by Rick Young | Dec 7, 2021 | Poem
Singing songs to omicron,
trying to get my vaccine on.
All this Covid variation
makes me long for a vacation.
Either an edenic field
or hermetically sealed.
Just somewhere the germs won’t spread,
or ’til everybody’s dead.
Virus, virus, burning bright,
please move to some other site.
Bezos, take it out to space.
Lay it on some alien race.
Nobel science, find a cure.
This is too much to endure.
Omicron, now what is next?
All the usual suspects.
Bat flu grew into a plague,
origins extremely vague.
Where and when it might mutate
on our planet’s petri plate
will determine the next surge
in this downhill people purge.
And so the songs of omicron
just go on and on and on.
by Rick Young | Dec 4, 2021 | Poem
California is killing the Amazon rainforest,
exporting more crude oil than any other state.
Sixty six percent of all extracted hits our country,
and most of that is aimed for Cal, an overwhelming rate.
Four hundred gas flares dot the Ecuadorian landscape,
imperiling the health of indigenous tribes.
The country owes some twenty billion bucks to China,
and selling crude is one way to pay down these bribes.
California last year took in sixty million barrels,
half of all the crude that’s shipped out from the Amazon.
Sacrificing habitat brings with it many perils,
and the worst is it kills people when the trees are gone.
by Rick Young | Dec 3, 2021 | Poem
Sea creatures are now colonizing
our great garbage island,
floating plastic twice the size of Texas.
Forty coastal species now inhabit the debris,
a waste ecology’s Pacific nexus.
The Great Pacific Garbage Patch,
all eighty-thousand tons,
is fed by folks on both sides of the ocean.
Its fishing nets and plastic bottles,
all sorts of our waste,
are swirled together by the ocean’s motion.
It could evolve a whole new species,
garbage-dwelling plants,
feeding clinging species in the drift.
Thank you, science, once again.
Apocalyptic dance
seems to be your one eternal gift.
by Rick Young | Dec 2, 2021 | Poem
Doctor F is now our one true leader,
has been since he dumped Emperor T.
All the news that fits, he is the feeder,
controls all you hear and what you see.
These are classic signs of viral coup,
civil war surrounding vaccination.
Differing opponents of what’s true
dominating every conversation.
Two long lines of sick and well
advance now toward a crossing,
where a wall of heaven/hell
keeps the mean waves tossing.
by Rick Young | Dec 1, 2021 | Poem
When it was found Christmas-treeing was causing deforestation;
when it was discovered reindeer were going extinct due to failed flying lessons;
when a field of frozen elves in shallow graves was shockingly happened upon,
holiday eco terrorists went to their awful work. Santa was found dead in a midwest chimney.
Mrs. Claus moved to Daytona to live with her spinster sister. Frosty was tossed into rum drinks.
Christmas shopping was toned down to Hanukkah levels. No more insane Black Fridays.
People began to use ritual, prayer, family counsel and love instead of toy guns and crying dolls.
Old men in white beards no longer had to dress in red and the world was at last rid of tinsel.
Stockings were only hung for treason and the fireplace could be used for fire once again.
It was understood the lord had no stake in fancy bikes, electric trains, candy canes or i-anythings.
Perhaps somewhere in a manger, a depressed cow lowed and missed its drop in status.
And the secret society of baby Jesus creche robbers discontinued all memberships.
Silent night, wholly night. All is calm. All has been made right. Now we gotta work on Easter.
