by Rick Young | May 10, 2020 | Poem
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers still alive,
those who weren’t sent under by our president’s deep dive.
And sorry, too, to any mothers out there who lost sons,
whether it’s to tiny germs or giant army guns.
Would have liked to send out to the store and get some flowers,
but, for reasons unforeseen, they’re keeping summer hours.
Would have loved to buy her the best chocolates or a car,
but she’ll have to settle for Airwick and a Mars bar.
Special wishes also to those mothers who are nurses.
For your work, may you all be rewarded with fat purses.
And mothers who have lost their jobs or teaching kids at home,
may love and patience get you through this time of Blunder Dome.
by Rick Young | May 8, 2020 | Poem
Saw Barr’s latest fractured fairy tale,
letting one more bad guy out of jail.
Flynn insures us lies can win,
with the blessings of Putin.
Donnie got right on the horn,
told Vlad a new star is born.
Manafort and Stone now wait
for their coming open gate.
It’s a stone cold Barr procession,
all bets off on all confession.
Liars, schemers, cons and grifters
loosed on Broadway with the Drifters.
Both FOX and the Christian right
will be getting tight tonight.
Russia’s now our friend again.
New beginning of the end.
by Rick Young | May 7, 2020 | Obit
When the fellows brought their cellos,
it got mellow straight away.
All the hangers-on and horns-in-pawn
of course would have their say.
And the violins screamed violence,
while violas sweetly bloomed,
as the harp came in like silence,
when the kettle drum then boomed,
all the dockside shook like thunder,
echoing came voices, crying.
We have but one stage of wonder.
And then all the rest is dying.
by Rick Young | May 6, 2020 | Story
Betsy DeVos is like expired mental floss.
She founders in the dirt from days gone by.
Her changes to Obama title nine rules have a cost.
It makes rape much more fun if you’re a guy.
This is a “fuck you” moment for the MeToo movement, too.
That rapes go unreported is the fear.
The onus on the male shifts now, it’s on the other shoe.
Brett Cavanaugh is probably boofing beer.
Her roots are in soft money and a righteous christian god.
Her Amway founding husband is her source.
With great love for her country, she intends to bear the rod.
There might be vouchers now for intercourse.
She and her husband own a group of brain performance centers.
She thinks schools should have guns to combat bears.
Her family owns ten yachts. She lists Chris Craft and God as mentors.
Her maiden name, Prince. Hence the crown she wears.
by Rick Young | May 4, 2020 | Poem
I remember Kent State and how it changed my life.
Had a pass from G.I. training, was in Frisco with my wife.
When I saw it on t.v., I said I can’t go back.
Supposed to save our country, baby, not go on attack.
She flew east, I’d follow soon, and in the airport then,
I saw Ravi Shankar and the great Doctor Spock, Ben.
Realized these were signs of changing times and hit the road.
Slept that night at UC Berkeley, took the fork that bode.
It was June before I hit New England’s salty shores.
I was called deserter then, ranked somewhere below whores.
When I turned myself in, I was hollowed out by wrath.
Their view from a different lens was drugged sociopath.
And so I was locked in awhile with madmen and drug addicts.
Mostly I just stood and stared, didn’t cause much static.
In September, I was tossed out, next month had a son.
Yes, I remember Kent State as a soldier with no gun.
