Best Seventy Eight Poems
If anyone is wondering what it's like
To be seventy-eight years young
Gotta tell ya, it's not what I expected
Thought by now I'd have come undone
It's not at all how I thought it would be
This dude's still on top of his game
Still watching all the pretty ladies go by
My lust for these fillies is the same
Whether one is twenty or seventy
Still drool at the sight of short shorts
Dreaming of when the world was new
Chasing girls was a real fun sport
This might be a surprise to a lot of souls
Who think we become old and frail
Gonna destroy that myth right here and now
Though our drive is lower on the scale
Minds don't change, we're the same upstairs
Our body betrays us, heaven knows
We still have all the equipment, so visuals
Send shockwaves down to our toes
So if you're wondering, I'll tell you straight
Worry not, you'll still feel the urge
Only difference is, takes a while to respond
It's still heaven when you feel that surge
© Jack Ellison 2013
Cartoonist since age four; gave it up at twelve
After spending nine months in the clutches
of the meanest art teacher alive or dead
Did not take it back up until I was forty-four
During grad school when I was in the clutches
of another evil professor.
Happily did not need it as an outlet
until I got terrifically bored, around age sixty.
Grabbed up my pencil and began drawing
dragons, witches, pirates, wild warrior women
peter pan, cats, unicorns, flowers, hippies,
anything and everything that amused me
My nine-year-old granddaughter Molly was
such a cartoonist! A natural! I bought her canvases
so we could keep her creations. One day she
begged me to paint with her. Waste a canvas on me?
Ha! That was six years ago. My house is filled with my cartoons now.
I count seventy-eight canvases of mine in my living room.
Thanks to an insistent nine-year-old who would not let up.
A little wild warrior woman!
'Twas April Fourteenth, Seventy-Eight.
Lest any should repudiate
what on this very special date
the two of them were doin',
Let's for a moment contemplate
their entry to the grand estate,
the legal right to procreate
through mutual "I Do"-in'.
Our hindsight intuition
says that he was probably wishin'
he was fishin', with precision
swishin' flies to waiting bass.
For he had but one ambition
and considered his commission
was to fishin' competition,
pulling lunkers from the grass.
But he set aside this mission
for submission to tradition,
and Patrician erudition
soon replaced his noble cause.
Now a maid with hair of titian
dishin' clams and oysters squishin'
and musician's compositions
may engender his applause.
The Mrs. was the perfect mate
to tolerate and moderate
that diehard fishing reprobate,
and of her own volition,
Found better ways to celebrate
and venerate their special date;
They'd renovate and recreate
the joys of goin' fishin'.
For many years ago this day
they both agreed to go their way
through life together come what may,
the good times or perdition.
And though it's now an old cliché,
the best times all the bad outweigh,
But those which in their hearts will stay
were spent when they went fishin'.
Just another Warrenpiece
The grandfather clock just struck twelve, that magic hour of night,
And there he sits drumming our fingers musing about something to write!
He's been biting our nails and running our fingers through his hair,
Scratching his head, searching for witty or apt verse to prepare!
Ah! Now he's flexing our digits and I detect in his eyes a gleam.
We think he's collecting his thoughts to concoct a masterful scheme.
Something comparable to works by Whitman or Riley, no doubt.
These fingers should get some credit, no matter how it turns out!
What will it be? A poem about religion, politics or the billowing seas,
Little children, old soldiers, love gone sour or scarlet hued trees?
Perhaps a few stanzas about cowboy lore - only the Lord can tell!
Our fingers just fly over the keyboard - that old coot types pretty well!
We're getting numb and need rest but he provides no reprieve.
He's typing at least seventy-eight words per minute, I do believe!
But never fear, we'll manage to keep ahead of his versatile mind,
And keep pounding away as thoughts from his prolific skull unwind!
Well, he has completed what he considers a masterpiece at last.
We're petered out and ready to curl up - we have typed so fast!
But all of us from our thumbs to our pinkies have had a blast!
