by Rick Young | May 3, 2018 | Poem
Well it’s T-Bone and the Russkies and their pack of inbred huskies
we see scrambling every day for some solution.
Seeking some equation that will pacify the nation,
maybe say it’s just evasion, not collusion.
They repeat to their cronies that accusers are just phonies;
this “witch hunt” is deemed a personal attack.
T-Bone won’t let justice try him and his party will stand by him.
If they don’t he’ll simply stab them in the back.
Kelly Con and Sarah Hucker tell bold lies to save this fucker,
play the country like a sucker, truth be damned.
It’s D.C. Comics come to life, orange man and hypno wife.
But how much longer can we be flimflammed?
by Rick Young | May 1, 2018 | Poem
Forty nine questions.
The croaker croaks.
The tweeter tweets.
The garden of heathens
is showing its colors.
In the weeds predators huddle.
Seeds of democracy are scattered.
We must be active gardeners
to insure truth must flower.
And spring may clean
our great distress.
by Rick Young | Apr 9, 2018 | Poem
It’s into a world of hurt we waken every morn,
to the time we go to dirt, from the moment born.
Screaming out into the light until our silent getaway,
wending way through war and fight, dark of night and blast of day.
Life is but a battleground, endless maps of conflagration,
blood its color, death its sound, nation pitted versus nation.
For the few there are good gods who baffle all this pain.
But none of us can beat the odds and in this world remain.
by Rick Young | Apr 8, 2018 | Poem
Scooter McQuail and the Faulkland Twins
had this one song they sang
with rosary beads in their mouths.
Sounded like angels with special needs.
And sometimes resulted in choking.
Well, one could see how this could be redefined
in devilish ways, and that, indeed, was the case,
and they became very popular.
One of the twins married Tree Vincent’s
lock-jawed son and a new percussion was born.
McQuail took up throat singing and was scooped
by a didgeridoo trio: sounded like a battle
of the painfully lap banded inside a cage of ham shanks.
by Rick Young | Mar 24, 2018 | Poem
Mister Sessions, I don’t deal in heroin or blow.
I don’t deal in oxycontin, either.
But now, for legal weed, you want to put me on death row.
Relax, chill out, AG, you need a breather.
I thought the rules had changed regarding marijuana’s sale,
the benefits realized in legal smoking.
But now you want to turn around and put me into jail,
and sentence me to death, you must be joking?
It’s not like legal smokers want to take away your gun.
It’s not like they’ll go wild and eat your babies.
They want to get high sometimes and just have a little fun.
But now you’re treating them like they have rabies.
Perhaps you are reacting to the old phrase "killer weed."
You realize that’s not what it really means.
You don’t have problems giving the real killers what they need.
Like wartime ammo and AK15’s.
So, back off, little brother, maybe you just need a smoke.
A little reefer might expand your thinking.
Go ask all your joint chiefs if they’ll let you have a toke.
It’s better for your health than bourbon drinking.
by Rick Young | Mar 18, 2018 | Poem
A march of words
lined up like birds
upon a leafless branch.
Some flew away.
Some deigned to stay.
It put me in a trance.
New words alit
replacing those
which recently took flight.
It went this way
all day.
A book was writ.
And then came night.
