by Rick Young | May 17, 2021 | Poem
I’m starting up another sleepless streak,
continuing this wild, untethered week.
At times it all seems well, at others bleak.
It’s like a slo-mo fall from off my peak.
Perhaps I should be grateful for commotion,
for life can ebb and crash much like the ocean.
For pain, there’s always pills or sometimes lotion.
It’s hard to not see old age as demotion.
When breathing gets oppressive
and the manic turns depressive,
life and death in their successive turns reveal
they are partners in the end,
one can admit or pretend,
whether you’re a holy cow or meathook veal.
by Rick Young | May 7, 2021 | Poem
Look out up above, dude, it’s the falling Chinese rocket!
It’s gotta land somewhere, but they don’t know how to clock it.
It could crash in New York, L.A., Rio or Beijing.
It’s twenty tons, nine stories tall, so, really, no big thing.
It’s tumbling out of orbit, eighteen thousand miles an hour.
This is not your typical small mass of space junk shower.
The risk of killing people, Chinese say, is really small.
Perhaps it will fall in the sea, not killing folks at all.
The risk of death by falling metal’s like the lottery.
Some poor sap gets the big one, suddenly is history.
by Rick Young | May 6, 2021 | Poem
Therapy dogs solved my problem.
I used to be an angry cat.
After just a couple sessions,
I forgot about all that.
Now I jump and play outside,
and roll around in dirt.
Therapy dogs encourage that,
as long’s I don’t get hurt.
I hope to spend all of my life
in doggy therapy.
They’ve changed the way I see the world.
I wouldn’t hurt a flea.
by Rick Young | May 5, 2021 | Song
Awoke one morn to find that Donald Trump was sent to jail.
Surprisingly, he put up Kim Kardashian for bail.
But that was not enough. They wanted his two sons.
“If you seek Don and Eric, you’d best watch out, they have guns.”
Oh yes, we’ve seen a list of all the animals they’ve killed;
and please know that, because of that, you’re going to get billed.
Perhaps your loyal Kushners could loan you the cash you need.
You were the popper, after all, of her bright demon seed.
Each loyal ‘friend’ tried to defend their old boss Forty Five.
But, secretly, their wish was that he not be still alive.
They say he’ll live alone in Alcatraz, where he can brood.
Occasionally, some tourists might stop by and throw him food.
Of course, he won’t be satisfied. He needs food in a bucket.
The only reason for their visit’s so they can yell, “Suck It!”
by Rick Young | May 2, 2021 | Poem
In June I’ll have a different attitude.
I’ll float above the lanes just like The Dude.
I’ll take the doc’s advice, and try to be real nice,
and cut way down on time in which I brood.
Of course, the world will have to play its part.
Corona has come back now with a shart.
India and now Brazil are targeted for viral kill.
Good news still has to find a place to start.
In June, perhaps, crowds will be back in parks.
The independence crowd will hoard its sparks.
Maybe a Broadway play will open up some day.
And vaccine doses will hit all their marks.
We’ll put aside our masks and see some faces,
and go back once again to risky places.
We’ll work on gun control, and murder of the soul,
to try to cut down on cop killer cases.
By June’s end, there’ll be summer in our hearts,
to realign our lives in fits and starts.
With Biden at the wheel, a lot of people feel
this comeback could be simply off the charts.
But, don’t forget this fact: The Dude abides.
There’s got to be some merging on both sides.
If white supremacy continues, sea to sea,
there’ll be no way across our great divides.
