by Rick Young | Jan 28, 2019 | Poem
Facebook’s having problems, but it must assure it’s backers
your blackouts have nothing to do with all those Russian hackers.
It’s just a little downtime, like a much needed vacation.
It has nothing to do with our revealing information.
We would never violate your sacred privacy.
By the way, please say, “Get well” to your poor old aunt Bee.
There’s no need to read the fine print, go ahead and skim it.
By the way, your credit card is real close to its limit.
Just consider this time off a hazard of our age.
Apologies, we must go now and spy another page.
by Rick Young | Jan 27, 2019 | Uncategorized
'Shrooms of all kinds
play with our minds,
infold like little umbrellas.
Some that you find
could be unkind.
They can be rough little fellas.
But everyone loves a Shiitake.
Their energy makes you feel cocky.
They taste really good with Japanese food.
Especially when there is sake.
by Rick Young | Jan 26, 2019 | Poem
I shook out the sleep dust from your pillow.
Seemed as if you'd dreamed in black and white.
I was thinking more in terms of color.
So I had to wake you every night.
Surely there must somewhere be a flower,
spot of sunlight or a slice of sky.
Now I have to wake you every hour,
dabbing at the grayish tears you cry.
by Rick Young | Jan 25, 2019 | Poem
Catholic boys in MAGA hats, bothersome as swarming gnats.
Worse, in fact, ’cause they’re much louder.
Couldn’t make their parents prouder.
White boys smirking, taunting, yelling. Border walls is what they’re selling.
Theirs is an exclusive school, contoured to the rich and cruel.
They think that they own the land. Orange Man’s their wizard grand.
Their bravado makes us grateful that we are not all that hateful.
Parents, teachers, show some guts. Put some leashes on these mutts.
No excuse for how they acted. Some folks just should be redacted.
by Rick Young | Jan 24, 2019 | Uncategorized
Imagine getting old enough to teach a grandson dice games.
Never happen.
There will be holograms programmable on your home court.
Or headset participation: you are guarding Gary Payton,
hooking over Alcindor. Athletes will become prototypes.
Arenas will be built in condo walls.
One day someone will say Jordan wasn’t real. We’ll lose the feel.
I’m so glad to have made the transition from black and white to color
to 3D quadrophonic and back to balsa.
The flight of the crumbled free.
Here we are amidst many armies, listening to steel guitars.
What honor has been bestowed upon us
with the quick disintegration of time,
watching beauty explode in its daily ministry, light to dark, red to blue.
There is no telling what to do. Just look to the woods.
