by Rick Young | Feb 19, 2021 | Poem
Goodnight kids. O goodnight kids.
It’s time now for going to sleep.
Just drop yourselves down into seams
of dreams and cuddle, all warm, in the deep.
Then wake up in the morning,
to a newly risen sun,
signalling with sighs and smiles
another day begun.
You can dance happily in the animal woods
and swim in the lakes of the clouds.
In afternoons, wisdom, romance and respect
can be worn every day as your shrouds.
And play, then, ’til well into evening,
and read your books unto the night.
The concept of dark that surrounds you
shall inspire your vision of light.
Then sleep will come calling you softly,
and make sure that everything’s right.
Another day passed. It won’t be the last.
So, goodnight, you sweet kids. Good night.
by Rick Young | Feb 18, 2021 | Poem
Critter dropped his life’s work down the Walpole Prison sink.
Wasn’t twenty minutes ‘fore the pipe began to stink.
The warden came, said, ‘Who’s to blame?” We said, “Who do you think?”
Then they saw poor Critter, on the floor, face neon pink.
And then he levitated, and the warden gave a gasp,
for Critter kissed him on the lips quite quickly as he passed.
The warden, in that moment, had a grand epiphany.
“As Critter lives, I hereby declare all prisoners free!”
And, as his spirit floated eastward, heading toward Cape Cod,
his captors and his inmates followed, raising hymns to God.
The spirit dance that followed, alas, gained some great renown.
And Critter’s genes can still be seen in jaunts to Provincetown.
by Rick Young | Feb 17, 2021 | Poem
Climbing up ladders in a play about dreams,
vague bones in bright costume shuffle
to and from the earth, like wallowing stars.
An artist severs his tongue with question marks.
Fighting is an invasion of privacy.
Sand bodies raise from the march of waves,
turning into shadows from the keyhole of the sea.
As a hot iron dropped on the moss of a silver forest,
the hunters pass, dragging their tools like tails.
This is the hour to hear the beat of bats.
And pity the poor anachronistic moa,
whose preoccupation with life is visibly diminished,
a fugitive from evolution, tracing a thread to eden.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2021 | Poem
Obfuscating turtle mouth.
Spine weaker than his chin.
Dolorous tone of his lies.
The south just rose again.
Oh, sure, he did just what you said,
but didn’t break the law.
Hundreds hurt and several dead.
Did you see what we saw?
Assassins chasing congressmen
and women in our shrine,
with rebel flags, hand ties and gags.
O, let your love light shine.
The second in command
escaped a proposed lynching scheme.
Did this happen in our land?
Or was it all a dream?
The plotted coup was planned
and publicized for many days.
And it was thus our government
and leader parted ways.
But he will not be punished
or disbarred from coming back,
because of scum like you, you Mitch,
you cunning retro hack.
Kentucky’s known for horses
and its venerable blue grass.
But now it’s known to house by far
the Senate’s biggest ass.
by Rick Young | Feb 10, 2021 | Poem
Put him in the hot seat.
Make him tell us why
he orchestrated riot
where several had to die.
His tweets were law to followers.
His voice was their command
to march down to the capitol,
take back their ‘stolen’ land.
Under the guise of free speech,
he musters his defense.
Ask him what he’d feel
if his supporters killed Mike Pence.
And though our heartless leader
is now removed from the game,
he will persist. You get the gist.
The man has got no shame.
Impeach him once. Impeach him twice.
Just make him go away.
That pee hotel in Russia
might be a place to stay.
And if the man is given chance
to ever run again,
say goodbye to freedom.
Move away and take your kin.
