by Rick Young | May 23, 2017 | Poem
Dusty milk spots remain
on the old barn floor
where we used to play tag as kids.
They were the safe zones,
like baseball bases,
where one could not be tagged.
Problem was they were oft below
the very cows that made them,
necessitating a baseball-like slide,
feet first, the old-fashioned way,
in order to reach them.
And, in doing so, one had to avoid,
by all means, getting "udder-faced."
To get tagged and "faced"
was a disgrace that might be
talked about for weeks.
by Rick Young | May 16, 2017 | Poem
He was caught in bed with spies,
covered head to toe in lies.
He’d revealed some secret codes,
and, as drastic as that bodes,
there were rumors he’d done worse,
blister on the universe.
Yet his people found him funny,
even as he took their money.
Like an addict to his power,
he grew bolder by the hour,
met his critics with derision,
and his skewed malignant vision
put his populace in danger.
He was clearly a Lone Ranger.
With the one-percent his Tonto,
he was getting richer, pronto.
There would clearly come a day
he’d hi-ho Silver away.
Then a small group did get wise
and this posse gained in size.
When these rebels of fake news
finally verified his ruse,
they said, "It’s not O.K., pal,"
and surrounded his corral.
He was dragged off, spitting bile,
put in custody for trial.
He’d played his country fast and loose
and now awaits impeachment’s noose.
by Rick Young | May 3, 2017 | Poem
Echo soundlessly inward
beyond vegetable borders
of limited dysfunctional reality.
Confound irretrievable memory
descending genetic ropes
toward fathomless new beginnings.
Explore erased capacities.
Ignore external duplicity.
Delve, unshelve and declassify.
Investigate, extrapolate, dematerialize.
(for Dr. Benjamin Spock 5/2/2903)
by Rick Young | May 2, 2017 | Poem
We’re caulking up the cracks in the facade of our reason.
Environmental factors aren’t responsible this season.
It seems that all the wear and tear is coming from within,
‘tween where propaganda ends and outright lies begin.
Minds exposed to massive doses of prepared corrosion
tend to teeter on the brink of shut down or explosion.
Bandages and blindfolds offered as some kind of fix
only tend to obscure the base nature of their tricks.
They’ll sell their own brand of madness as a healing factor,
led not by a ruler but a simple two-bit actor.
Hammer, nails and sweat prevails, but only with a vision.
Workers, come together. You don’t deserve this derision.
by Rick Young | May 1, 2017 | Poem
Up at three a.m. again, sittin’ on the can.
Sweatin’ out all last night’s gin, worried ’bout the man.
He shut off my internet, even killed my phone.
Am I frightened? Yeah, you bet! I am not alone.
Police are like a strike force now, armored law god’s sons.
In the street, it’s pow, pow, pow! Everyone got guns.
Me, I got no weapon bigger than a kitchen knife.
If I go out steppin’, I am bound to lose my life.
So I barricade the door, block the windows, too.
Got no food, can’t reach the store. Not much I can do.
Things look bleaker every day. Soon my blood will flow.
Even if I get away, got no place to go.
