by Rick Young | Jun 10, 2019 | Poem
Abandoned old goats hover at the bus stop
and the food lines, waiting for some release.
The one who spreads the most relief
is known to all as Kilo Gramma.
She sells small pieces of the death puzzle,
which the whole damned village
seems to be assembling.
She spreads her wares, then disappears.
And soon, somewhere, another town’s found dying.
by Rick Young | Jun 7, 2019 | Poem
Thinking about signing a petition
calling for a desperate rendition,
overcoming our present condition,
living as we do in this perdition.
All of those who’ve signed it with a tear
tend on short notice to disappear.
Retribution is the soul of fear.
There are men who make it a career.
Protest has become an aberration
in the current version of the nation.
It can earn a brisk one-way vacation
to some remote desert changing station.
It has all come down to them and us.
Them ride Escalades, us ride the bus.
We are warned to never make a fuss
by our leaders, all omnivorous.
Thinking about putting down the pen,
sign it later, though I don’t know when,
or if I will get this chance again.
Feel like meat inside the lion’s den.
by Rick Young | Jun 4, 2019 | Poem
I was parched,
but from my perch
I saw a peach.
My body arched,
I made a lurch,
’twas out of reach.
And then my wise
old owl friend
let out a hoot,
reminding me
that I like water
more then fruit.
by Rick Young | Jun 1, 2019 | Poem
Russia’s orchestrating a new US civil war.
And we are recreating Archie Bunker.
On one side are gathering the immigrants and poor.
On the hill the rich protectors hunker.
There’s screaming and crying all over the channels.
The old and the cold are all pissing their flannels.
There’s armies that stand in the way.
And lord help the pregnant or gay.
Gun club rednecks’ new adventure:
hunting season on transgender.
The cities are teeming with patriotic spies.
Left is right and down is up. The sky is filled with lies.
by Rick Young | May 31, 2019 | Poem
Is the dandelion a flower, herb or weed?
The answer could be strictly in the beholder’s eye.
One thing that’s for sure, it’s got a light and fuzzy seed.
Windy days can see a haze of dandies in the sky.
They’re natives of Eurasia, though they’ve made homes everywhere.
Unlike some other plants, they’re not invasive.
They work against erosion, mine for gold, give ground some air.
And one need only look: they’re not evasive.
They’ll just stand there in the grass when young and brightly yellow.
I observed my father dig them up and make them gone.
Seeing them pop up in spring would surely kill his mellow.
Though it wasn’t big, he thought the world of his damned lawn.
I especially liked it when they aged enough to fly,
would blow the seeds off, chanting them away.
In that respect, I guess, it was first plant to get me high.
The first of many, I can hear some say.
by Rick Young | May 28, 2019 | Poem
I moved my king two squares
and he fell off the world.
The queen did scream, of course.
She’d just had her hair curled.
It was a shocking scene of gravity,
a startling moment of depravity.
Bishops, knights in castles,
all pleaded with their pawns:
keep attackers off the middle,
manicure the lawns.
Of late I’ve seen no mate
and must assume a draw.
The board is square.
It is not fair.
Roundness should be law.
