by Rick Young | Feb 24, 2021 | Poetry
Goose Tatum, Goose Gossage and Goose Goslin
used to get in their best vee formation and chase
Ducky Medwick, George Crowe, Robin Roberts,
Hawk Harrelson and Jose Cardenal around the field.
Occasional drop ins by some other animals livened
the festivities as Moose, Bull, Panda, Big Cat and
Roadrunner made for excitement and a bit of fear.
For those I have omitted or forgotten, I am sorry.
That’s you, Turkey, Rabbit, Cobra, Deer, Goat, Colt and Fox.
Catfish, Newt, Penguin and Slug; Crab, Buck and Old Hoss.
Mad Dog, Bulldog, Crime Dog, Doggie; Rooster, Spider, Flea.
Ryno, Paw Paw, Vulture, Fly, Gnat, The Rat and Kitty.
Toro, Shark, Gator, The Bee, Sugar Bear, Polar Bear, Ant.
And leave out The Iron Horse and the Grey Eagle we can’t.
{Broken Up in the spirit of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. R.I.P.}
by Rick Young | Jun 25, 2020 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
The Feds have found a whole new way to keep us in the red.
They sent a million stimulus checks out to people dead.
More than a billion dollars worth. The IRS is ripped.
We’d like to send it back but grandpa winterized his crypt.
With his noted history of evil machinations,
perhaps Drumpf meant this all along as post-life reparations.
by Rick Young | May 13, 2020 | Poetry
William Barr’s a tool of the game Monopoly.
He’s become the reigning king of “Get Out of Jail Free.”
He’s destroyed the last vestige of our democracy.
Law’s a joke. Order’s bespoke. There’s no land of the free.
In Canada, this would be a game misconduct penalty.
O, Canada, again to you we’ll flee,
just like we did in a low point in history.
That’s not to infer Vietnam was all that tragic.
Trump broke their death record.
It just disappeared like magic.
William Barr has gone too far, but that has been his way.
Unmitigated tool he’s been since his appointment day.
Now he’s assembled the A Team of released guilty crooks,
who all can work with Russia to cook the election books.
We’re all doomed. The world’s mushroomed. Just hang us out on hooks.
O, Jesus, how did you not know the devil had come back?
How did you miss the anguished cries of those stretched on the rack?
A brazen white dictator builds a crazed symbolic wall
to divide those who will live from those who have to fall.
If you can’t step in here, man, then good God save us all.
by Rick Young | Mar 18, 2020 | Poetry
O what has become of the Truffula trees
that swayed in the cool summer breeze?
The Lorax has fled, the Once-ler is dead,
because of a deadly disease.
In the Grickle grass there lay the Brown Bar-ba-loots,
not a sound of their hoots, they were dead-ass galoots.
Because of new laws, they’d no Truffula fruits,
and now decomposed in their furry red boots.
No Humming-Fish hummed in the scummed-over pond.
No spell would revive them, no magical wand.
Some said all would change if the Lorax came back.
But that dude is hiding, he can’t save you, Jack.
The trees have been felled and the birds are no more.
Not even the poor Swomee-Swans know the score.
If only they’d listened and stayed more inside,
with great social distance, they might not have died.
The Lorax had warned us. He spoke for the trees.
And now we are all mostly dead from disease.
So, kids, mind your parents and stay out of school.
It’s better to still be alive and a fool.
When earth has subsumed all your technologies,
may the cool summer breeze rustle Truffula trees.
by Rick Young | Nov 1, 2019 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
Drumpie’s moved to Florida,
there’s fewer taxes there.
He leaves his tower in New York
and much synthetic hair.
He’ll blend in with the old folks
in a state of milk and honey.
And he will find a thousand ways
to rid them of their money.
He’ll wear his mirrored glasses,
ogle women on the beach,
a state of tits and asses
where impeachment’s out of reach.
He’ll claim that Mar-a-Lago
is the greatest place on earth.
And no one there will dare to care
about what he is worth.
Away down south he’ll get far from
the liberals and haters.
And, best of all, his shotgun sons
can go hunt alligators.
by Rick Young | Mar 27, 2019 | Poetry
My mother died a year ago today.
I feel I need do more than light a candle.
I should sit on a rock and meditate,
but somehow feel that’s more than I can handle.
It’s been suggested I should plant a tree
but my yard is already over crowded.
I could walk through the streets calling her name,
all dressed in black or maybe even shrouded.
Some say that I should play her favorite song,
the one which almost mentioned her by name.
I think I could not handle that for long,
no matter who the voice is singing “Mame.”
The proper thing, of course, would be to go
into a church and sit down in a pew,
reciting prayers to her departed soul,
but that’s something an atheist can’t do.
And so my tribute will be quite low key.
No chants or songs directed up above.
I’ll just remember what she meant to me.
And try to wrap my heart around her love.
