by Rick Young | Aug 7, 2020 | Poem
Trees are really not your friends,
from their roots up to their ends.
They like both the earth and sky.
But you, human, aren’t their guy.
They’ve seen you climb up their limbs,
abuse them like jungle gyms.
They’ve seen severed branches used
for club houses. Not amused !
They’ve suffered ropes for hammocks, swings,
and many more dastardly things.
They’ve been turned into toothpicks
and paperized, it seems, for kicks.
It’s no wonder they shed leaves.
That’s the way a sad one grieves.
They’ve been known in a good breeze
to fall upon their enemies.
Remember, trees are living things
and you are not their queens and kings.
So, when walking in the woods,
keep your damn hands off the goods.
by Rick Young | Aug 6, 2020 | Poem
Seventy-five years ago, on this very date,
one U.S.-dropped bomb made Japanese incinerate.
Some are still alive who survived this momentous blast.
It may be number one in our atonement for the past.
And just three days later came a second mushroom cloud.
Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Our worst selves were proud.
Yes, it helped to end world war where eighty million died.
But it’s not a moment that we look upon with pride.
“Little Boy” and “Fat Man” were the last A-bombs deployed.
They ushered in the age of fear which we have since enjoyed.
Through the cold war Russia sought to match our deadly missiles,
causing paranoia with loud sirens, bells and whistles.
Many years they stoked our fears as nukes proliferated.
As protection, MAD was vastly overrated.
Nowadays, nine countries possess the atomic bomb.
The more the scarier and subtle threats upset the calm.
The worldwide stockpile can be best described as just insane.
And our great leader once suggested nuke a hurricane.
Odds are even we won’t have another big event.
So we can wait to be wiped out by the environment.
by Rick Young | Aug 5, 2020 | Poem
When the mind is feeling barren
and the first cup is still full,
it’s time to start some sharin’
with those folks who throw the bull.
Social media jury, that island of pure fury,
has some room at their dock for your boat.
Some favor you’ll curry; there’s no need to worry.
Just throw anything out there to float.
Conspiracies. Black-Eyed Peas.
Get that hot pot stirring.
The dead still live. Ghosts roost in trees.
The black hole between then and during.
The cult of @ wears no foil hat.
The Sect of There hates motion.
The world will end with soup of bat.
There’s space ships in the ocean.
The dark are eating up the light
like breadcrumbs made of stars.
If it don’t hurt, then it’s not right.
And aliens sell cars.
If that can’t get you energized,
then brew another pot.
The chat just gets more super-sized.
Wait ’til you hear the plot.
by Rick Young | Aug 4, 2020 | Poem
A big bomb in Beirut, on a big day, to boot.
And California’s burning because of diesel soot.
Isaias will not hit New York in its long passage north.
The TikTok thing is just the king’s distraction (44th).
Coronavirus aid is being transferred to the rich.
Portia had to come out and say Ellen’s not a bitch.
Cops in Colorado put a six-year-old face-down.
This is not the best time to hot air balloon around.
Man rescued from a desert island, wrote out S O S.
To children forced back into school, all we can say’s, god bless.
Jared’s falling deeper into feckless fall guy hole.
The king’s Axios comedy revealed he has no soul.
Senior dog food, Vogue masks, and, bye-bye, Ford CEO.
While feds threaten the Covid bucks aimed for the Navajo.
Juan Carlos is now on the run from Saudi money news.
And tattered tweets seep down dark deep:
The Mail-In Ballot Blues.
by Rick Young | Aug 2, 2020 | Poem
Kill the Postal Service with a sycophantic master.
Make sure mail-in-voting is a November disaster.
No need for investigation; A.G.’s got your back.
Paper ballots destroyed by the bundle and the sack.
“I told you that it wouldn’t work,” he’ll gloat with satisfaction,
then sit back to see results of Russian interaction.
The voting process, down in flames, will not last any longer.
He’ll enact laws to make sure that his grip on us is stronger.
He’ll make election day a holiday. He is that bad.
Remind us of his power and the freedom we once had.
Tanks will finally roll upon the streets of Washington.
He’ll now be called Commander and Barr will be his top gun.
The Russians would be dancing in the street, had they emotion,
to celebrate the conquest of their ‘friends’ across the ocean.
by Rick Young | Aug 1, 2020 | Poem
Grump says he’s banning TikTok.
They pranked him back in Tulsa.
It always starts in China.
They’re giving him an ulcer.
He won’t eat Chinese food.
It’s full of MSG.
They don’t have a great colonel,
like our own KFC.
He may ban Chinese checkers.
They’re marbles, is his claim.
Played on the star of David,
it’s quite an evil game.
And no more China tea cups.
We’re sticking with our mugs.
As with everything they make,
they surely contain bugs.
Seems ever since they sent us flu
and unmasked their aggression,
he’s hinted at cold war renewed
and now it’s an obsession.
China, China, China,
you’ll hear him on repeat.
Behind him are the drums of war.
And TikTok keeps the beat.
