by Rick Young | May 27, 2020 | Poem
A pop-up map, 100G, with color code vicinity.
This guy will raise the stakes into infinity.
How soon before it’s turned into a lottery?
Prepare your urns and best invest in pottery.
So let his golfing stand as Our Great Pun.
In crimes sans passion, he is number one.
Considering the damage he has done,
if he’s released /unleashed, long may he run.
by Rick Young | May 26, 2020 | Story
O gather thee now, Wall Street traders of death.
But, before work you must sign a waiver,
in case on the floor you do take your last breath,
no recompense can you then savor.
Go shouting your numbers and capital gains,
the NYSE crowd way thinner.
Who said to make money you have to have brains?
The stock market’s always a winner.
And why, in this time of the country’s demise,
does the Dow Jones continue to rise?
The answer, of course, should come as no surprise.
The players are rich and the game is their prize.
by Rick Young | May 24, 2020 | Story
Lord, bless the germs within this pew,
and hope that casualties are few.
This virus makes the pious wary.
Who knew hymns could be so scary.
Because the wafer stock is thin,
the hosts’s hydroxychloroquine.
And there’s a substitute for wine,
bleach or something alkaline.
Congregation lambs to slaughter.
Wash your hands with holy water.
Pray that God has you protected.
Half the church will be infected.
by Rick Young | May 23, 2020 | Poem
I-phones, drones and lovely bones.
Wandering sand-distance police.
Keep your mask on in the surf.
Stay ten feet apart at least.
Don’t touch seaweed, don’t pet crabs.
Look out for the sharks.
Swat at anything that grabs.
Don’t go near the body outline marks.
by Rick Young | May 21, 2020 | Poem
Little yellow trumpet bells, Rocket Cress by name,
found beside familiar roads, sunshine is its game.
In the mustard family, cabbage’s moist cousin,
let it grow to flowering. You might want a dozen.
Some consider it invasive, find its presence nervy.
They may not know that the cress was once used to cure scurvy.
When its family gathers, it is quite a great array.
Bok choy, turnips, broccoli and rutabagas, hey !
Rocket Cress, God has blessed you with great diversity,
but a taste so bitter, kids hate universally.
“More for us,” the grownups cry, “bring on the collard greens.”
And mustard seed,” cry those who like to frequent hot dog scenes.
