by Rick Young | Jun 12, 2019 | Poem
I may have killed a toad or two in my day.
Twenty thousand egg men got in my way.
Besides, they’ve got those warts,
and bulbous thighs, of sorts.
They’re not as smooth as frogs is all I can say.
Of Fowler’s Toad I really have no qualm.
The buttons down his back are just the bomb.
It’s lumpy , brown and round,
blending right in with the ground.
Its go-to call’s a sheepish, bleaty sound.
Don’t Goad No Toad is now the ode I write.
Just trying in my way to make things right.
I might not hang out with ’em
or give ’em toys to play.
But I’ll not toxify their ground.
I’ll stay out of their way.
Go on, toad. I will not goad you.
by Rick Young | Jun 11, 2019 | Poem
Pray to Poe for stimulus.
Pray to God for apathy.
Well wishers and strap holders
insinuate in blankness,
attack in sleep’s deep hold
the webs of forlorn conscience,
the broken bridges of neglect.
Cross the heartland.
Hope to diet.
Ring lords’ relentless retaliation
have furrowed the maps of history
and seeded an underworld of screams.
Dreams broken and corroded
litter the caskets of imagination,
an endless world of tears that never dry.
by Rick Young | Jun 10, 2019 | Poem
Abandoned old goats hover at the bus stop
and the food lines, waiting for some release.
The one who spreads the most relief
is known to all as Kilo Gramma.
She sells small pieces of the death puzzle,
which the whole damned village
seems to be assembling.
She spreads her wares, then disappears.
And soon, somewhere, another town’s found dying.
by Rick Young | Jun 9, 2019 | Story
Fifty years of marriage is like sixty years in jail.
There’s some time off for good behavior and love is the bail.
There were times came close to crimes and some I don’t remember.
But we shared a half century, new years to December.
Romance hits its warranty somewhere down the line.
But grapes ferment on vines of love to become wine divine.
I’m out on bail again tonight, a half a hundred gone.
But I can sleep in peace again. She’ll be there at the dawn.
Fifty-fifty are the odds. And odd folks we may be.
But we’ve played it cool and always aimed for harmony.
Next we play out number fifty one.
I would bet on us. We’re on a run.
by Rick Young | Jun 7, 2019 | Poem
Thinking about signing a petition
calling for a desperate rendition,
overcoming our present condition,
living as we do in this perdition.
All of those who’ve signed it with a tear
tend on short notice to disappear.
Retribution is the soul of fear.
There are men who make it a career.
Protest has become an aberration
in the current version of the nation.
It can earn a brisk one-way vacation
to some remote desert changing station.
It has all come down to them and us.
Them ride Escalades, us ride the bus.
We are warned to never make a fuss
by our leaders, all omnivorous.
Thinking about putting down the pen,
sign it later, though I don’t know when,
or if I will get this chance again.
Feel like meat inside the lion’s den.
