by Rick Young | Jun 20, 2020 | Poem
Goons and loons and mean cartoons,
waiting for a week for their messiah,
now rejoice the day arrived with patriotic tunes.
Tonight they’ll get to hear their king, the liar.
Not just folks from Tulsa, but people near and far,
in their best U.S. paraphernalia,
have made the pilgrimage by plane, bus, truck and car.
It’s like a carnival whose theme is failure.
Most won’t wear masks and no one asks
to keep the recommended social distance.
In his holy image his base basks.
They’ll jam themselves indoors at his insistence.
The covid spray that rules the day
will flout its germy science in the night.
Two weeks from now you’ll hear these Okies say,
“Perhaps ignoring experts wasn’t right.”
by Rick Young | Jun 18, 2020 | Poem
The Supreme Court doesn’t like my xenophobic attitudes.
I thought I had a quid pro quo when hiring new dudes.
Neil Gorsuch stabbed me in the back because I don’t like gays.
Now Roberts with this DACA hack. It’s been a tough few days.
I thought I had this court wrapped up, no ifs, no ands or buts.
In my next term, I’ll have to find some really right wing nuts.
I still think Jeanine Pirro would bring to the court some class.
She has a voice that leaves no choice but thinking ’bout her ass.
I’d like to find a hanging judge to replace ‘mind-shot’ Ruth,
a smart guy who will listen to me, fuck-all with the truth.
I’d like to find another Kavanaugh, that much is clear,
but one without so many rapes and maybe drinks less beer.
In four more years I’d build a court that contours to my dreams.
They’d be all men. They’d be all friends. They’d be my white Supremes.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2020 | Poem
Jesus monkeys on a downhill slide.
Everybody who’s not white had better get inside.
If they’re gonna shoot us just for sleeping in our car,
someone’s got to step up, tell them this has gone too far.
One man just got choked to death for selling cigarettes.
Another lasted nine minutes, but couldn’t hold his breath.
And now they’re finding young black men are hanging from the trees.
Enough to make communities say stop this killing, please.
Systematic racism is born into white blood.
Those who try to deny this are washing sand with mud.
Kidnapped to a foreign land, enslaved four hundred years,
it’s no wonder we’ve projected on them our worst fears.
Someone keeps my family down for all those centuries
had best respect my anger now. C’mon now, white man, please.
There’s got to be a working out for us to heal the nation.
With twenty-twenty hindsight we must think of reparation.
Protestors in the streets call out to anyone who cares.
This country, like a chess match, moves on different color squares.
by Rick Young | Jun 14, 2020 | Poem
Happy Birthday to you, from the people you slew,
from the generals exploded to ER’s overloaded.
Your ignorance viral threatened all our survival.
You should have gone home when impeached.
But now, like a whale bleached and beached,
you’re thrashing in seas swirled with peoples’ unease.
Your every solution seems instead dissolution,
your every conclusion inept. No promise kept,
You watched as folks wept. Hate abides.
You said there was good on both sides.
You love your rebel lore. We know not quite what for.
With blacks out of sorts, you won’t re-name forts,
you really don’t think black lives matter.
You show by your lies there are folks you despise.
It’s all mixed inside your daft patter.
Despite your mistakes, we’re mailing you cakes,
a nice gesture until you find
they’re all of the urinal kind.
by Rick Young | Jun 12, 2020 | Poem
His next campaign’s in Tulsa,
the perfect place to be.
He’ll say it was the spot where
he once ended slavery.
More famous, though,
for what had happened, 1921.
Three hundred blacks were massacred,
but he wants campaign fun.
And so, on Juneteenth he’ll be boasting,
to his base and liberal roasting.
He’ll claim love from every creed,
maybe not those deep in need.
He’ll song and dance like vamps in “Thriller,”
words by Stephen ‘Killer’ Miller.
Where’d you rather be instead
of standing on the Tulsa dead?
Oklahoma’s O.K.
But not on this day.
The reasons it’s racist abound.
You just don’t stump on killing ground.
by Rick Young | Jun 9, 2020 | Poem
His four beats your eight.
That call was really great.
His eight beats your ace.
What a sour face.
His run beats your run.
Because he’s number one.
His full house must win.
Even if Eric’s in.
His flush conquers all.
A bright and fiery ball.
Best throw in your chips.
And button up those lips.
Don’t dare question the deal.
He’ll tell you you’re not real.
He’s playing with just half a deck.
Now ante up your welfare check.
You want yourself a better game.
You’d best go back from where you came.
