by Rick Young | Jan 7, 2020 | Poem
Hey, let’s start the next decade
with a little instant war,
bomb a general’s motorcade,
then ask why Iran’s so sore.
Wag the dog and make excuses.
Blame the general’s reputation.
Watch the horror it unlooses,
retribution for our nation.
Deployed forces now in danger,
bomber squadrons flying east,
presidential power ranger
perhaps has unleashed the beast.
Any war will be distraction
from his public trial, of course,
super heroes called to action,
maybe even great space force.
Who’ll remember this impeachment
in the midst of World War Three?
That will be his last achievement,
erasing all history.
by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2019 | Obit
Twenty twenty could be our last time
through the rotation;
“E Pluribus Whatever Crimes,”
the motto of the nation.
To think back how we stole this land
and built it up to rockets.
Our time is but a one-night stand,
small change in cosmos pockets.
And now we’re down to oligarchs
and monoliths in power.
The atmosphere is full of sparks
in gasoline’s last hour.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2019 | Story
We celebrated Boxing Day
in a fairly normal way.
Put on gloves, got in the ring,
danced a bit, began to swing.
After landing several jabs,
we both took a couple tabs.
Next thing you know, we’re inside
boxes, boxes, tall and wide.
Boxes, boxes, everywhere,
like an Amazon nightmare.
Box of turtles, box of frogs,
ancient box of Lincoln logs.
In some boxes made of pine
some old relatives recline.
In a box unopened yet,
came a scream, “Nyet, nyet !”
Had to see what made that noise.
It was filled with Putin toys.
But we deemed these dolls no fun,
mailed them back to Washington.
Of course we’d see them in a while,
playing at the Senate trial.
It was just a mailing glitch.
They were meant for Moscow Mitch.
by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2019 | Poem
Christmas day is sneaking up.
Santa’s got his egg nog cup.
Mrs. S says with a sigh,
“You might be too drunk to fly.”
Jolly Santa says, “Ho, Ho.”
He’s been laying in the snow.
‘Making angels,’ he’ll relate.
But he just can’t stay up straight.
All these years of reindeer gas,
in his cockpit near their ass,
makes him wary of the sky.
Now he is too drunk to fly.
All the elves can’t get him sober.
Old St. Nick keeps falling over.
He’s had way too much libation
for chimney negotiation.
They’re afraid too much wassail
just might wind him up in jail.
There are rules up in the sky.
He could get an FUI.
Looking at his reindeer crew,
Blitzen might be loaded, too.
It looks like the holidays
might be lost in drunken haze.
‘Til a little elf named Fern
shows up with a coffee urn.
“We’ll just fill him with caffeine
until his whole system’s clean.”
In twelve hours, clear of eye,
Santa will be set to fly.
Rudolph plants a mental seed:
“Next year we should get him weed.”
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2019 | Poem
The week ebbs out in sunsets
from sea to plastic sea.
The government is broken.
Goodnight democracy.
Tomorrow there’ll be riots
and looted goods for free.
Who knows what side the police are on?
Goodnight democracy.
Elections have been rendered null
by mass duplicity.
The voters are now in the street.
Goodnight democracy.
There’s broken glass and smoking grass
from Maine to Kankakee.
The rich can cover their own ass.
The poor more likely flee.
Quite soon they’ll seal the borders,
bring in artillery.
Who’ll give or obey orders?
Goodnight democracy.
There hasn’t been a scene like this
since Boston dumped its tea.
It’s either mountain or abyss.
Goodnight democracy.
