by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2016 | Poem
Get a bunch of lying, cheating
billionaires together.
It’s a bet there’ll be a spate
of money-making weather.
Bonds will bury dupes in debt;
be the biggest bank heist yet.
Who the hell is pulling all these reins?
Benevolent leader’s not the brains.
What’s the price of selling all our souls?
Years of power on the jelly rolls.
Is there nothing we will pull up short of?
Kidnapping, death, rape and torture, sort of.
We play fast and loose with the convention.
Some say that subversion’s our invention.
One world domination’s our intention.
Like a child, you paid us no attention.
by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2016 | Poem
A rusting pile of iron ore
lies on the floor for purposes unknown.
Down on the block an old gamecock
has found himself upon the clock and flown.
While whistles sigh and poets die,
the people cry for more or less the same.
Rebounding sound drifts to the ground,
is swept round into corners like a game.
The city’s streets are all swap meets
where cheats and grounded fleets waste precious time.
In theory things are dreary but,
like everywhere, one’s gotta make a dime.
It’s not enough when things are tough
to get by on just trickery and guile.
Sometimes when gods or demons call your bluff,
you’ve got to roam the underground awhile.
by Rick Young | Nov 11, 2016 | Poem
Windy and cold and smelling of leaves.
Look to the sky, you can see through the trees.
Chipmunks are storing their harvest of nuts.
Winter is coming, no ifs ands or buts.
