Best Decades Poems
I: in the 70s
At sixteen, looking through a magazine,
I came across the picture of a girl
whose character was Mary Ellen in
“The Waltons” show I watched on Thursday nights.
Her look was that of mine when I made up
my face and styled my hair a certain way.
It gave me pleasure seeing someone who
was somewhat famous - looking just like me!
And so I clipped that picture out and saved
it in a scrapbook of my memories.
II: in the 80s
Inside a bank I stood in line one day.
Ahead of me I saw a child who stood
beside a woman and I felt a shock.
The little girl looked like my five-year-old.
In fact, she looked so much like Angela,
I had to ask the lovely lass her name,
ascertaining that kid was not my own!
How very strange to see a thing like that.
III: in the 90’s
My husband had a doppleganger who
lived somewhere in our own vicinity,
for three times Joe was in a hardware store
and was approached by people thinking he
was someone else, a framer too, it seems.
I wish that Joe had learned this fellow’s name
and wonder if today they look same
and if his look-alike was also forced
to find another line of work to do!
IV: in the new millennium
I also have a doppleganger in
this area. A few times I’ve been told
I look just like another woman, but
the time that made me feel sixteen again
was when my chiropractor told me that
the structure of my face and how I looked
was like Mcdonnell’s, star in the best film
of Kevin Costner‘s. She had played a Sioux.
Her name is Mary, like the character
I thought I’d looked liked from the Walton show!
V: now
I have a doppleganger here at Soup,
except we do not look that much alike.
She’s fairly young and I am (almost) old,
but nearly everything she says to me
reminds me of myself; however, she
writes free verse and is wackier than me!
She’s more my doppleganger spiritually,
and if you cannot guess who she might be,
I’ll give a clue: she likes to change her name
here at the Soup, a thing I doubt I’d do!
For Matt Caliri's Doppelgangers contest
Feet meander through their slow walks
on damp benches along the rotunda ...
an elderly pair grips the stem of their
parasol , inhaling the breath of dusky wisps,
as if the gray of their tresses
holds the seams of hours watching
this evening turn inky blue...
And when the fog releases tangy flavor,
the man closes his eyes with his palm...
and a single tear drips as night becomes
quiet-- in this instance, the wife points
to stars evanescing until they both
relish the glory of seasons owned
through decades crowning their long life.
MARCH 2017 PREMIER CONTEST: Brian Strand
Repost 3/17/2017
NOTE: I don't know if I did these right. This is for a contest started a long time ago that i believe closes out tonight. Each decade has its own title, and one of the titles has to be "Battle of the Sexes." These are not monoku but I don't know what else to call them.
‘“Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
With Elvis’ pelvis and Rock n’ Roll’s beat, the teenage rebellion had to taste sweet.
“Crimson and Clover”
“Crimson and Clover” played over and over; STONES came to life midst social strife.
“American Pie”
Bye bye to American pie. Bees Gees were “Staying Alive.” Rock could barely survive.
"Battle of the Sexes" (Video killed the Radio Star)
Michael and Madonna making rhyme in a changing time; some recall it as sublime!
“U Can’t Touch This”
Nirvana dreams and still it seem - good times and prosperity were happening for ME!
March 19, 2016
From Wisdom Born, Decades Fighting Fate's Cursed Hand
In youth, a young lad roars for much needed applause
in old age, wisely remains silent with just cause,
seeing the end near, some shed bitterest of tears
thinking such splashing supplications, angels hear;
whereas this old, callous world neither sees nor cares
what sorrow one displays or how much heart one shares
for savage the measure world uses to reward
dying lover or a talented, humble bard.
On pages offering up their softest virgin whites
are invisible castles beyond mortal sights,
each one begging for its wailing walls to withstand
massive cannon shots or a victor's crushing hand!
