by Rick Young | Nov 22, 2021 | Poem
We’re going on a protester hunt,
inspired by that crying killer grunt.
His thoughts on Black Lives Matter
was to cause a bit of splatter,
bloodying Kenosha’s streets,
first kills one and then repeats.
Shot the first one in the back,
but you’ve got to cut him slack.
They were out to take his gun.
That would not have been much fun.
After two he shot a third.
We must take him at his word.
Thought he was in mortal danger,
chased by cursing unarmed stranger.
Yes, he really had to kill.
Helping police out was a thrill.
In his trial he beat each charge,
crying tears to float a barge.
White folks don’t care what he did.
Come and get your gun back, kid.
Militias everywhere, unite!
Join the weeping gunman’s fight.
Radicals best hold your breath.
Punishment for protest’s death.
by Rick Young | Nov 22, 2021 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
(Note from the author’s son: I found this title-only draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
by Rick Young | Nov 18, 2021 | Poem
The arc of the sun has shortened its path,
come down for the season of winter and wrath.
The fall was a ball with its leaves many hues,
but they’re on the ground now, just last season’s news.
The few months ahead will be short, cold and dark,
like tinder awaiting the spring’s first warm spark.
And when stems again raise their heads in rebirth,
the sun’s arc will reign like a bridge over earth.
by Rick Young | Nov 15, 2021 | Poem
Welcome to the new civil war.
It looks like chairman T has got the floor.
It’s not a filibuster, just overflowing bluster.
He’s counting on his side for a big score.
The bikers and militia are all armed,
and care no whit for those whom they have harmed.
Protestors in the street are naught to them but meat.
They see their lives as heaven-blessed and charmed.
The death toll is the new election tally.
An insurrection’s labeled as a rally.
The police won’t stop this war. They don’t care any more.
Our country might turn into one death valley.
We’ve now become the disunited states.
The rich have bad intentions on their plates.
There can be no true friends until this madness ends.
Meanwhile the bodies are piled up in crates.
