by Rick Young | Oct 10, 2021 | Poem
All the pollen is gone from the flowers,
and the bees who had worked there for hours
have all disappeared. It’s just as we feared.
Fall has fallen and now nature cowers.
Cold moves in with a hint of first frost.
Losing plants will, of course, be the cost.
Leaves will flutter and pile, meaning in a short while
all the color we loved will be lost.
A long winter sees weeks dusted white,
glistening by day, reflecting at night.
Spring will seem far away, some time, April or May.
The return of the bees sets things right.
by Rick Young | Oct 9, 2021 | Haiku
crows by night always
out of sight, but crows by day
have too much to say
by Rick Young | Oct 7, 2021 | Poem
America is a Fantasy Park.
The light side’s on the left.
The right side’s in the dark.
The Gates of Hell are in Las Vegas,
tourist destination.
And any city street stands
as a Mecca of Fixation.
In Old Folks Land, they stand in line
whole lives to reach their ends.
And young folks bred to live with toys
will always be best friends.
There’s Money Pits and Drunk Tanks
and an Army of Despair.
There’s places where the Poorest live
in comic disrepair.
Whirlpools of debt and Shafts of Graft
to rival Magic Mountain.
And in the Sheltered Islands,
it’s said there’s a golden fountain.
by Rick Young | Oct 4, 2021 | Poem
Surf City’s decimated by a big oil spill.
Bill Shatner’s going off to space.
He’s got some time to kill.
It looks like Mister Bezos this time
plays the role of Spock.
Perhaps they can transport the oil
up to some big space rock.
Pandora papers document
world leaders hiding wealth.
We’re yet to see if “Squid Game”
can be harmful to your health.
Yankees and the Red Sox
live to play another day.
Meanwhile, Tommy Kirk,
Old Yeller’s master, passed away.
by Rick Young | Sep 29, 2021 | Poem
He slips in while the trees still have their leaves.
In fact, you might still be dressed in short sleeves.
Where green and lush abound, there’ll soon be on the ground
great piles of nature’s discards and pet peeves.
The temperatures he’ll drop down by degrees
might, by his exit, hint at the first freeze,
necessitating coat, at which point he may gloat,
and even float a few flakes on the breeze.
He’ll bring a questionable holiday.
Columbus was a hero in no way.
He’ll leave at Halloween. Cold weather is his scene,
a hint of winter’s hell you’ll have to pay.
