by Rick Young | Feb 23, 2016 | Poem
If you tell me what you’re missin’, I will tell you what I found.
No one out here seems to listen. There just ain’t no common ground.
Everything the poor man visions, seems the rich man wanna spoil.
Got no hand in the decisions. They just toil until they boil.
Now the melting pot’s spilled over. And the cleanup has begun.
If you’re not upon the A-list, better be prepared to run.
Don’t rely on constitutions. They’re just words that can be changed.
If you offer bold solutions, you just might be called deranged.
There’s a down side to all nations, though they might claim to be free.
You will find that all the leaders are the rich minority.
So if you ain’t got no money, so if you ain’t got no land,
You’d best marry up, my honey, or be buried where you stand.
There’s a dream in certain fictions that they call equality.
But the world is based on frictions, sadly, not on harmony.
If you tell me what you’re after, I will tell you if it’s there.
Please excuse my maddened laughter. It is only ’cause I care.
by Rick Young | Feb 22, 2016 | Poem
To make the jump to frog
the mind must polliwog.
Would we could all transform
and ribbit be the norm.
by Rick Young | Feb 21, 2016 | Poem
Sore heels slog through
mud-slung meadows.
Vested verities abide
toasted variations.
Slug lines drop and bob
in the print morass.
Plausibility gives pause,
paws at the conscience.
Malignant manipulators
march in a mean parade.
Truth is a trap without bait.
Party decorations never lie.
An ear to the wall hears all.
by Rick Young | Feb 20, 2016 | Poem
Monitored me on t.v.
Took away my privacy.
Outlawed secrets, punished lies;
Nation’s just a bunch of spies.
I want to be a space warlord.
Take away the power’s horde.
Give the buildings to the poor.
Feed the hungry, stop all war.
Man can’t trust the telephone.
Always rings when he’s alone.
Voices stare and hatred sighs
Dominations’s exercise.
I want to be a space warlord.
Raise the plough share, break the sword.
Cease the cash flow, stop the state.
Break the wheel at doom’s dark gate.
Sent my taxes into space,
Better to control the race.
Told me I could vote and pray.
Long as it was done their way.
I want to be a space warlord.
Rediscover freedom’s chord.
Point the weapons at the kings.
Greed will die when justice sings.
by Rick Young | Feb 19, 2016 | Poem
Soles in suds on the pub floor
as the men all talk of war.
They just heard the radio say
forty bombers on the way.
Drink up, it may be your last.
Enemy approaching fast.
All the family’s underground,
waiting for that siren sound.
But these men prefer to drink
until danger’s on the brink.
War is hell and death is near.
Barkeep, give us one more beer.