We pray he never gets writer's cramp - that would leave us aghast!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
1st Place in Linda-Marie's "Finger Frenzy" Contest - June 2010
American Pharoah,
swift as an arrow.
First triple crown winner to date,
since nineteen hundred and seventy-eight.
7/1/15
My cup runneth over at age seventy-eight
Will it ever slow down to give me a break
Thought ahead when I was a younger man
Love in my seventies was not in the plan
However in my mind I'm as active as ever
Always can be found searching for pleasure
Pleasures we dream from a very young age
Like a male of the species locked in a cage
Wanting so badly to explore the landscape
All too soon our manly prowess escapes
We resign to the fact our bodies can't perform
As when our youthful stamina was norm
Minds are still active as they were back then
But the body's changed, takes longer to ascend
It's all part of life, this unparalleled journey
But we manage to survive all the topsy-turvy
© Jack Ellison 2013
As most days go, this seems pretty good
Doesn't take much to affect my mood
Just a simple greeting like “Have a good day”
As I show up at the office in the nude
The reaction of coworkers sure tickles my fancy
With my dangly bits dancing around
They try not to stare but it's kind of impossible
As my studly maleness astounds
When I settle down on my black leather chair
I let out a childlike whimper
My super warm flesh on the this super cold leather
Makes me scream out the name of my vicar
The ladies gather round never ever having seen
Seventy-eight year old dangly bits
I start twisting and turning like a beautiful ballerina
Slapping a giddy-up on my hips
Well as this day goes it's not necessarily the best
Got rid of some of my inhibitions
Till the security dudes burst into the office
Felt like the Spanish Inquisition
© Jack Ellison 2014
He was a large soldier, standing well over six feet.
In World War II; imprisoned in the Philippines.
Thousands perished on the Bataan Death March.
They were brutally beaten; starved and parched.
Wanting to give up, during this sixty five miles.
Thoughts of his wife, Helen; her beautiful smile.
They had vowed to be each others help mate.
He would press on, with a slow, painful gait.
Knowing she was praying for him gave him strength.
Tho thousands of miles apart, their hearts still linked.
Their marriage, like the oak tree; its' roots were very strong.
He was a skeletal seventy-eight pounds when he returned home.
When he was certain he could simply go no farther.
His lovely wife Helen became his scent of water.
*This is a true story about one of my husbands cousins, Helen and her
husband. She has dedicated her life to helping find POWS or their remains. She
works tirelessly and has helped numerous families. I am honored to know her. I never knew him. He had gone to heaven before I met my husband.
July 16, 2014
Contest: Scent of Water
Sponsor: Faye Gibson
(how well I could play)
in a straight forward way;
simplifying it, making it more pure
in a clear sound, turning it up
and bearing down...
there'd be distortion, red-anger, punk-blue,
get it up tough, keep it going,
'cause I didn't know what else to do.
at fifteen I was unreasonably accomplished
with those long dynamic echo-delayed riffs;
at eleven I was sleeping in the back of a car
surrounded by books an amp and a guitar,
rolling around with the sound of
a welt chord, a grace note, Henry Miller and Nietzsche;
laying-down these upholstery-songs in the summer of seventy-eight
where reverb was explored beyond the return of counter-culture,
going 'round the bend, headed in a back-words direction again
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
Joyce K
There is this Lady I know, I thought I knew.
Could I have been so wrong, from my point of view ?
She perceives herself, a cardboard silhouette of a soul,
a papier mache doll, an image we all should know.
A shallow pond residing in the middle of this human ocean
is how she sees herself to be – a very strange notion
for me to comprehend as I look into the depths of her mind
and reflect upon all I know, that has shown her to be so kind,
deep, thoughtful, caring - giving her all throughout
her living a life of advocacy, concern and no doubt,
much, much more than I know or of my word
- in this attempt at poetry – that she might have heard.
This Lady with such a fine mind – a model for man kind –
who looks back in time, within, and cannot seem to find
one moment in a long ( seventy eight years ) life time
to recall, remember, feel her humanness in a flake of love,
a speck of joy, a line of happiness, a pool of blissfulness from above,
a stream of contentment, satisfaction for and from all the good
she has done for this world of troubled mankind, where he stood
the self. the self-satisfied, the self-destructive, and the lost.
