by Rick Young | May 23, 2020 | Poem
I-phones, drones and lovely bones.
Wandering sand-distance police.
Keep your mask on in the surf.
Stay ten feet apart at least.
Don’t touch seaweed, don’t pet crabs.
Look out for the sharks.
Swat at anything that grabs.
Don’t go near the body outline marks.
by Rick Young | May 21, 2020 | Poem
Little yellow trumpet bells, Rocket Cress by name,
found beside familiar roads, sunshine is its game.
In the mustard family, cabbage’s moist cousin,
let it grow to flowering. You might want a dozen.
Some consider it invasive, find its presence nervy.
They may not know that the cress was once used to cure scurvy.
When its family gathers, it is quite a great array.
Bok choy, turnips, broccoli and rutabagas, hey !
Rocket Cress, God has blessed you with great diversity,
but a taste so bitter, kids hate universally.
“More for us,” the grownups cry, “bring on the collard greens.”
And mustard seed,” cry those who like to frequent hot dog scenes.
by Rick Young | May 19, 2020 | Poem
This president’s a rascal,
a lot like Eddie Haskell;
he certainly has Beaver on the brain.
He’s taking medicine unproved,
behavior surely not behooved.
It’s further proof the man has gone insane.
The drug is for malaria,
and now he’s caused hysteria.
The public bought his bleach tips the last time.
Hydroxychloroquine is now seen as a win.
If people die, his advice is a crime.
Some say he’s dumb as a rock,
but he probably has stock
in the company that makes this drug.
If it turns into disaster,
you won’t see a person faster,
sweeping evidence under the rug.
Some say perhaps he is lying,
totally unfazed by dying,
as long as he lives to rule the world.
He is like a dragon hiding,
when the people do his biding.
If not, watch his vicious wings unfurled.
by Rick Young | May 17, 2020 | Poem
The White House staff is wearing masks.
They’ll do whatever the boss asks.
He, of course, will still wear none.
Must remain the ‘chosen one.’
Even Jared, Kernel Kush,
must obey the face mask push.
Bill Barr wears the only one he owns.
It’s emblazoned with a skull and bones.
Ivanka sports a decorator line.
It encourages “Just Die, Don’t Whine.”
Kellyanne’s shows a dead cupid,
printed below: “I’m With Stupid.”
One man’s mask says “Don’t Blame Me!”
He’s our hero: Doc Fauci.
by Rick Young | May 15, 2020 | Poem
It’s hurricane season and things could get pretty wet.
The felt tip forecaster pronounced Kansas a good bet.
It’s hit the beaches season and soon they’ll be overrun.
Despite the social warnings, some will, sadly, become chum.
It’s sharks amongst us season and, so, when you see a fin,
swim your ass toward safer shores, ’cause you ain’t gonna win.
It’s go to deadly work now season, first we’ve ever seen.
Does this all end up with marches? Or was that a dream?
by Rick Young | May 10, 2020 | Poem
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers still alive,
those who weren’t sent under by our president’s deep dive.
And sorry, too, to any mothers out there who lost sons,
whether it’s to tiny germs or giant army guns.
Would have liked to send out to the store and get some flowers,
but, for reasons unforeseen, they’re keeping summer hours.
Would have loved to buy her the best chocolates or a car,
but she’ll have to settle for Airwick and a Mars bar.
Special wishes also to those mothers who are nurses.
For your work, may you all be rewarded with fat purses.
And mothers who have lost their jobs or teaching kids at home,
may love and patience get you through this time of Blunder Dome.
