by Rick Young | Nov 23, 2020 | Poem
Black Friday, in the days gone by,
used to be a riot.
Now, it’s all just shop at home,
and everything is quiet.
But, in the times before,
they’d mass outside the door,
as if hungry or poor,
then charge into the store.
There’d even be fist fights
about their buyer’s rights,
and other nasty sights.
You’d see scratches and bites.
But nowadays, with germs about,
Black Friday’s had its heart cut out.
No lines for blocks outside the mall.
No shoppers trampled when they fall.
No dress department tugs of war.
No combatants down on the floor.
It’s all so simple: buy on line.
Sit at home with cheese and wine.
Contact shopping, rest in peace.
When will wonders ever cease?
by Rick Young | Nov 22, 2020 | Poem
I saw Satan at my polling place.
He had horns and all,
but he had Jared’s face.
Wearing a nice suit,
he looked quite tall and pale.
But, looking down beneath his cuffs,
I know I saw some tail.
And when I went to vote,
he quickly stepped right up to me,
said, “How ’bout a vacation
in the lovely heat for free?”
All I had to do was vote
against all of the Dems,
and I could see the fire flowers’
ever-burning stems,
swim the sizzling lake
and learn to walk on burning coals.
But I don’t think the devil
should be allowed at the polls.
So I said, “No thanks, Satan,”
and I stepped behind the curtain.
He was screaming he would
make my soul explode for certain.
I exited, expecting to see
many things I feared.
To my relief, there was no grief.
Jared had disappeared.
by Rick Young | Nov 20, 2020 | List
Baloney with brown sauce.
Sprinkle with conspiracy leaves.
Add a dash of turnback thyme.
A little more brown sauce, drizzled.
Slather with old mayornaise.
Serve on a kaiser roll.
Accompany with dry red whine.
by Rick Young | Nov 18, 2020 | Poem
Six scythes sigh citing sight’s slight size.
Contemporaneously, the clown chief juggles
balls in the oversize pockets of golf pantaloons.
His jesters, the caddies, the sick secret service,
all watch in astonishment balls fly all over.
Every drive is a missile. Every iron is a bomb.
The holes in this course seem bigger.
They were made by random mortar fire.
Hole nine takes thirteen putts. No fairways.
Nineteenth is sprite and cheese fries. Hot sauce.
He signs scorecards for the crowd. A perfect 18.
Then into the bulletproof cart and onto the nearest Y.
by Rick Young | Nov 17, 2020 | Poem
The talking heads illuminate the dead.
But nothing that they say has any cred.
The numbers are not taken as a fact.
The word of this decade might be ‘redact.’
With snow about to glisten,
only half the people listen.
The unmasked versus masked
are like two teams,
who battle late at night
inside our dreams.
In very worst nightmares,
it’s as if not one soul cares.
The protesters with guns
descend en masse like Huns.
‘Don’t take our rights away,’
they’ll scream with plague in play.
They act the pioneer.
A mask might make them queer.
They must go to the gym.
The virus is a whim.
They’ll party on though thousands
are still dying.
Inside closed houses,
relatives are crying.
The new talk on developing vaccines
until next year is just a hill of beans.
And now, alas, another complication.
Our leader’s gone on permanent vacation.
And if he tries a coup, there’s nothing we can do.
Stay tuned to this apocalyptic station.
