by Rick Young | Jan 26, 2020 | Poem
T’was way back in the days of Howdy Doody
I heard a jumpin’ song called “Tutti Frutti.”
The radio was suddenly alive
with more than just the standard pap and jive.
I gave up Gene and Roy
to hear that Elvis boy.
There came a time in life I call ‘take five.’
On Sun, I heard the Killer.
So, goodbye to Glenn Miller.
Farewell to Lassie and good Rin Tin Tin.
That rock n’ roll got underneath my skin.
Bolstered by the tunes these new guys sang,
I outgrew the Mickey Mouse Club gang.
When I gave up Lucy for “Lucille”
I became a teenager for real.
Soon I’d be down on my knees,
praying to the Everlys.
Thereupon came Cash and Berry,
folk with Peter, Paul and Mary.
Then a new world opened that was thrillin.’
It was called the sixties with Bob Dylan.
Teenage years becoming skittish,
suddenly there came the British.
Beatle world became its own sensation.
I was deeply caught up in that nation.
Blues and bluegrass came around.
Everywhere was found new sound.
I realized my childhood was a relic
when I entered into psychedelic.
Yet somewhere way back there in my brain
lingered Howdy Doody’s old refrain.
Seems it doesn’t matter just how old you finally grow,
because “Howdy Doody’s here: it’s time to start the show.”
by Rick Young | Jan 25, 2020 | Poem
Every hair shirt starts with a new thread,
blanket of discomfort, waist to head.
Those who don’t believe in abnegation
walk through this world as if on vacation.
Those who think the flesh not really weak
haven’t learned to turn the other cheek.
In the olde days, witches suffered lashes.
That’s what happens when the spirit crashes.
Take them to the stocks, put them up on blocks,
pummel them with rocks ’til evil dashes.
Each religion has to have a starter.
Often it comes disguised as a martyr,
as if dying for our sins, how most often this begins,
somehow makes their piety much smarter.
Take the heathen to the whipping post,
for his lack of God’s what hurts him most.
If his dying breath welcomes healing death,
then he’s found religion, some can boast.
by Rick Young | Jan 22, 2020 | Poem
News has come of Mister Peanut’s death
in a crash of Planter’s Nut Mobile.
So I sit here, sobbing, with peanuts on my breath.
They said Mister was behind the wheel.
Peanuts should not be allowed to drive.
Their muscles are not equipped for that.
Were he riding, he’d be still alive.
Wearing his black monocle and hat.
This brings Humpty Dumpty’s death to mind.
Was he pushed? The question seems to beg.
Was this act conspiracy against all peanutkind?
And what came first, the peanut or the egg?
by Rick Young | Jan 22, 2020 | Story
There is now a graphic novel of Mueller’s report,
for those who are fond of cartoons and of books real short.
See the funny Russian agents in Trump’s oval room.
He tells them a bunch of secrets, words flash, “Bang! Whap! Zoom!”
See the crimes and misdemeanors dressed in funny suits.
See his pal Vlad Putin walk all over him with boots.
See him chase James Comey like Roadrunner off a cliff.
There’s a scratch-and-sniff Jeff Sessions, if you want a whiff.
In the pop-up section, there’s a large Trump Moscow Tower.
Coloring the co-conspirators might take an hour.
Cut-out Jared and Ivanka come with suits and dresses.
Simulated Melania lets you comb her tresses.
And because this graphic novel wants to tell it all,
it arrives pre-packaged in a mini border wall.
There is one brief warning, though, the end might cause you rage:
images of Mueller comatose on the last page.
by Rick Young | Jan 21, 2020 | Poem
I am the Rodent of Thor !
I have transported oak,
and this is no joke,
I want to be recognized more.
A gravestone motif
with a squirrel smoking kif
would be a phenomenal score.
I transport acorns day and night,
bury them all out of site.
So, some later grow to trees.
So, that is my business, please.
Oaks declared national tree.
There’s a hero, and it’s me.
I don’t need no medal, though.
Just a bag of nuts to go.
