by Rick Young | Dec 29, 2017 | Poem
Bob was Bobby ’til he learned of palindromes.
For his living spaces, he sought motor homes.
His history was built upon deceptions.
He’d been to some Republican receptions.
And on his wall a Spiro Agnew portrait hung.
He’d fallen under that man’s spell when he was young.
When asked, he’d always tell some vague connection tale.
The truth was that he’d found it at a rummage sale.
Although he came from wealth and had a large bankroll,
he preferred to live like he was on the dole.
"Rich folks just aren’t cool," he’d heard a woman state.
And so, just like a fool, he lived life second rate.
He died before his time, found in some squalid squat.
Murmuring palindromes like mom, dad and tot.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2017 | Poem
Kid, they will write on your back,
scratch your name on the walls
with your own petrified eyelids.
They told me and they will tell you
to climb up and jump down.
Stares, vague and lifeless,
will be lined up like book backs
on the shelves of your memory.
Terrific dragons will turn to lawnmowers
and castles melt before the sun.
Push on, push on; the dreaded cry
will become a sharpened knife.
Remember your doorways, your shoe size,
your airs. Crouch low in the belly of dreams.
And always keep reaching.
Someday someone will see your hand.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2017 | Poem
That I cannot play the guitar any better than I do
after fifty years of trying’s disappointing.
Bad hand neurons.
Brain lanes blocked by Mighty Mouse and Whitey Ford.
My only little league hit was a bunt. Live pitching
was very different from pinkball off the garage door.
Hand-eye coordination disturbed by strange vibration.
Probably "Sweet Little Sixteen." Chuck often took the blame.
And bad sneakers was always a good excuse.
by Rick Young | Dec 26, 2017 | Poem
The bespectacled one is out flying his kite,
losing his house keys, adding some weight.
Surely this storm will make the diary.
Poor Richard is, of course, asleep early,
dreaming of swimming the English Channel.
While Franklin’s urethra has been acting up
ever since his strained militia stint.
And these damned buckle shoes don’t fare
well in the warm Philadelphia mud.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2017 | Poem
Light is reigning down in plunging coverlets of gold
around the cradle.
Someone passed a bowl of blood-thick soup among the group;
where is the ladle?
I am here in Bethlehem. I was dragged along by them.
I have gone to much expense purchasing this frankincense.
But no one seems to care if I exist.
If I slipped away would I be missed?
I don’t know why everyone’s gone wild
over some damned ring around this child.
I got the wise man blues again.
Two guys woke me up at ten.
Had to give my camel water;
had to leave my wife and daughter;
follow some star to the savior.
I’m not used to weird behavior.
Wound up here amongst these strangers;
I don’t often frequent mangers.
Guess it happens every now and then.
I got them wise man blues once again.
