by Rick Young | Nov 9, 2018 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
This guy was Sessions’ Chief of Staff.
His resume could make one laugh.
He lost a couple statewide runs.
But he works out and has big guns.
He’s almost fifty, from Des Moines,
loved by guys who praise their groin.
He played football for the Hawkeyes
but lost in Rose Bowl game.
He coached Rick Perry’s POTUS run,
which crashed and burned, oh shame.
He jumped into the business world
with both his size twelve feet,
investing first in trailers,
then in day care, then concrete.
He got involved in marketing
but fraud charge shut that down.
So he became a talking head,
conservative news clown.
He gained Drumpf’s keen attention
dismissing all his crimes.
He thought he’d get a judgeship
and climb back to good times.
But his gestapo manner
and posture as good cop,
shot him up the justice arm
and landed him on top.
So now Attorney General’s
just another name for goon.
These con man grifters come and go.
Let’s hope this one’s gone soon.
by Rick Young | Nov 17, 2013 | Poetry
She takes her picture once a week
in that old photo booth.
She once fell down outside of Sears
and chipped a baby tooth.
She buys her jeans and magazines
and cigarettes all there.
At CVS she buys a gel
to colorize her hair.
One time she stretched out
on a bench for a two-hour nap.
And she admits to shoplifting
an item from The Gap.
The courteous mallflower
spends every waking hour
avoiding time at home
inside that shopping dome.
And once school’s at an end,
she often tells her friend,
she’ll still be in the mob there,
’cause she’ll just get a job there.
by Rick Young | Nov 16, 2013 | Poetry
Tap our phones and cramp our styles.
Lock us up without fair trials.
Check our luggage for nail files.
We will not be cowed.
Keep tabs on library books.
Categorize us by looks.
Sometimes kings can fall to rooks.
Freedom is our shroud.
Change the laws and steal the land.
We still have the upper hand.
Ninety nine united stand.
Though mountains are plowed.
We the people shall prevail.
You can’t put us all in jail.
Our life blood is not for sale.
Stuff you, mushroom cloud.
by Rick Young | Nov 16, 2013 | Poetry
“God always comes in through the side door
if he bothers to show up at all ,”
said the tired old grey haired bartender,
one day late December, after a mild fall.
“He sits on the stool by the juke box,
as if that’s just where he belongs.
He has a few shots of tequila,
and always plays these same three songs.
It’s ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,’
and ‘Baby, The Rain Must Fall.’
And then halfway through ‘Lonely Teardrops,’
he’s usually startin’ to bawl.
he says he’s the cause of our troubles.
He can’t stop the shit goin’ down.
He sure gets to me. I turn on the t.v.,
and usually buy him a round.
And then he takes off in a hurry,
as if he’s remembered a date.
He leaves a good tip” ‘Go down with the ship,
but sail before time gets too late.’ “
by Rick Young | Nov 15, 2013 | Poetry
The ghost of mediocrity
is out bowling for dollars.
Ten pins, he wins, the counter spins,
he flies around and hollers.
The game is just a sidelight.
He should really be asleep.
But smashing wood
sometimes feels good,
more fun than counting sheep.
Tomorrow he’ll resume his rounds,
shepherding toward the mean.
But right now there’s a six-ten split,
and he’s a spare machine.
by Rick Young | Nov 15, 2013 | Poetry
The righteous will die with the damned,
a puzzle all over the land.
The pieces are covered with blood.
We’re working our way to the flood.
The troops are well-meaning, of course,
a brave and insidious force.
The rockets are aimed. The weak will be maimed.
Much later we’ll deal with remorse.
The bombs are all loaded in planes.
War fever is coursing through veins.
Each woman and kid who’s not too well hid
will suffer incredible pains.
The world will forgive us in time.
Some day war will be seen as crime.
But, until that day, we’ll say bombs away.
We’re murderous men in our prime.
