by Rick Young | May 11, 2019 | Uncategorized
Hibernation ends with spring,
rousing every living thing.
Tracks in snow quite near deck stairs
could be dog’s or could be bear’s.
It’s been shown that our bird treats
suffice for a bear’s first eats.
Take in feeders, calm the pooch,
nothing left Yogi can mooch.
Snow will melt, the rills will eddy.
Somewhere there’s a hungry teddy.
Sun will make the forest green.
Wildlife will enhance the scene.
Spring will lift us all again,
releasing the bear within.
by Rick Young | May 10, 2019 | Poem
A blower doesn’t make leaves leave.
Just parks them under different trees.
And like the ancient plow and harrow
has made antique the old wheelbarrow.
Leaves are piled into high rises,
leaving ground free for surprises.
Acorns which had once been hidden,
are now free to squirrels, unbidden.
Hidden mushroom, bulb or flower
need no longer, covered, cower.
Sure, they make a lot of noise.
Blowers are the big boys’ toys.
by Rick Young | May 9, 2019 | Obit
On a warm night in mid June
by the darkness of new moon.
Some millions of outliers
took the air out of the tires.
When the drivers found out that
all their Goodyears had gone flat,
they responded with a cry,
“Those who did this have to die!”
But they’d always missed the point
that this world was not their joint.
What their cars did to the air
harmed the planet, wasn’t fair.
All the climate change deniers,
those who called scientists liars,
had to pause their thoughtless squawking,
faced now with the threat of walking.
“And the smokestacks will be next.
It’s a new day,” said the text.
Business based on growth and greed
must bow now to worldly need.
If the planet’s to survive,
we must be like bees in hive.
Old lifestyles of buy and waste
must be changed, and with some haste.
Without your cooperation,
planet earth goes on vacation.
by Rick Young | May 8, 2019 | Poem
He only breathed his fire
in situations dire.
He really was a gentle mate,
despite his movie mental state.
A monster can be less than fun
when people shoot him with a gun.
So, one day when he lumbered by,
he thought he heard a bird’s soft cry.
A robin baby in a nest
poked up its head at his behest.
“You seem a little hungry, fellow.”
(Godzilla on this day was mellow.)
The giant said he’d be right back
and went off looking for a snack.
Whenever he bent close to ground,
he’d make that loud Godzilla sound.
Just when his hunger needs got dire,
the little bird heard monster fire.
And here he came, chef of the day,
with steaming piles of worms flambe’.
by Rick Young | May 7, 2019 | Uncategorized
When April’s rains make ground a bog,
some wet enough to float a log,
the peeking flowers give us hope,
we search the sky for sun, but, nope,
the clouds still need a bit more time;
from winter up to spring’s a climb.
The branches waving in the breeze
are summoning the leaves to trees.
Each day we wait for color’s bloom
to wash away grey season’s gloom.
We know one morning after dark
we’ll see the buds amongst the bark.
Soon trees will wear their fine green skirts,
and even some Hawaiian shirts.
