Best 1963 Poems
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.
I wear a veil of iron mesh,
it sheilds me from sensation,
it's like the one that Jackie wore
after Jack's assassination.
I was just a youngster then,
but, deep inside, I knew,
that with that act of violence
came the end of Xanadu.
My childhood innocense was gone
along with Camelot,
Pandora's box had opened wide
because of Oswald's shot.
Our world came tumbling down that day
an avalanche of evil,
it mowed us down, unstoppable
and crushed the souls of people.
The event was filmed and broadcast
and showed repeatedly,
until the images were burned
forever, indelibly.
The coal-black steed was riderless,
a boot in stirrup reversed,
the symbolism so powerful that,
to this day, it hurts.
And John-John with his little flag,
oh, how we ached with grief,
the look on Lyndon Johnson's face,
stunned with disbelief.
Our world received a lethal wound
still gaping to this day
and evil wrapped its tentacles
and many were lead astray.
Oswald shot on live TV!
The man who killed those nurses!
The Boston Strangler whistling,
the Devil loosed his curses.
Shots rang out from campus tower,
they slayed the Reverand King,
and then they killed poor Bobby,
he would never see the Spring.
But Spring would never be the same
once evil was unleashed,
gone were the days when we were safe,
our innocense was breeched.
Then wars broke out and haven't ceased
and millions have been killed,
and poisoned minds bring guns to school
and hearts are hatred-filled.
Innocents abducted,
babies raped and slain,
mothers drowning children,
the world has gone insane.
Don't turn to church to save your kids
so priests can then molest,
the Devil's even infested them,
he's made the church his nest.
Trust no one; lock your doors at night,
don't let your kids run free,
for evil has ensconced itself
and erased humanity.
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.
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
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]
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 his whispering sanctified face,
And the mysterious movements of his ten pious anointing fingers;
As with an airy fountain, he hosed Unction’s graces to the stone seekers,
Bestowing divine mercies by sealed envelope and a black vestment,
The lofty partial indulgences, the immaculate plenary indulgences,
Abundantly delivered and received using withy baskets and black beads.
Hollow dry penances offered up in a confessing private darkness of sorrow,
Within the squeezing superior stares of the priestly knot and the white Alb,
Altar boys on knees beckoning the impulsive turning of the holy human heart;
The struggled speaking of final toxic words on a red bleeding gurney;
Unsaid rosaries and scapular penances finding rusted, grinding precisions;
Broken trust and scarred faith wilting within clay idols and bloody crosses.
There is imminent death in the still waiting, there is red agony without the pain.
Black funeral wallowing within the hushed bereaved church at noon tide in 1963,
Sunken gray corpse of a woman serene, reposing waxlike in her beige groping coffin;
Grieving-suited witnesses and black-devouring shades standing wooden in dreadful silence,
Wondering when it will be their turn, their moment, to jump from this terrified earth,
These undead survivors, these breathing refugees of Unction’s graces,
Remembering now, their concealed matinee kissing games at the seedy Pillbox.
I would like to tell you
About Todd, our brother
He was one of a kind
Unlike any other
Todd played a mean banjo
He could sing like a pro
The group that he played in
Would put on a good show
Todd knew all about cars
Fixed their faults everytime
He bought them, he sold them
Seems he owned every kind
Friend John took him flying
A thrill Todd did enjoy
Loved to ride his Goldwing
His favorite grown-up toy
Todd cruised on the bike trail
He couldn't be kept down
Days at Mid-Ohio
Car shows out of town
Dedicated at work
Though health was not ample
Optimistic fighter
To all, an example
Todd, a loving father
A son, and a brother
Grandson, uncle and friend
Unlike any other.
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
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.
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
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
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.
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.