by Rick Young | Sep 7, 2017 | Poem
The cat loves to play with a Q-tip,
a little baton he can flip and chew on.
He’ll hold with his claw and just gnaw and gnaw.
He’ll work on that thing ’til it looks like Don King,
its head shaped to a point like a paintbrush or joint.
He’ll shake back and forth and then fling the tip north,
and on very good nights, he’ll aim for two sites,
the tub or cat dish: he’ll flip it and, swish!
And if feeling proud, he may say so out loud.
There’s no going back when your cat’s talkin’ smack.
by Rick Young | Sep 6, 2017 | Poem
We cheered ’til the crowd went deaf.
The war had been won in our minds.
Electronic gods were declared dead.
Aliens at last returned home.
Water was free again and
trees had agreed to be sown.
The bright yellow flag waved once more.
And then somebody threw a switch.
And the air was sucked out of our lungs.
Boll weevils large as basketballs
rained down upon the unsuspecting land.
A tidal wave of blackish haze
descended on our memories and dreams.
The world again was prehistoric, flat.
If seen from outer space, it most looked
like a poker chip on fire.
by Rick Young | Sep 5, 2017 | Poem
Burn rubber, landlubber!
Lay strips of watered-down soul.
No vengeful dirt will fly
from our wide wheels.
These dangling machinations
sport cartoons or incantations,
protect the high speed vision
from a possible collision.
Most trucks have two.
Big rigs have four.
Get flaps and sling road mud no more.
by Rick Young | Sep 4, 2017 | Poem
Part time pyramids float in the moonlight,
a sacrifice to geometric gods.
I walk the wicker bridge but things don’t seem right.
I dream of making it despite the odds.
But everybody makes a calculation,
and builds their life upon principles sound.
For in the end we all become one nation,
the citizens of one vast underground.
