by Rick Young | Nov 3, 2020 | Poem
I’ve been standing in this line at least four hours now.
Some people right behind me seem about to have a cow.
Trump pickups, honking, drive by with long rifles and their guns.
I wonder how a father feels who has some Proud Boy sons.
A sea of red and ugly topped with standard MAGA hats.
A couple tough gals just walked by, carrying baseball bats.
I wonder if it’s worth this ordeal for just my one vote,
then snap back to my senses and retrieve this mental note:
four years losing sleep at night because of his delusions;
wondering how the world will react to his wrong conclusions;
watching immigrants get caged and children separated;
watching peaceful protesters become a thing he hated;
seeing corporations bolstered by his cut in tax;
hearing lies get redefined as ‘alternative facts’;
gasping as he gives his children governmental clearance;
grasping at reality spurred by his strange appearance;
and his ties with Russia, which we know nothing about.
My innermost conviction tells me that my vote has clout.
I’ll throw it back into their faces! I will be my best.
And when I finally get inside, my vote’s for Kanye West.
by Rick Young | Nov 2, 2020 | Poem
This is it. We’re up for grabs.
Edging sideways. Soft shell crabs.
Plashing to the polls in waves.
Some from castles, some from caves.
Sand is shifting underneath.
What shall we the world bequeath?
Four more years of mean rip tides?
All on this election rides.
In the coming fifty hours,
earth could turn to ice or flowers.
Human kindness out of fashion?
Can we resurrect compassion?
Watch the states turn blue and red.
Every minute brings more dread.
Beneath all, the worst of fears.
Russia, jamming up the gears.
by Rick Young | Oct 31, 2020 | Poem
Trump will dress as Mussolini.
It’s his favorite look.
He could throw the world a loop
by dressing as a book.
The only book he owns, however,
is “Art Of The Deal.”
And that one wasn’t really ‘great.’
He skimmed the book piecemeal.
He pondered dressing as Sean Connery
looked in Robin Hood,
but realized the Sherwood tights
on him won’t not look good.
And so it is Benito
that’s his costume for the night.
Lumped out there on the balcony,
he knows he’ll look just right.
He’ll fill his bag with candy
from his working staff and aides.
Then to the oval office,
where he’ll check for razor blades.
by Rick Young | Oct 28, 2020 | Poem
Barrett and Barr were riding in a car,
chatting on the things that really matter.
As they drove, one didn’t have to travel very far
to realize this wasn’t idle chatter.
“First we’ll kill their health care,” Barr remarked,
joy unconcealed, “and then we’ll up the sick count
with our spreaders. ”
Destination reached, they quickly pulled aside and parked.
“Good thing,” he said, “Trump likes his doubleheaders.”
“Then take away abortion,” she sang out with unchecked glee,
“and get these fetus killers back in line.
Pretty soon everyone can have seven kids like me.
But, oh, how will we feed them, they will whine.”
“That’s great,” Barr chuckled heartily, “and what about gay rights?”
“We’ll end their same-sex marriage,” she rejoined.
“I haven’t had this much fun since those west coast protests nights,”
Barr chortled, “All their rights will be purloined.”
They pulled away at last and spoke of curtailing free speech,
and making masks illegal due to crime.
When talking of the clampdown, there was nothing out of reach.
“The oligarchy’s here. This is the time.”
by Rick Young | Oct 27, 2020 | Poem
Last days of les fleurs du mal.
Waiting now on the cabal
to reject all kinds of voting,
iced with their condensed fraud coating.
They’ll inject a dose of panic,
and the king, at his most manic,
will dip into his trick trough,
screaming the election’s off.
There is no need for re-do.
Four more years of you-know-who.
Forget people’s voting rights.
His are set on higher heights.
With the help of comrade Barr,
he’ll become a U.S. Tsar.
Combining his nukes with Putin.
how long until they start shootin’?
Sights set on world domination,
every rule and need forsaken,
World War three might last three days,
spawn a radiation haze.
In their deep survival bunker,
Putin and the king will hunker.
Having stroked our deepest fears,
They may have to hide for years.
