by Rick Young | May 26, 2021 | Poem
AI has brought you back into our dream.
We’ll kiss your robot face until you scream.
It’s the only thing of measure
to resemble former pleasure.
It takes a village, or, in this case, team.
The wires which compose your fragile bones
do not seem out of place with your earphones.
The vocal microchip hidden neatly in your lip
can be set to many pitches, strengths and tones.
Just seeing you in silence sit and stare
gives grand illusion that you’re really there.
And those synthetic strings which pass as hair
remind us of your real self, once so fair.
They’ve warned us, though, your battery might die.
The signal is a flicker in the eye.
Will second life suffice, or must we pay the price
of bidding you eternally goodbye?
by Rick Young | May 24, 2021 | Poem
We used to believe in The Clash.
But now we accumulate trash.
It seems life turned into a bummer
when we lost our punk god, Joe Strummer.
Their first album changed the seventies musical diet.
“London’s Burning,” Police and Thieves,” and, of course, “White Riot.”
Their next release furthered our hope.
They said, “Give ‘Em Enough Rope.”
“London Calling” told a story:
“Hateful,” “Clampdown,” “Death or Glory.”
“Sandinista,” 1980, was a true masterpiece, matey.
Three discs, reggae, jazz and dub. We felt we had joined a club.
“Combat Rock” was made to sell.
After that, ’twas “Straight To Hell.”
Joe got fixed up with new choppers.
Then they lost their drummer, Topper.
Nothing after seemed quite right.
Mick’s Big Audio Dynamite
played beneath a disco ball.
Punk was headed for a fall.
Joe’s last group, The Mescaleros,
survived all the post-Clash harrows.
Made three albums with this crew.
And then he passed, 2002.
For four years, Clash gave us hope.
Guess we needed too much rope.
by Rick Young | May 21, 2021 | Poem
Strobe light punks and cordial drunks amass in the heart of the square.
The triangle boys bring rectangle toys and the bone kids don’t know what to wear.
Somewhere crazed youth might fall from the trees and the brothers curse them underground.
The guitar has no strings and the mute choir sings, an unhearingly passable sound.
When the beat cops arrive, they continue to jive, and the party roars into full swing.
Then the birds join right in and the wolves leave the den with the prospect of grabbing a wing.
It’s a dream of the Monterey park, LSD melting things in the dark.
Later on, in a spirited mode, perhaps you’ll meet a god on the road.
by Rick Young | May 18, 2021 | Poem
Eyeless in Gaza was playing as rockets rained down.
Screams of the mothers and babies just could not be drowned.
Buildings were bombed before they could evacuate.
Even with warnings, it’s always too little, too late.
A war of religion, like poem and pigeon don’t mix.
The seven day war was the worst one before.
The next one might end in just six.
Palestine is not on the mind of the people in power.
If they had their way, they would drop the Big A,
and be done with the mess in an hour.
The land God loves least must be the mideast.
It’s the center of trouble worldwide.
Forget your lame prayer. The beast doesn’t care.
And no savior will come to your side.
It’s the hour of sand and the glass in your hand is now cracking.
The Howitzer gun reflects the cruel sun,
and the stones thrown are horribly lacking.
Some say Shoo-less Joe doesn’t have enough soul for concern.
And Bennie the N (no man is a friend) will treat people like meat ’til they burn.
by Rick Young | May 17, 2021 | Poem
Depleted idols,
shorn subtitles,
fading vitals
rudely reappear.
Undermined by their kind,
loveless, blind,
unwound of mind,
their outlines are not clear.
Relinquishing the pace,
the human race
may lack the tact
of moral grace.
And, slowly, they dissolve.
There’s no one to absolve.
The gods won’t ever find
this hiding place.
A slowly moving river,
cold as shiver,
moves their sand out to the sea.
They’ve lost all implication
from a torn and battered nation
which at one time called them royalty.
How the mighty quickly fall
should well remind us all
that time is really nothing but a ruse.
When night obscures their lines
and their memory designs,
all that’s left behind
is history’s bruise.
