by Rick Young | May 27, 2019 | Poem
The small window had a curtain
made of checkered blue pajamas.
Outside, in the verdant hills,
there lingered packs of llamas.
It might be South America,
it might be Mexico.
Judging by our only view,
perhaps we’d never know.
Day and night, from overhead,
we’d hear the airplanes roar.
We’d certainly run out to see them
if we had a door.
Inside were boxes of stored food
and other life provisions.
We kept time upon the wall
by making small incisions.
For days on end we stared out
at the land beyond the bars.
Never saw a sign of people,
buildings, roads or cars.
We had two cots, two chairs,
and one small bucket for our loo.
Our life came down to staring at
that square of checkered blue.
by Rick Young | May 24, 2019 | Poem
The body politic has gotten very sick.
It’s almost ripped from torsion.
There’s rape and incest on the right.
It might need an abortion.
But on the scene the zygote team
amasses for protection,
their only goal to save your soul
and give you a C-section.
Your fetus is a precious thing,
a gift from the creator.
They’ll drag you to term if you come
from north of the equator.
If you’re not American,
things take a different light.
Those right wingers, Jesus singers,
like their zygotes white.
Visions of babyhood dance in their heads,
futures in commerce and churches.
They see the forest through the trees.
But all of them have to be birches.
by Rick Young | May 18, 2019 | Poem
I love to slug a baseball.
And I sometimes slug a drink.
But, slug, I do find your name odd,
for a shell-less gastropod.
Though I do like your Martian eyes
that hide away at each surprise.
And you can’t run away from crime,
leaving all that trailing slime.
You may have some ugly faces,
but at least fit in small spaces.
And finally let’s talk of your vertical leaps.
You slime up a wall and it gives me the creeps.
It’s not that I think you’re an aggressive devil,
I just wish that you couldn’t rise to my level.
And so I must crown you Excelsior slug.
Or Mollusk, if you like. Don’t ask for a hug.
by Rick Young | May 13, 2019 | Poem
Sarah Sanders tells offhanders like they were the truth.
She has turned the white house pressroom to a lying booth.
Not to say she’s not okay, but from her ugly mouth,
lies just fly like cold crazed birds heading for the south.
When she’s caught up in her falsehoods, she is not abashed.
It’s the listeners to blame. It’s ‘fake news’ that’s trashed.
What to do about the zoo, the brutal press corps trap?
Don’t back down. She’s a clown. Call her on her crap.
One day, when the plug is pulled on this administration,
her dad Mike will be the spike for jokes about castration.
by Rick Young | May 10, 2019 | Poem
A blower doesn’t make leaves leave.
Just parks them under different trees.
And like the ancient plow and harrow
has made antique the old wheelbarrow.
Leaves are piled into high rises,
leaving ground free for surprises.
Acorns which had once been hidden,
are now free to squirrels, unbidden.
Hidden mushroom, bulb or flower
need no longer, covered, cower.
Sure, they make a lot of noise.
Blowers are the big boys’ toys.
by Rick Young | May 8, 2019 | Poem
He only breathed his fire
in situations dire.
He really was a gentle mate,
despite his movie mental state.
A monster can be less than fun
when people shoot him with a gun.
So, one day when he lumbered by,
he thought he heard a bird’s soft cry.
A robin baby in a nest
poked up its head at his behest.
“You seem a little hungry, fellow.”
(Godzilla on this day was mellow.)
The giant said he’d be right back
and went off looking for a snack.
Whenever he bent close to ground,
he’d make that loud Godzilla sound.
Just when his hunger needs got dire,
the little bird heard monster fire.
And here he came, chef of the day,
with steaming piles of worms flambe’.
