by Rick Young | Sep 27, 2019 | Poem
He’s the Houdini of politics,
makes clean breaks from his dirty tricks.
He even makes his words just disappear.
He’s emptied out his cabinet,
yet some will reappear and bet
that he can get them through another year.
“Orange Magic,”
his new slogan should read,
a slight-of-hand commander
whose only love is greed.
He escaped from the Mueller cage
and quelled the pussy furor.
He’s either nuts or in a rage.
He might turn to a fuhrer.
Orange Magic
is often painted red.
He makes his mitts gigantic,
but only in his head.
Our one last hope is he’s exposed
as nothing but a trickster.
And who could ever have supposed
he’d be worse than the Dickster?
Orange Magic
cloaks evil with his habit.
Let’s all hope that Warren
can turn him into a rabbit.
by Rick Young | Sep 7, 2019 | Poem
To say he is slow on the uptake
might actually be too kind.
To hint he is fast on the downdraft,
he’d be the first to remind.
The wind blows IOU’s around him.
The clouds are his own Bergman short.
He once had to stamp out a geyser
and force a typhoon to abort.
He made many mountains from molehills
and taught of the dread windmill whine.
His only expertise was red bills
and whether the ducks were in line.
No shadow can cover his glower.
His menace is seen in his wave.
Some fools think that they are in power,
when, really, they’ve been made a slave.
by Rick Young | Aug 15, 2019 | Poem
Now Russia owns Kentucky.
The czar is getting plucky.
They’ve got Mitch by the balls.
He’s taking all their calls.
It’s not our finest hour.
They likely own Trump Tower.
When they take over Mickey D’s,
they’ll know they have us on our knees.
by Rick Young | Jul 25, 2019 | Poem
Mueller. Could he be duller?
He’s like a decaf coffee with a day old cruller.
He said he could not answer questions ’bout two hundred times.
How can that be so when Drump’s so up-front with his crimes?
Admitting Russia owns us now did not dispel our fears.
He looked like a guy who hasn’t smiled in thirty years.
Just the facts amongst redacts and, really, little more.
Looking like a grandfather whose hemorrhoids are sore.
No recourse for leaders who are in foreign employ?
We expected Superman but got Grandpa McCoy.
by Rick Young | Jul 21, 2019 | Poem
O hear tell of one groundswell that swept the USA.
The leader of the free world told non-whites to go away.
He doesn’t like their criticism or their funny dress.
Go back to your own country, he said, fix that bloody mess.
Four women who were singled out deplored his racist state.
I’m no racist, he replied; my heart’s just filled with hate.
His supporters backed him up, insisted he was right.
Send them back, they shouted. Almost all of them were white.
And so John Birch and KKK now find that they are back in play.
And Neo-Nazis freely stockpile arms.
Soon to come, abortion bans, conversion if you’re gay.
The free world leader cares not who he harms.
by Rick Young | Jul 9, 2019 | Poem
There would be a choice on whom to save:
those who walk upright outside the cave,
or those who worship fire from within.
Take a look to see who is your kin.
From afar explosions look like smoke.
But, up close, appear more as God’s joke.
Blood and blast meld into paint:
those who were and now who ain’t.
Rivers run and lands are farmed.
Some not dead are only harmed.
Genes and schemes are passed on down.
Here’s a village. There’s a town.
Families, alas, survive.
May be yours, if you’re alive.
These eternal mysteries
come to us as histories.
Those who had successful plans
band together, then, as clans.
Bloodlines are a map of time,
shaped by reason, steeped in rhyme.
Sometimes fate can be quite cruel.
That is why it’s called old school.
Paintings, tales and songs survive.
Nothing else can stay alive.
Those who seek to trace the past
are but watchmen on the mast.
Waves of people hit the shore.
Some are players, some keep score.
All wind up as dust or bones.
Check that on your telephones.