I want to believe she has known a flake, a speck. a line tossed,
a pool, a stream and that these have been a part of her experience.
Are known, if not in the conscious, in the subconscious existence.
Is she to be, not but – as we look upon and within – veneer ?
A mosaic overlay on cardboard papier mache, she wants us to hear.
Not a mighty Oak, Maple, Mahogany, Teak, Burl just a paper doll.
Is this the carefully contrived image she believes ?, is this her fall
from grace ?, she thinks herself to be ?, - not the beauty of soul, of acts,
of the face I know, - but a mask to hide what?/, what are the facts ?
Is she this hollow, empty cardboard papier-mache doll ?, devoid
of feelings, of love, just walking through life, living it, must avoid.
I think not, nor can I – not even in my wildest of dreams believe
or perceive of such possibilities - but then, who am I to conceive,
to question the perception of the one who should truly know
herself, intimately better than anyone else on this planet could show.
So all these assumptions I have put out there, I should retrieve.
B. J. “A” 2
May 14th 2005
The bakelite disc revolved at seventy-eight
To end up in shards shattered, an inevitable fate
Heavy and brittle and full of opera
Was replaced with a vinyl at thirty-three
With covers a delight to see
Light and supple full of she loves you, yeah
And then came the cassette from nowhere
And pretty soon the Walkman walked
And less and less and less teens talked
But nodded heads as they made their beds
As Billy-Jean was not their lover
They were soon to discover
Shiny discs of digital delight
And very soon car tape decks were out of sight
But oh so quick the mp3 stick
And iPod player with iTunes click
Took over the world
And we were lost
As the pace of progress counted the cost
And the Bakelite discs became collector’s items
And the vinyl’s came back as the nightclub dims
And eight track stereo was attracted to rims
And yet we are not done, as no-one has won
But we all seem to have lost
The times that we had
When it was still turning
At thirty three
And seventy eight
You would think at this ripe old age of seventy-eight
Love and romance would no longer be foremost in my thoughts
Well that is so very far from the truth, it's laughable
This is what I had envisioned when I was a much younger lad
Always thought love would be much less important to me
How wrong could one be... it is more important than ever
Love never leaves us... we can still smell the fields of flowers
Still revel in the sunshine of a warm summer day
Love is everywhere we look
It is on the faces of everyone we pass on the street
Some are harder than others to decipher but it's there
The trials of life can mask it but if you dig deep enough
Love is at the core of everything we do and say
All we need do is recognize it and it will be yours
Love is life itself
© Jack Ellison 2014
If we are such a great civilization then
why is there a lack of money ?
As we sit down and watch TV
Others die starvation and poverty
as we drink clean water from a tap
Others drink dirty water thats slowly
killing there heart
As we get up and go to the shop
Others walk seventy eight miles
and come back dead from the
skin boiling heat
As we go to the fridge and there
is plenty of food
Others kill precious animals in
order to survive
As we go to sleep in our comfortable
secure beds
Others fear for there lives and most of the
time the never wake up
one two three four five and six
severn eight nine ten eleven and indeed twelve
thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen
seventeen eighteen nineteen then twenty
twenty one twenty two twenty three twenty four
twenty five twenty six twenty severn twenty eight
twenty nine and thirty
thirty one thirty two and three
thirty four thirth five thirty six
thirty severn thirty eight thirty nine then forty
forty one forty two forty three forty four
forty five forty six forty severn and eight
forty nine
fifty one two and three
fifty four five and six
fifty severn fifty eight and nine
sixty
sixty one sixty two three four five and six
sixty severn sixty eight sixty nine
seventy
seventy one seventy two
seventy three four and indeed five
seventy six seventy severn seventy eight
seventy nine eighty
eighty one eighty two followed by three
eighty four eighty five eighty six
eighty severn eighty eight eighty nine
and ninety
ninety one two three four five
ninety six ninety severn ninety eight
ninety nine
and home