by Rick Young | Mar 27, 2018 | Obit
Mother died today. And I am no Camus.
She danced along her way, begun in twenty-two.
A raving farm girl beauty, with rabbits in her yard,
and pledged to family duty, life later became hard.
A mother to her brother, who’d always be a child,
she jumped too soon at marriage, and that’s when things got wild.
She lived a whirlwind fantasy in fifties social scenes.
Her husband grew in power. They had fun and they had means.
But marriage cracked by loving lacked and someone had to fall.
She wound up in an institution, slave to alcohol.
Faith and pure determination put her back on track.
Father found her with the next door neighbor, in the sack.
Post divorce, she moved from city to a trailer park.
There she grew back into life, escaping from the dark.
She went back to school, acted in plays and modeled, too.
She took photographs which now expressed her lightened view.
She went back to church, went back to work and really flourished.
Old age gradually snuck in, but with her spirit nourished,
she remained a dignified and always loving presence.
Now she’s with the flowers, which have always been her essence.
by Rick Young | Mar 24, 2018 | Poem
Mister Sessions, I don’t deal in heroin or blow.
I don’t deal in oxycontin, either.
But now, for legal weed, you want to put me on death row.
Relax, chill out, AG, you need a breather.
I thought the rules had changed regarding marijuana’s sale,
the benefits realized in legal smoking.
But now you want to turn around and put me into jail,
and sentence me to death, you must be joking?
It’s not like legal smokers want to take away your gun.
It’s not like they’ll go wild and eat your babies.
They want to get high sometimes and just have a little fun.
But now you’re treating them like they have rabies.
Perhaps you are reacting to the old phrase "killer weed."
You realize that’s not what it really means.
You don’t have problems giving the real killers what they need.
Like wartime ammo and AK15’s.
So, back off, little brother, maybe you just need a smoke.
A little reefer might expand your thinking.
Go ask all your joint chiefs if they’ll let you have a toke.
It’s better for your health than bourbon drinking.
by Rick Young | Mar 20, 2018 | Uncategorized
by Rick Young | Mar 18, 2018 | Poem
A march of words
lined up like birds
upon a leafless branch.
Some flew away.
Some deigned to stay.
It put me in a trance.
New words alit
replacing those
which recently took flight.
It went this way
all day.
A book was writ.
And then came night.
by Rick Young | Mar 17, 2018 | Poem
Gonzo Floyd, a country Pink alum,
sat on his porch, regardless, chewing gum.
He had a Stratocaster, that was speckled with old plaster
where he had once devoured several walls.
He swore that he would never play in halls.
And no one ever questioned that guy’s balls.
Something was amiss, he’d hiss, while eyeing music sheets.
He’d scan the air and, most aware, descend on frightened beats.
He’d root them out, to cheer and shout, and lay the rhythm open.
It’s number one for several weeks, the back room guys were hopin’.
They saw a tour and they were sure that fame would come to stay.
“I’m sorry, dude,” the rep, so rude, threw down, while in their way.
Rehearsal was just ending, as the tired strings were bending,
and the thumping of the bass declared a stop.
“We’ll never get back there, where every breath of air
declares life’s so much better at the hop.”