Poets, be they young or old, should a full pen hold true
to life, as spilling of ink- its treasures accrues!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-01-2020
Sonnet, ( Why All We Think We See, May Be An Illusion )
( So Spoke The Raven, After Master Poe Demanded Silence )
Syllables Per Line:0 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables::168
Total # Words:::::120
Note:
Muse demanded I write this second poem on this first day
and it be dark. Raven agreed and Master Poe abstained.
Paper sang a blackened tune and pen danced a raging jig
as evil clouds rumbled while gathering in the far west
echoes drifted through broken window, and Hades jingled
a billion unbreakable chains. A older and wiser poet yielded
to avoid the usual headaches and aching pains!
Two Decades In Afghanistan
Haiku
By: Miracle Man
8-28-2021
In call to duty,
Many gave some, some gave all.
Mission accomplished.
"Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it." Psalm 127:1 of the King James Bible
Behold me…
marked with awesome affectionate hues
exuding family love
radiating bliss of eternal security bonding
triumphantly prevailing midst smiles.
Recollect with me…
while exposing joy of home
along grateful heart of glowing faces
praise-filled, beaming with grace
bestowed by the Lord!
Be glued to me…
never blinking your eyes,
yet now welled with tears
as you are gripped with Mom and Dad’s love
transporting your very being toward siblings’ milestones.
Reminisce with me…
grand celebration of blood-ties reunion along prayer fellowship
as your Dad and Mom steadfastly hold hands
and you view them doing so in heaven
with their inspiring love story, upheld by faith.
Get nostalgic through me…
recalling sweet peace in your paradise
with hearts warmed midst compassion wonders
seeing your parents’ partnership of caring scene
creating legacy of kindness for your generation.
Now, treasure me --- more than a keepsake
as I reverberate your life history
chronicled with mementoes
never to be buried in oblivion
since I, your family picture reign in your heart.
February 8, 2025
2nd place, "Dusty Box of Memories" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 2/12/2025
I kneel by the ash heap of my country,
pulling out the charred bones of laws
once tender with purpose. A womb,
a book, a vote—each gutted clean
by men in ties who grin as they light
the match, who quote scripture
as forests burn and children cry
in cages built from policy.
My daughter will not inherit
a peace I once believed in.
She will patch what I could not protect—
clean air, clean water, a truth
without spin, a touch without price.
Her hands will be calloused,
her hope hard-earned.
It is not that we lost something.
It is that they took it and smiled.
I stood
at the century-old gate
of my high school Alma mater
on Sunday morn last summer;
Excited as if I had a date.
I saw
people passing by;
The old folks recalled me,
Yes, they recalled me with glee.
And I humbly knew why.
I gazed
at the benches made of stone
beside the Marcos building,
where we used to sit and sing
as if the place was our own.
I smiled
as I set my eyes at the hall
where we performed comic plays
that brought laughters in many ways
to the audience, big and small.
I recalled
the honours on us bestowed,
the medals -silver and gold;
the warm applause of young and old
that gave our parents something to behold.
I pondered
these things in my brain,
the changes from places,
to people's faces;
Only memories remain.
BRIAN'S SELECT 2,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 6/3/2020 5:58:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
1st Place
In Time with Autumn
—————————————-
Autumn rushed ahead
without me,
Leaving me to chase
After its perfect
violet skylight.
My running feet crack
The silence of
the earlier dusk, with
My mashing of
the dry death
Of the discarded
Brown and golden leaves
Covering the ground
I course,
Trying to catch up.
It seems
Time has become
A fleeing antelope, so
Much faster than my sprinting…
And my aging has left me
With neither the wisdom
Nor any proverbs
To reconcile my long decades
With these quickening years,
This skirting of seasons
And their shortened breath…
I remain a turn and a length behind
In this — my present calendar’s —
Unreasonable race
In sight of autumn’s
beautiful sunset.
The rush, beyond me,
Calls for a delighting stroll,
As my soul whispers,
“This human measure
Of time forgets:
Every second may be ever-lasting.”
