by Rick Young | Apr 29, 2021 | Poem
I am tending now toward broken,
not a good sign for antiques.
I’m full of bumps and spots and dots,
and some assorted leaks.
Joints are aching, locking, popping,
not unlike a dance.
Appropriate in ballrooms, yes,
but not putting on pants.
The head of hair I sported once
has long since gone away.
The close-trimmed beard of fifty years
has grown out wild and grey.
I pay less mind to my own scent,
which once was fresh and fragrant.
My clothing choices tend to lean toward
nursing home or vagrant.
I’m hoping for a few more years
to get used to this change.
This horse is long past time to stud,
and doesn’t have much range.
My needs are simple, music, books,
and, once a day, I’m fed.
I pet the cats. I play guitar.
And then I go to bed.
It’s not as bad as it may sound.
There’s cookies and ice cream.
And, even when you’re old as I,
you’re still allowed to dream.
by Rick Young | Apr 22, 2021 | Poem
Evolving through decades of panic
in chariots metal, gas powered and manic.
Revolving through rotaries and underpasses,
screaming profanities out at the masses.
Paying for fuel, often waiting in lines.
Driving too fast and then paying the fines.
It’s time to rethink our means of transportation.
We get nowhere fast in our life’s destination.
We turn the sky grey and then sing of the blues.
The future’s a dead end with nothing to choose.
They talk infrastructure, of bridges and roads,
without mentioning they are outdated modes.
The obvious resort is limiting travel.
But no court in this land will handle that gavel.
We’re stuck in this fossil fuel loop ’til we die.
The future might laugh at us, wondering why.
And what, in the end, may redeem our behavior?
Alien technology. That’s our savior.
by Rick Young | Apr 1, 2021 | Poem
The fool on the hill has been sent down south.
No longer need we hear the swill from his mouth.
He still dreams of power, still rants and commands.
But, as of this hour, it’s out of his hands.
Though lackeys and leeches remain by his side,
his chances in three years are not bona fide.
Some equally vain don may relight his fire,
but we’ve had enough of these crooks and that liar.
Our country should by then be on the rebound,
and reject, outright, a damned fool or hellhound.
We suffered his curse and remain democratic.
May he grow old, broken, still growling, but static.
