by Rick Young | Jul 4, 2019 | Poem
There is no law.
But tanks are in the street.
The man of straw
Will stand at Lincoln’s feet.
While overhead
the bombers strafe the sky.
The heartless one
will tell lie after lie.
The troops parade
like in Red Square.
The point well made.
We’re almost there.
This holiday
could be our last.
Our U.S.A.
is fading fast.
by Rick Young | Jun 29, 2019 | Poem
How can one photograph peace and quiet?
Is it just a scene without a riot?
Does tweeting of the birds count the same as human words?
And where put hunting season’s gunshots diet?
Because part of the silence includes natural violence,
some say peace can’t be found. But I don’t buy it.
by Rick Young | Jun 23, 2019 | Poem
I just found Google Chrome was spying on my home.
It said that I should probably change my shirt.
Not only did its sentiment upset them,
they said it needed washing for the dirt.
The shirt said “Keep your nose out of my business.”
I’m tired of their snooping and their lies.
They’re past the line where they can plead forgiveness.
Their cookie bombs taste bitterly of spies.
I don’t need Chrome suggestions for my wardrobe.
I don’t want ad blurbs ‘tailored’ to my taste.
I’ll switch to a new browser if one more probe
seems to lay my privacy to waste.
So, goodbye Google Chrome, hello Mozilla.
Your Foxfire does not seem quite so covert.
Surveillance software’s somewhat like Godzilla.
Beneath its plodding steps, someone gets hurt.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2019 | Poem
What do you say to your father, Eric and Don?
That all depends if the tape recorder’s on.
If it’s rolling, then it’s, Happy Father’s Day!
If it’s not, then, What’d Putin send your way?
We’re both hoping it’s a big red tie.
Or a manual on how to lie.
Maybe secret codes? Who knows what that bodes?
Maybe he’ll give Star Force half the sky.
He said for your next inauguration
he’ll send you that tape of urination.
With that safe from every fake news station,
you can take a four-year-long vacation.
Move the white house down to Mar a Lago.
where our brothers Brutus and Iago
can finally leave their cage.
They’ve almost come of age.
We’ll form a new Capone gang like Chicago.
And then, at last, you can date your own daughter.
In Florida, there’s weird things in the water.
If Vlad just plays his cards,
you two can become pards:
the Red and Orange Travel Troop of Slaughter!
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
by Rick Young | Jun 12, 2019 | Poem
I may have killed a toad or two in my day.
Twenty thousand egg men got in my way.
Besides, they’ve got those warts,
and bulbous thighs, of sorts.
They’re not as smooth as frogs is all I can say.
Of Fowler’s Toad I really have no qualm.
The buttons down his back are just the bomb.
It’s lumpy , brown and round,
blending right in with the ground.
Its go-to call’s a sheepish, bleaty sound.
Don’t Goad No Toad is now the ode I write.
Just trying in my way to make things right.
I might not hang out with ’em
or give ’em toys to play.
But I’ll not toxify their ground.
I’ll stay out of their way.
Go on, toad. I will not goad you.
by Rick Young | Jun 11, 2019 | Poem
Pray to Poe for stimulus.
Pray to God for apathy.
Well wishers and strap holders
insinuate in blankness,
attack in sleep’s deep hold
the webs of forlorn conscience,
the broken bridges of neglect.
Cross the heartland.
Hope to diet.
Ring lords’ relentless retaliation
have furrowed the maps of history
and seeded an underworld of screams.
Dreams broken and corroded
litter the caskets of imagination,
an endless world of tears that never dry.
