by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2021 | Poem
Feed the hungry.
Kill the rich.
Ocean’s dying.
Life’s a bitch.
Nothing matters.
Plague abounds.
We don’t matter.
Make the rounds.
Police are angry.
Looters, too.
Sometimes they don’t
know who’s who.
Polar bears now
need life vests.
We have failed
so many tests.
To escape
our own trap,
leave the tent now.
Cut the flap.
Many things
will have to change.
Our streets are
a shooting range.
If we have to
pay for peace,
scrap the weapons.
Change the lease.
It’s time we learn
to treat our land
better than
a one-night-stand.
Stand together.
That we must.
We’re the gods
we must trust.
by Rick Young | Jan 30, 2021 | Song
Klomp. Bomp.
We got the swamp.
We got left in the lurch without a perch.
And now we’re fighting back
an organized attack.
It’s hard to play defense and do research.
The slime laid on The Cap,
the cinch ’em, lynch ’em crap,
was just phase one of orange afterbirth.
There is no place to hide
with henchmen loose inside.
It’s turned the tide of weather on this earth.
While now the Flag’s a weapon
and the Guard is over steppin’,
clans may plan now their white wonder land.
Will this be world war .3? The end of history?
Let’s resurrect the “We Are The World” band!
Pop pop pah pa, mama, momma, ta tah.
by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2021 | Poem
Dan collected face masks of dead goalies
and was known to steal some sneaks occasionally.
People had many fetishes in Beaverton.
His pal Andy had a vial of Blazer sweat
and a headband he claimed was Bill Walton’s.
A gang of the guys got together some nights
and traded wristbands, balls and batting gloves.
Someone would claim it was Tiger’s broken tee
or Kip Keino’s tossed cup in their hand,
but they had soiled the DNA. It was just a fantasy.
They were all disturbed by so-called Sosa pellets.
But the worst were plastic bags of spit-out chaw.
And someone said their dad had Mordecai Brown’s finger.
by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2021 | Posthumous Additions, Story
(Note from the author’s son: I found this seemingly unfinished draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
Danny collected the face masks of dead goalies
and was known
by Rick Young | Jan 20, 2021 | Poem
Our sinking ship has made it back to shore.
With Ahab gone, things just might be o.k.
Get all his seasick sailors off the floor.
And look forward to sail another day.
The white whale we’ve been chasing for four years
today submerged and migrated down south.
He’d breached the waters of our deepest fears
with lies that spilled like krill out of his mouth.
But now the hunt for power has been ended,
the waters that surround us calm and clear.
The boat and mast successfully defended,
we’d like to think a time of peace is near.
