by Rick Young | Jun 30, 2021 | Poem
This wouldn’t have to happen if we raked our forest floors.
Now the Oregon/Cal border’s only good for cooking smores.
Fire waves and furnace heat are bouts of climate change.
It ‘s irony but adds a new light to ‘home on the range.’
And this time the inferno’s booked for a cross-country tour,
with temps well past one hundred, really too much to endure.
In the west, thirty five cities set temperature highs.
Portland scored a one-sixteen. Now that was a surprise.
Climate change affects the jet stream. We’re told that’s the reason.
Who knows how bad things will get in this year’s wildfire season?
And, if one thinks Canada’s a cooler place to be,
they just hit a record one-eighteen up in BC.
Rolling blackouts result from need of A/C and fan.
They’ve already happened two straight days now in Spokane.
We’ve still got two months of summer hot spots to endure.
Climate change has gone deranged. We’re hurtin’. That’s for sure.
by Rick Young | Jun 29, 2021 | List
Police in Greece find a stolen Picasso.
And throw in an ought-five Mondrian.
Matt Gaetz, talks CRT; he’s such an asshole.
And Syrian air strikes link to Iran.
Walmart low priced insulin today’s perk.
Britney Spears, still all over the news.
Twenty found dead on a boat near Grand Turk.
But how can Brit end conservatorship blues?
Condo collapse was warned of years before.
South Africa’s ex-prez will go to jail.
Judge Thomas declares pot laws are a bore.
And Boss on Broadway shows life is for sale.
by Rick Young | Jun 19, 2021 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
(Note from the author’s son: Below is a snippet from one of our email exchanges in June 2021. I felt compelled to share this mention of a title for a poem.)
Weight down to 179 today, aiming next at high school mark of 150. Then a zen-like 85. New poem title: “Weigh My Dust.”
by Rick Young | Jun 18, 2021 | Poem
Another long sword’s been unsheathed
against the darts of reason.
Again, we’ve wept. Once more we’ve grieved.
It comes round every season.
When power rules with sharpened tools,
there’ll always be some clashing.
The constant grate ‘tween kings and fools
will set the teeth to gnashing.
“Rise up with the tides,” we’ll chant,
as our followers battle our leaders.
And, when history’s made, either truth or charade,
the past’s granted a future through readers.
But, as long as one knows,
like the blush on a rose,
much of what we suppose leans on light.
There’ll be dream mixed with fact.
There’ll be lies left intact.
In the end, it’s all schemes, wrong and right.
by Rick Young | Jun 17, 2021 | Poem
The world is at a standstill.
There is no such thing as time.
Every inch into the modern world’s
considered blatant crime.
On the fulcrum of extinction,
we are balanced on a peak.
It may all end in a year, a month,
some even say next week.
With rains and floods and fires,
we’ll be ushered out the door.
While remaining time expires,
we live on the killing floor.
Just one small tilt toward an edge
could unloose great destruction.
There are no more bets left to hedge.
There’s no hint at instruction.
We could become a void in space,
a former, not a latter.
Alas, the poor old human race,
run down to anti-matter.
