1963 Poems - Poems about 1963

November 21, 1963 ...

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a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch he watches the setting sun through a screen door fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen smoking father works a tv guide...

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It was a Swedish film they said, Mixing real life, truth and art, A little bit expressive they said, Which for us was a jolly good start And when Sunday the good Father Preached to go and see it was a sin The street outside was crowded As we quietly queued to get in. This was the early 1960’s When standards had to be...

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Behind a broad fence A grassy knoll in Dallas Lone sniper waited Changed the course of history Possibly went scot-free, too. June 14, 2021...

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She scrambled from where she sat in the back seat climbing onto the trunk of that long luxurious Lincoln not to escape an assassin's assault as many assumed but to collect the shards of skull and bits of brain that had been blown back onto it as a bullet blasted a hole in his head his body lolling over to lie limply in her lap as her flowers fell to the floorboard sure...

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Black flow the clouds from Cymru's heights, like molten lead they cross the deep, heavy with sorrow from the hills they crack and weep. The winds bring down from Wyddfa's slopes a grief that is too hard to bear, they murmur it in deep regret in dark despair. “Tell me, you winds that scream and cry, that blast the rocky...

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Funeral in 1963 Beveled dusty cracked glass shielding Mother Mary enthroned, Amidst flying angelic devotions atop whipped clouds of icy air, Enslaved by an antique miracle made manifest in stained blood, With silent invisible memorized prayers uttered in ancient Latin refrains, Bowed before upright holy statues and a gold-encrusted grand altar, He stood back-turned under a dead Jesus hiding...

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Remembrance of « Creation » 1963 (MM) (Marcel Marceau 1963) Face white-clown-painted hands crossing invisibility in a white-gloved glissade a soft, silent shifting, a step-slide over non-existent windows, walls and doors a glide into gesture into signing a seeking into a stirring a knowing a genesis the stage, his staging the spotlight on in a spotlit silence...

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EYES OF A MONTAGNARD GIRL 1963 Eyes without reason, never having an end searching forever, never finding a friend. Eyes without mercy, stealing all that was you, changing forever what you thought love could do. You will love her forever. as she'll love you the same, But it stays in the Highlands as if we never came. © ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet...

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Number 22 in 1963 The prior season and many seasons past had been great for our school. However, the ‘62-’63 season was to prove disastrous for our school. I had been looking forward to the 63-64 season when I knew that I would be ready and prepared, but the district changed the rules and eliminated the...

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we were tired after the long march for freedom hundred miles of trekking hurting knees sweating skin too hot a day for the mid autumn may be the pain fever in the big city after the cherries have blossomed n gone like an endemic influenza sea of people like the sand on the beaches stretched beyond her innocent yearning hazel eyes the...

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Those long bus rides between Urbana, Illinois and Wheaton, Maryland were all in the interspace, hours of smooth nothingness punctuated by jangly nothingness at change points like Cincinnati and Pittsburg. Blurs in memory, dreamy, taste of intensly needed sandwiches and the desperate need to be clean. Long half-sleep voyages through fantasy, through needle-sticking drives,...

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A handsome man, a valiant son, John Kennedy was he. A man who rose to President with civil rights the key. Who can forget the many days like Camelot they seemed, when all eyes were on Washington, they passed just like a dream. Ah, we remember Jacqueline a Vassar deb was she, who walked with grace on his right side through fame and infamy. One thousand days...

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Every fragile flower Weaves a different sense of power But the old gardener His hands and fingers soil stained Wears the same disguise Over his disdain for the poor and trodden mass The beleagured hair in relentless hands The squirming bodies bruised and broken The trying cross of love despised They gathered the ignorant and stygmatized And while sun glinted on shiny coffles The wine...

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A common-born child was changed by the death of a man one day. Back in the 60's, (I remember.) when barefoot kids were called in, from carefree play. A rowdy, raucous group, (Tag, you're 'it' No! Tag, I got you back.) tumbling into the backdoor, in answer to Momma's call. I, being first inside, pulled up short, knowing something just wasn't right. The deep voice of a man was blaring from the radio. (No...

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