get one, to blend with
those marching about the streets and restricted zones.
Of course one didn’t have to really like them.
After all, it was just a color.
by Rick Young | Dec 9, 2016 | Poem
Mrs. Ritz spits out bits of olive pits
from the knitted chair in which she always sits.
Her entire house is filled with strange mementos.
She freely admits addiction to pimentos.
She’s surrounded by her cats, a baker’s dozen,
every one related, uncle, aunt or cousin.
Also in the mix are her two feisty parrots,
who will dance and sing if tempted by raw carrots.
They prefer old gospel songs or Broadway tunes.
One sings like Hank Williams while the other croons.
Neighbors who drop by to see her day to day
say it all seems like an Ionesco play.
Cats run up the curtains, chase around and fight,
while the birds duet on Hank’s "I Saw The Light."
by Rick Young | Dec 8, 2016 | Poem
Never pin your hopes on a phantom.
Massage your cliff face daily
and oil all squeaking parts.
Walk lightly on the wire of consciousness.
Sweep street smarts to the sidewalk, then run.
Smash ideas into quarters, re-paste at random.
Settle back, arch spine, climb in trunk.
Don’t ever drink absinthe with newsboys.
Sail blithely over open space bars.
Best avoid magnetic socks with steel-toed shoes.
Push and pull with equal frequency on days off.
Rotate memories from basement to attic.
Give fingers names and whisper to them secrets.
Always blink eyes rhythmically to ska.
by Rick Young | Dec 6, 2016 | Poem
Games are mathematics diluted in imagination.
Backgammon a stepladder of pure numbers.
Checkerboard a diamond of bad hops.
All war games are spawn of great lord chess.
Monopoly is the capitalist Candy Land.
Dominoes are playing cards’ plump children.
Probability’s bones made of dice and spinners.
Genetic odds and evens in a helix of competition.
An equation whose solution is dusted with distraction.
And the constant variable of passing time.
It’s enough to make one lose his marbles.
by Rick Young | Dec 4, 2016 | Poem
Does watching Snowden break the law?
The government knows what you saw.
Will they now brand you as a traitor,
haul you off to somewhere later?
Once you were a common Joe.
Now you’re in Guantanamo.
Siding with a whistle blower
equates you with a bomb thrower.
Standing up for liberties
now means exile overseas.
Every time you click your mouse,
Uncle Sam is in your house.
Trigger words might make him sore,
then a SWAT team’s at your door.
Goodbye wife and family.
I just wanted to live free.
