by Rick Young | Jul 25, 2019 | Poem
Mueller. Could he be duller?
He’s like a decaf coffee with a day old cruller.
He said he could not answer questions ’bout two hundred times.
How can that be so when Drump’s so up-front with his crimes?
Admitting Russia owns us now did not dispel our fears.
He looked like a guy who hasn’t smiled in thirty years.
Just the facts amongst redacts and, really, little more.
Looking like a grandfather whose hemorrhoids are sore.
No recourse for leaders who are in foreign employ?
We expected Superman but got Grandpa McCoy.
by Rick Young | Jul 21, 2019 | Poem
O hear tell of one groundswell that swept the USA.
The leader of the free world told non-whites to go away.
He doesn’t like their criticism or their funny dress.
Go back to your own country, he said, fix that bloody mess.
Four women who were singled out deplored his racist state.
I’m no racist, he replied; my heart’s just filled with hate.
His supporters backed him up, insisted he was right.
Send them back, they shouted. Almost all of them were white.
And so John Birch and KKK now find that they are back in play.
And Neo-Nazis freely stockpile arms.
Soon to come, abortion bans, conversion if you’re gay.
The free world leader cares not who he harms.
by Rick Young | Jul 9, 2019 | Poem
There would be a choice on whom to save:
those who walk upright outside the cave,
or those who worship fire from within.
Take a look to see who is your kin.
From afar explosions look like smoke.
But, up close, appear more as God’s joke.
Blood and blast meld into paint:
those who were and now who ain’t.
Rivers run and lands are farmed.
Some not dead are only harmed.
Genes and schemes are passed on down.
Here’s a village. There’s a town.
Families, alas, survive.
May be yours, if you’re alive.
These eternal mysteries
come to us as histories.
Those who had successful plans
band together, then, as clans.
Bloodlines are a map of time,
shaped by reason, steeped in rhyme.
Sometimes fate can be quite cruel.
That is why it’s called old school.
Paintings, tales and songs survive.
Nothing else can stay alive.
Those who seek to trace the past
are but watchmen on the mast.
Waves of people hit the shore.
Some are players, some keep score.
All wind up as dust or bones.
Check that on your telephones.
by Rick Young | Jul 5, 2019 | Story
One if by land and two if by sea,
Paul Revere said, and, if by air, three.
Ethan Allen helped to shut the airports down.
His Green Mountain boys covered the copters on the ground.
When Patrick Henry phrased his praise of liberty,
it was a coded message to the boys in Seal Team 3.
And by some great coincidence, the men at Valley Forge
all had the last name Washington or else the first name George.
by Rick Young | Jul 4, 2019 | Poem
There is no law.
But tanks are in the street.
The man of straw
Will stand at Lincoln’s feet.
While overhead
the bombers strafe the sky.
The heartless one
will tell lie after lie.
The troops parade
like in Red Square.
The point well made.
We’re almost there.
This holiday
could be our last.
Our U.S.A.
is fading fast.
