by Rick Young | Nov 25, 2021 | Poem
Musk and Bezos broke the bread.
Most everyone else was dead.
Shatner, now a-hundred-ten,
had to be revived again.
Turkey served in Pez dispensers
set off the food warning sensors.
Stuffing made of vegan dirt
spilled all over Bill Gates’ shirt.
Two guys ate more than all others.
Naturally, it was Koch brothers.
Rupert Murdoch’s life support
was the day’s one hint at sport.
Zuckerberg, perhaps the worst,
ate food from his metaverse.
Warren Buffett had a ball
locking Waltons in the hall.
Michael Bloomberg showed up late,
on the mini-rocket freight.
It’s a shame that billionaires
cast aside their worldly cares
for the luxury of space,
distant from the human race.
by Rick Young | Nov 25, 2021 | Poem
Thank you, God, for making our predecessors
so easy to eliminate. We invited them to lunch,
and traded them our beads for their great land.
We relocated, restricted and tortured them.
We gave them smallpox-infected blankets.
We killed their buffalo and dishonored sacred
grounds. We bred in them fear and alcoholism.
Carved them out of wood for folks’ amusement.
Slaughtered three hundred Lakotas at Wounded Knee.
Later, we made fun of them on television as well as
in movies and sports; called them ‘Redskins,’
Indians, Wahoos and Chiefs. See also Tonto.
And now their primeval eden is a hotbox of decay.
We turned their vibrant culture into mere survival.
The western world has been tamed by desecration.
And, to tell the truth, the lunch was not all that good.
by Rick Young | Nov 22, 2021 | Poem
We’re going on a protester hunt,
inspired by that crying killer grunt.
His thoughts on Black Lives Matter
was to cause a bit of splatter,
bloodying Kenosha’s streets,
first kills one and then repeats.
Shot the first one in the back,
but you’ve got to cut him slack.
They were out to take his gun.
That would not have been much fun.
After two he shot a third.
We must take him at his word.
Thought he was in mortal danger,
chased by cursing unarmed stranger.
Yes, he really had to kill.
Helping police out was a thrill.
In his trial he beat each charge,
crying tears to float a barge.
White folks don’t care what he did.
Come and get your gun back, kid.
Militias everywhere, unite!
Join the weeping gunman’s fight.
Radicals best hold your breath.
Punishment for protest’s death.
by Rick Young | Nov 22, 2021 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
(Note from the author’s son: I found this title-only draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
by Rick Young | Nov 18, 2021 | Poem
The arc of the sun has shortened its path,
come down for the season of winter and wrath.
The fall was a ball with its leaves many hues,
but they’re on the ground now, just last season’s news.
The few months ahead will be short, cold and dark,
like tinder awaiting the spring’s first warm spark.
And when stems again raise their heads in rebirth,
the sun’s arc will reign like a bridge over earth.
