by Rick Young | Jun 19, 2017 | Poem
Happy Fathers’ Day. The hours melt away.
Only two more left to sell these cards.
Door to door we’ll go,
knocking, don’t you know,
selling reminiscence and its shards.
And it’s Daddy, Daddy-Oh.
How I love you, head to toe.
Your boots are just the fruits
of love’s sweet stand.
Your seed made me what I am,
schizophrenic and, god-damn,
now I’m playing
in an anarchistic band.
Crash the government.
Bury in cement.
Wash the old world
down the unfurled path.
Come out living clean
in the new world scene,
let the dirty bastards
take a bath.
by Rick Young | Jun 18, 2017 | Poem
His fingertips are raisins in a certain light,
like fingerprints that just survived a twelve-round fight.
His knuckles often swell and sometimes they will ache.
And if he tried to throw a curve, it wouldn’t break.
The hands that had the flex once of a lithe gym rat
would blister now just swinging his old baseball bat.
And that’s just what old age does to extremities.
When adding in the damage to the feet and knees,
it’s clear the days are gone when he can play at sport,
unless it is restricted to the walking sort.
To both the long jump shot and perfect spiral pass,
he’ll have to bid adieu and fondly raise a glass.
by Rick Young | Jun 15, 2017 | Song
It’s a hard shard to swallow.
It’s a scarred card to follow.
It’s a lumbering craft dragged out to sea.
We were just getting started.
The sand itself departed.
Wave after endless wave and tree by tree.
It came on as expected,
nature tortured and rejected.
We stripped the world of all its mystery.
It’s an invite to extinction,
our last moment of distinction.
We rowed off on the tears of misery.
by Rick Young | Jun 12, 2017 | Poem
Grab this dark cloud now and wring it out.
Its tears will be the moneyed mead of oil.
So, shut the lights off, mama, for, no doubt,
you’re gonna have some acid in your soil.
The trees won’t grow, but cars will go.
Some animals will be put out of business.
Extinction helps economy, you know.
You’ll get your bobcat sandwich down at Quiznos.
Who cares about the ocean or the chem trails?
Who cares about the fish; they’re just a fad.
We’re talking greed right off the old pro tem rails.
Where history’s concerned, we’re just plain bad.
by Rick Young | Jun 10, 2017 | Poem
He’s got a fistful of fight but his hands are so small
that to battle makes not one shred of sense at all.
He emerges bloodied from every dust up.
He howls like a wolf then he yowls like a pup.
He’s clearly the loser in his every bout,
but no one’s been able to knock the man out.
He’s back in the ring on the very next day
throwing jabs at the world and just swinging away.
He showers opponents with insults and lies.
When faced with his losses, he simply denies.
His handlers convince him that he is the greatest.
Performance, however, would hint he’s a sadist.
In his corner his trainer and great cut man Bannon
persuades him his power is like a loose cannon.
And so he continues, bruised, dazed but still cocky.
He’s sly and persistent. And our future’s rocky.
