by Rick Young | Feb 8, 2021 | Poem
Mole rats should be the official mascot of the ‘republican’ party,
to be sold at the gallery concession store, some in tiny shirts
with stop the steal and such rat poop as befitting. Not shitting.
Inside the dome, walking their wheels, they’ll be the envy
of the eagles, bisons, hawks, turtles and vultures in the vaunted hall.
On the wall, their posters, big teeth agape, spitting dirt. Spewing lies.
Quailanon (not Quayleanon) has become their new leader.
He is everywhere and nowhere, underground and in your seat.
Their unseeing eyes only can sense his vital presence.
And now on to the mission of recruiting apes and asses.
by Rick Young | Feb 7, 2021 | Poem
My life hours are
packed haphazardly,
flung down a tube of
inside upside-down,
then reshuffled with
unexpected stops.
And, when I’m asked to cut,
I really want to cut.
by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2021 | Poem
Feed the hungry.
Kill the rich.
Ocean’s dying.
Life’s a bitch.
Nothing matters.
Plague abounds.
We don’t matter.
Make the rounds.
Police are angry.
Looters, too.
Sometimes they don’t
know who’s who.
Polar bears now
need life vests.
We have failed
so many tests.
To escape
our own trap,
leave the tent now.
Cut the flap.
Many things
will have to change.
Our streets are
a shooting range.
If we have to
pay for peace,
scrap the weapons.
Change the lease.
It’s time we learn
to treat our land
better than
a one-night-stand.
Stand together.
That we must.
We’re the gods
we must trust.
by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2021 | Poem
Dan collected face masks of dead goalies
and was known to steal some sneaks occasionally.
People had many fetishes in Beaverton.
His pal Andy had a vial of Blazer sweat
and a headband he claimed was Bill Walton’s.
A gang of the guys got together some nights
and traded wristbands, balls and batting gloves.
Someone would claim it was Tiger’s broken tee
or Kip Keino’s tossed cup in their hand,
but they had soiled the DNA. It was just a fantasy.
They were all disturbed by so-called Sosa pellets.
But the worst were plastic bags of spit-out chaw.
And someone said their dad had Mordecai Brown’s finger.
by Rick Young | Jan 20, 2021 | Poem
Our sinking ship has made it back to shore.
With Ahab gone, things just might be o.k.
Get all his seasick sailors off the floor.
And look forward to sail another day.
The white whale we’ve been chasing for four years
today submerged and migrated down south.
He’d breached the waters of our deepest fears
with lies that spilled like krill out of his mouth.
But now the hunt for power has been ended,
the waters that surround us calm and clear.
The boat and mast successfully defended,
we’d like to think a time of peace is near.
by Rick Young | Jan 20, 2021 | Poem
He’s still got his mitts on the nuclear codes until noon.
He’s up in the air like the devil may care, the buffoon.
If he sends the command to a nuclear sub,
D.C. just disappears in the bay, glub, glub, glub.
In this next two hours, he could have his say,
and possibly blow all the blue states away.
He said he’ll be back, perhaps in a new form.
His last campaign could well be called “U.S. Storm.”
There won’t be a sigh of relief until he
is disarmed and deposited in history.
As long as he still has his hands on the button,
we’re all meat to him, fried chicken and mutton.