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger art & poem 10/31/21
Thanks be to God
I sometimes think,
I lived my life with blinders on,
wrapped up and self absorbed,
so full of me.
I must have been oblivious to my surroundings,
I recall things vague and unclear
like a bystander, hearing but not really listening,
seeing but not believing,
living held back and restrained.
The fifties sing out with radio then television, cowboys and Elvis,
I was on the sidelines watching the parades pass by
proper and demure\
filled with etiquette and grace;
The sixties were going beyond the age of reason,
the age of being unrestrained,
growing up free, vocal and out spoken
dancing, partying, loving, fighting, protesting, dying.
The seventies are vague clouded images
finding me, myself and I,
who was I going to really be;
a clerk, a teacher, a scientist, an undecided
of what direction to take.
Somehow, over time,
it all fell in place,
by accident or chance
by destiny or luck.
The eighties and the nineties limped by
almost unnoticed.
The millennium crept in
suddenly here.
So now what?
Time in Space
moments and seconds,
all in a row
days and nights,
in succession
years, decades,
centuries, millenniums,
all in string
side by side
calm eternity
Sparkling joy
quiet wisdom,
in progression
waiting for bait
for dusty flies… geckos
for humans looking
for Love
watching souls
Dancing in circles
around a never ending fire
seeking newness beyond
time in space,
all in sequence
in an open sky
the row becomes a
C i r c l e o f L o v e
______________OOO___________
( Poem recited by Poet on YouTube @ghairodanielspresence )
FIVE DECADES
It is yet dawn here!
Though the sun smiles glowingly
The souls set to toil
Like hypnotized spirit in deep laughter
It is yet dawn here!
The cloud had fermented
The earth arrogantly molested
Culminating a forced abortion
It is yet dawn here!
The journey had long began
The barns are of suckling
Counsels have been trodden
Five decades of fumbling and stumbling
When will it be dawn here?
They had dreamed. They had gone so far with their dreams. Yet, so deprived they
lived.
Like them, I have become a denizen of the desert, ever since I laid my eyes on
you.
Like them, lovers of a hundred decades ago, I was destined to wake up everyday
in a new shelter, a new tent.
What would my shelter be anyway, that ceases lamentation.
So far from here I have gone. An inhabitant of the moon perhaps have I become,
ever since your love was seared in me; ever since I started missing you like
the desert misses the rain, I have been unutterably agonized.
Now, it has been a month, an eternity shall I say.
Now, to believe that you’ll be back, it would take me as many trials as there are
miles between the moon and us. “Us”. What a soothing word. As soothing as it
is for you to realize that a series of flaws have been nothing but a lame
nightmare, and as queenly as stereotype works.
Like the sand under the misty skies that I have seen from my window, scattered
grains either cemented or carried away, is my salvation.
Waiting to be held closely, with cuddles and a sweet lullaby, the immutable child
amid my exhaustions cries in grief…
…and when it rained, I had to believe…at least to recall the hope that I had lost.
Yes, today it rained, amidst the scalding and the warmth, it came; I believe it did,
yet I still don’t know whether it was sent to heal the pain, or cut the line and cease
the chain.
Jessica J. Hanna
November 2006
Turning to the fourth decade of life is
A milestone in which you had reached the
Maturity to cope with the buffetings that life
Presents as an awe enigma waiting to be
Resolved and approved to pass with high honors
1-22-2016
For Forty Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
Third Place
Born into an ordinary, churchgoing family
No one expected Satan to reign supreme
Relapse and rehab and sobriety chips
Postpartum vacations in the psych ward’s west wing
Three decades of life, aged twice as much
Finally lulled into domestic bliss
The wild can never truly be tamed
Excitement and fire I missed
Turned my passion of life toward writing instead
Cause 50 years old is too young to be dead
Sponsor: Silent One
Contest: Story of My Life in Ten Lines
Date: 9/30/19