by Rick Young | Dec 2, 2021 | Poem
Doctor F is now our one true leader,
has been since he dumped Emperor T.
All the news that fits, he is the feeder,
controls all you hear and what you see.
These are classic signs of viral coup,
civil war surrounding vaccination.
Differing opponents of what’s true
dominating every conversation.
Two long lines of sick and well
advance now toward a crossing,
where a wall of heaven/hell
keeps the mean waves tossing.
by Rick Young | Dec 1, 2021 | Poem
When it was found Christmas-treeing was causing deforestation;
when it was discovered reindeer were going extinct due to failed flying lessons;
when a field of frozen elves in shallow graves was shockingly happened upon,
holiday eco terrorists went to their awful work. Santa was found dead in a midwest chimney.
Mrs. Claus moved to Daytona to live with her spinster sister. Frosty was tossed into rum drinks.
Christmas shopping was toned down to Hanukkah levels. No more insane Black Fridays.
People began to use ritual, prayer, family counsel and love instead of toy guns and crying dolls.
Old men in white beards no longer had to dress in red and the world was at last rid of tinsel.
Stockings were only hung for treason and the fireplace could be used for fire once again.
It was understood the lord had no stake in fancy bikes, electric trains, candy canes or i-anythings.
Perhaps somewhere in a manger, a depressed cow lowed and missed its drop in status.
And the secret society of baby Jesus creche robbers discontinued all memberships.
Silent night, wholly night. All is calm. All has been made right. Now we gotta work on Easter.
by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2021 | Poem
Who drives the black car fate?
And what if it comes late?
Might one miss the spotlight
and drive off in the night?
Fate has no GPS.
so missing is a mess.
There’s forks and some dead ends.
There’s enemies and friends.
And if the car gets lost,
your fate could be the cost.
Without a lifeline map,
one’s fate might well unwrap.
The driver knows the rules
for seekers, saints and fools.
Fate’s road may rise and wind
to get you there on time.
But time, they say, is moot.
And that is at the root.
by Rick Young | Nov 29, 2021 | Poem
For a deaf, dumb and blind boy to master a pinball game
is nowhere near the effort it took for a young girl
in the same circumstances to learn language from scratch.
Not only did she become a prolific author, an activist
and a disability rights advocate (*the three A’s),
but also earned a degree from Radcliffe College as well.
But her mastery of her surroundings did not stop there.
She learned to hit a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball,
simply through a sense of air distribution, fast hands,
and the smell of horsehide. Not powerful, but consistent.
And her ability to drive a small car, slowly, based on the feel
of the wheels on the road, was considered legendary.
No one was hurt in the learning, but there were close calls.
She travelled to thirty-five countries in ten years’ time,
and swam the English Channel under cover of darkness.
As a socialist, she invented a robot she named Eugene Debs.
She is now depicted on the Alabama state quarter.
She invented bitcoin based solely on astral projection.
But in her vain attempts at pinball, she always tilted the machine.
by Rick Young | Nov 26, 2021 | Poem
Three molecules were standing in a line,
in DNA court, asked to pay a fine.
They’d called some atoms hurtful names,
like ‘micro-dot’ and ‘mini-claims.’
Outside, atomic crowds insisted
molecules should be black listed,
while the molecule supporters
kept dividing into quarters.
Soon the crowd was overrunning
the whole place, the mass was stunning.
It turned into a solid ball
and rolled itself into the hall.
The DNA judge said, aghast,
“We must adjourn this court, and fast!”
So, molecules and atoms split,
another bad forensics skit.
