by Rick Young | Sep 29, 2021 | Poem
He slips in while the trees still have their leaves.
In fact, you might still be dressed in short sleeves.
Where green and lush abound, there’ll soon be on the ground
great piles of nature’s discards and pet peeves.
The temperatures he’ll drop down by degrees
might, by his exit, hint at the first freeze,
necessitating coat, at which point he may gloat,
and even float a few flakes on the breeze.
He’ll bring a questionable holiday.
Columbus was a hero in no way.
He’ll leave at Halloween. Cold weather is his scene,
a hint of winter’s hell you’ll have to pay.
by Rick Young | Sep 28, 2021 | Poem
Delete Red.
Green is new.
Sip with caution.
Poultry, too.
Watch that sunset.
Bail that lift.
What’s a Magi
With no gift?
by Rick Young | Sep 27, 2021 | Poem
This could be our last warm day. Summertime has gone away.
No more time for livin’ easy. Fall will descend, cool and breezy.
Soon the leaves will be aflutter. Piling in the lawn and gutter.
Green to yellow. Red to brown. Ending as sludge on the ground.
One last call for windows open. For eight months we will be hopin’.
Unpack blankets, heavy coats. On to shore come all the boats.
No more fresh air meals outside. Time to make the flowers hide.
Bare limbs waving like thin arms. Frozen temps and lesser charms.
Soon enough, there will be snow. Shoveling and plows. Oh no.
Dead of winter, painted white. Cold in daylight, freeze at night.
There’s not much good left to say. Summertime has gone away.
by Rick Young | Sep 26, 2021 | Poem
The cruelty factory is giving out rebates
for tortures unseen and ominous fates
For confessions extracted,
new law’s been enacted.
Makes pain mandatory.
It’s tied in with glory.
Passed in a landslide,
wherein a few died.
So, now you can line up for hurt at the gate,
unless you’re the type who would procrastinate.
The cruelty factory will cater to you.
They say pain’s your due.
Sadly, this time it’s true.
by Rick Young | Sep 26, 2021 | Poem
Thrown open are the windows and fresh banana peels to the crows!
The hawk has paid a visit.
After rains he frequently shows up at the top of the tallest tree outside my window,
where, first, he dries, sitting like a block, until, shaking, he begins to unruffle.
The branch is his occasional spa, where he stretches, does bird pilates,
salutes the sun, which appeared, after he did, and does some shoulder rotation.
After some head swiveling and neck lengthening, he’s ready for flight.
A long reach down to the leaves below and there he goes. Kick. Glide. Kick.
