by Rick Young | Sep 25, 2020 | Poem
Universal torment is the nature of the game.
Sometimes it’s right, and then the rules just change.
What was, still is, and evermore shall be, but not the same.
And laws, like mad chess pieces, rearrange.
And since the game is run by man, then one must have the rein.
But who appoints that man is still in question.
And what if, at the helm, that man goes visibly insane?
Then who steps forward to make a suggestion?
We dig back through history and analyze commotions,
war, plague, heresy and insurrection.
We vet anger, hatred, greed and other crass emotions,
then boil them down to one big fake election.
A melting pot of irony, grief, graft and family trees
is stirred until it naturally boils over.
And that’s where torment really starts, with people on their knees,
dosed by ennui as devils play red rover.
by Rick Young | Sep 23, 2020 | Poem
Biden’s going to hand his presidency to Kamala,
then hide in the oval office like it was Valhalla.
That’s the latest racist charge from our beloved leader.
It’s the kind of thing that makes a perfect FOX news feeder.
Cory Booker in the suburbs, sneaking through your yard,
stealing clothing off your line. You know that times are hard.
Watch out for Dem congressman Jeffries. First name is Hakim.
They’ll put him in charge of sleep and he’ll invade your dream.
Then there’s AOC and her squad bud Ilhan Omar.
They will tax you ’til you just have quarters in a jar.
Gays and anarchists will sway your children in their schools.
And ‘Shifty” Schiff’s swift socialism will be our new rules,
It’s all right there in front of you, just listen to the chatter.
So, don’t vote Joe. He’s got to go. He thinks that Black Lives Matter.
by Rick Young | Sep 22, 2020 | Poem
We thought Mitt gave a shit,
but now he’s shown his hand.
He’s just another drummer
in the orange marching band.
So RGB’s replacement
will be named Saturday,
soon’s they get her coffin
out the fucking way.
It’ll be a woman, sure,
but she won’t have Ruth’s heart.
Well, at least it’s not Ted Cruz.
Guess that’s a good start.
Only thing can stop this now,
four senators with guts.
But then they risk the usual,
death by a million cuts.
And so the top court in the land
will tilt way to the right.
As long as Trump’s the upper hand,
the rule is fight or flight.
by Rick Young | Sep 21, 2020 | Poem
This thing didn’t make folks die.
That was all a great big lie.
History will be amended.
Other truths have been upended.
Oh, sure, we defeated ISIS.
And there was no climate crisis.
Iraq’s WMD’s
were a true fact, if you please.
Iran-Contra did not happen.
That was just the left’s mouth flappin’.
JFK’s assassination:
one man, one gun, no sensation.
All that talk of Great Depression,
made up in a bullshit session.
Now this trend to balk at police,
anarchists’ new golden fleece.
History always re-edits.
That’s how good guys get their credits.
Some facts live and some are buried.
Lies and truth have long been married.
Those who criticize our past
find the future changes fast.
by Rick Young | Sep 19, 2020 | Poem
This mother fucking twenty-twenty has its share of shots aplenty.
But no one saw this Ruth thing coming, Democrats despondent, bumming.
Ovid could not have predicted politics so self-afflicted.
Before you can take a breath, Mitch McConnell’s on her death,
singing that we soon shall see our dear king’s next nominee.
Amy Coney Barrett takes the top with no surprises.
A seventh child with seven children, anti-Roe surmises.
Forty-five days we thought would be most excruciating
now loom as a forward zoom toward future carbon dating.
by Rick Young | Sep 16, 2020 | Poem
Look, over in the corner.
It’s Daddy Longlegs.
You know, the one who
killed the Brown Recluse.
Even the Black Widow
is afraid of this bad daddy.
Who’s actually a good daddy,
guarding his eggs valiantly.
He’s only got one set of eyes,
and looks to kind humans
for good shelter,
except in Antarctica.
And he has one impressive
body segment.
He’s probably got thousands
of friends, some old as seven.
He’s an urban legend.
But be careful of his legs.
They won’t grow back.
