reporters were asked to state their ideas
what was the biggest news story of all time?
Many said November 22nd, 1963
If you were alive on that date, you know the story
And were probably stunned by it
I was eleven and I have never forgotten it.
want to guess which one it was?
end of WW II
US astronauts walk on the moon
assassination of President John F. Kennedy
World Trade Center bombing on 9-11
If you have to guess, you were not alive on that day.
November 21, 1963
He took the harmonica
from the bib pocket of his overalls
blew thru left to right, low to high
back and forth a couple times,
slapped it on his palm
like he’d tamp his cigarette,
one of those unfiltered Camels
on his dulled dented Zippo.
He blew a quick riff up the scale,
inhaled it back down,
spun his harmonica around
slapped it a couple more times,
stopped as if thinking
about what he’d play
then smile that smile he’d smile
while looking at her,
start in on The Tennessee Waltz
watching her stand up, close her eyes,
hug herself and sway.
As he played he moved to her side
wrapping his left arm around her waist,
she draped both arms on his shoulders
and they glided around the living room
in a world of their own
viewed by us six kids,
all of us grinning and smirking
and making kissy faces
watching mom and dad,
mom singing the words
motioning us all up to dance
that night we stayed up late
that night before
president Kennedy was killed.
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 crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
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 preserved
What was outrageous then would
Now be considered quite reserved.
There was Sex and there was Symbolism
There was Fear, Anxiety, Angst and Doubt.
I watched the whole film enthralled
No idea what it was all about
At later showings we found
Due to the films”s notoriety
And to enable a continuing
Sense of community propriety
At a given signal they had to hold
Sheets of paper before their eyes
To avoid seiing certain scenes
And keep Innocence uncompromised
But, it was Art and it was Sex,
Displayed on the silver screen
And despite the Father’s warnings
Me and most of the village had been.
It was never mentioned in the bar
Later on when we went for a drink,
Just the odd embarrassed grin
And the occasional knowing wink.
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
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 that if she were
to stuff them back in
he would live again
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
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
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 preacher was on talking of dreams proclamations
emancipations and discriminations in the valley of despair
we were dreaming too
she was yellow and i was brown under classifications
imagine our children what could they be maybe violet
purple green blue indigo orange lilac crimson pink or red
tissues are pink and the blood red for all sure i have seen
imagine if we were born with all these colours or like a rain bow
well back to dreams again we were dreaming
for a world where there is
no cast creed colour or country
sect state party religion hell or heaven
the greatest speach of the liberator was on
he was on fire lighting up the masses
he was moving our souls but the system was not functioning n
we couldnt comprehend hence we shared our cold beer turned
warm we were tired and was lost in the crowd for a while
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, ********, thirst,
looking out of the window for relief,
only to see darkness.
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 was all we had
of this great President
before a gunshot took his life
for all the world to see.
We mourn him still, we miss his smile
his knowledge and his grit
for he and Martin dreamed a dream,
we reaped the best of it.
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 cup is poured
To feast the figment of a frazzled mind.
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 country songs playing
quietly while she worked.)
She hushed us sharply.
Then, I saw her face, palled
and drawn, having saucer eyes,
as when hot clouded coffee
is poured out to cool.
(I had never met her fear before.)
The words of the announcer echoed
across a hollow room,
“President John F Kennedy,
the thirty-fifth president
of the United States
died today...”
Even I the youngest, could catch
the significance of what we heard,
that somber day the country reeled.
(The punch in the gut struck me as well.)
On Friday, November 22, 1963
my innocence of childhood left,
and while standing barefoot
in a poor man's house,
I felt kinship with the world.
Men of November (1963 - 2008 )
Today, forty-five years ago, we heaved
this weight to our shoulders,
not seeing, knowing its complete meaning,
yet beckoning to ask why not?
You are now asked to carry this light's great intent:
to find, explore the fiber and nerve of essential need.
Define ways, delicate means.
Yes, leverage our dexterous technology,
whose logic claims bold, deft plans.
You are the leader, who my very own son,
on a cold winter night, on his campus,
not two years before --
yes, you had sent his eyes aglow, with goose bumps
dancing on his tender pale skin;
he'd gulp hope like he'd feast
on his mom's mashed potatoes...
Now, we will bring you more, my captain -
you have engaged the imagination
of the whole world watching, one in whom
places informed hope, forged in the school
of knocked about and down and not quite up again.
But surely not out. Not us. Not now.
And, now together, our first step.
COPYRIGHT 12/23/2008
===============================================================
William Norris
337 Pearson Circle
Naperville, IL. 60563
630-357-4598
[email protected]
Today, forty-five years ago, we heaved
this weight to our shoulders,
not seeing, knowing its complete meaning,
yet beckoning to ask why not?
You are now asked to carry this light's great intent:
to find, explore the fiber and nerve of essential need.
Define ways, delicate means.
Yes, leverage our dexterous technology,
whose logic claims bold, deft plans.
You are the leader, who my very own son,
on a cold winter night, on his campus,
not two years before --
yes, you had sent his eyes aglow, with goose bumps
dancing on his tender pale skin;
he'd gulp hope like he'd feast
on his mom's mashed potatoes ...
Now, we will bring you more, my captain -
you have engaged the imagination
of the whole world watching, one in whom
places informed hope, forged in the school
of knocked about and down and not quite up again.
But surely not out. Not us. Not now.
And, now together, our first step.
COPYRIGHT 12/23/2008
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