Long 1962 Poems
Long 1962 Poems. Below are the most popular long 1962 by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long 1962 poems by poem length and keyword.
My Wellie boots are battered
and all frayed at the top,
They cost me fifty bob
in C.D. Ellis’s shop.
They have seem better days
but they still keep water out
and that after all is what
Wellie boots are about.
I bought them on leave
way back in 1962
and with a little care
I reckon they’ll see me through.
We wandered winter nights
over Billy Bulson's crisp cold land?
under country clear skies
a twelve bore close to hand.
They’ve tramped may a mile,
kept me dry in a Lambwaths flood
and fifty years later those
Wellie boots are still good.
I shall wear my battered boots
until my very end,
putting them on my feet is like
communing with an old valued friend.
In my Last Will and Testment I shall
decree they are honourably burned
because that’s the fitting end
those Wellie boots have earned.
They cost me 50 bob
at C.D Ellis’s shop
and they’re now torn and battered
and well frayed at their very top.
Mild obscurity
At the local supermarket, a woman not a day over seventy-five
asked me where she could find unsalted butter spoke
with an American accent.
What do I know, perhaps, she was related to the Kennedys?
By the butter- shelf we stood, there was a spark between us
like the Ronson-lighter I once bought in Liverpool, a heavy
lighter, I always knew in which pocket it was; now that smoking
is a sin the lighter ended up in the garage, only to be used
in extreme perseverance,
I had seen her before, in Trieste in 1962 she was a spy for the CIA
Smoked posh Monte Carlo cigarettes through a long holder
while drinking creme de menthe.
My wife stirred; leg cramps switched on the bedside lamp
and I was brought back to reality.
From the heart of green naïve village
surrounded by corps field, mosque, ponds,
ancestral grave yard, school, college,
madrasah (islamic school) etc he is
brothers, sisters with parents, a beautiful family
with relatives, neighbors he had
learned person he was, full memorizer of
the Holy Quran and institutional study was 10th grade
but dreams touched his eyes, his breaths, his veins
the dream in the hollow eyeballs of him
flaring dreams have been gathered in his sight
dreams touched his ideality, his mediocrity, his learning
against the holy verse
dreams touched him inseparably
dreams touched him within vain clothing
dreams touched him within flirting industrialist mind
dreams touched him within merciless sky scraper building
dreams touched him within fake benevolent charity right hand
dreams touched him abortive assurance giving to others in generosity smiling
dreams made him blind to the path of income
small income once made up him happy with family and relatives
but leaving small, come to big on the lame stretchers dreamy boat
he did not understand- dreams in lazy hands is
misfortunate hell for upcoming every steps
dreams made him luxurious ambitious as
the begging bag before learning how to beg
dreams made him laughter in garrulous argument
as happiness of billionaire under torn blanket
in biting cold winter dreamy night
dream made him foolish dandy in business world
as Xerox machines copying activities
which has no personality to make another root
to survive with it as parasite
dreams made him passerby the dark path
dreams made him lonely walker
dreams made him lonely resident on title-less building of hill view
dreams made him unknown religious in the eye view of unfamiliar him
dreams made him a dark horse in flattering broker world
dreams made him hilarious land lord in his verbose copying documents
dreams made him a beggar in heavenly real eyes of the sun,
crystalline day approved him he was dreamer only
from the dreams he made his journey to be great
benevolent helper of relatives and neighbors
he was dreamer but in paralyzed bone and indolent veins
and this dream awakens him in tears of mysterious death
(Written on my Maternal Uncle Hafez Abdul Allam 4th July 1962-29th July 2018, who was inactive but great dreamer, but sudden death of him makes us heart rending cry)
Sassy Lady
A blond bombshell beauty,
Sensual cornflower blue eyes
That dropped men to their knees
I watched that
Sassy lady one night
On the southwest corner
Of Lexington Avenue
And 52nd street
In a white dress
I listen to the
Click, click, click
As she walks by
In high heels
Mesmerized
With the sway of her sexy hips
As she turns and walks away
With a glimmering
Spark in her eye
I can read her mind
To her surprise
Over a subway grate
Her dress is blown upward
With the blast of warm air
Embarrassed
She turns back
Looks my direction
With a playful flirtation
My excitement arouses
3/7/2020
'Your Favorite Legend ' Contest
Sponsored By:Chantelle Anne Cooke
Marilyn Monroe
American Actress
popular sex symbols of the 1950s and early 1960s
Lived: Jun 01, 1926 - Aug 05, 1962 (age 36)
The film; The Seven Year Itch,
Hearing an approaching subway train, Monroe stepped onto the grate, having her skirt blown high by the train passing underneath, saying “ooh do you feel the breeze from the subway, isn’t it delicious.” Minds across the country were simultaneously blown.
Hockney the ultimate experimental artist
Painter, printmaker, photographer, stage designer, draughtsman
Always challenging traditional elitist art
No barriers, no preconceptions, eyes always wide open
Bradford boy whose roots always prevail
1962, demands to be judged on his art not his writing
Submits Life Painting for a Diploma
RCA considers and changes regulations
Diploma awarded, so art wins
Continues his artistic quest
Vibrant colours capture people and places
His vision reaches beyond everyday reality
Unconventional proportions and perspectives
Fresh new takes on vistas of old masters
1980s, he arrives at photo collages
Painting ceases for a while
Creates two hundred plus patchworks of joiners
Photos, manyfold, of a single subject
My Mother, Bolton Abbey epitomises his experiment
Embraces technology using phones and iPads
Bending it to his artistic aims
No texture, no brush strokes
But still his take on life prevails
Locked down in France during COVID
Chinese scroll painting and Bayeux Tapestry feed fertile mind
A Year in Normandie results
Two hundred and twenty iPad paintings enlarged
Ninety metre chronicle of changing seasons
Salts Mill exhibition, back where it all began
Visitors immersed in a linear experience
Hockney pursuing a lifetime of artistic exploration
A contemporary art virtuoso
In 1977, you starred in an episode of doctor Who.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 82.
You starred in an episode of "Enemy At The Door".
You were a very talented actor but not anymore.
In 1989, you starred in "The Woman In Black".
Sadly, you died and you won't be coming back.
You starred in five episodes of "Coronation Street".
You starred in three hundred and fifty-five episodes of "Heartbeat".
In 1962, you starred in "Top Secret" and "Mystery Submarine".
Today would've been your birthday if you hadn't died in 2019.
[Dedicated to William Simons (1940-2019) who died on June 21, 2019]
He’s somebody’s grandpa I bet, we all said.
He had wandered into our family reunion around nine.
Grandma rolled her eyes and set him in front of the TV.
He smelled like chew, his flannel shirt was a bit wrinkled.
He was unkempt but clean, a relative maybe?
No one knew, but we kept our opinions to ourselves.
He lit up a stogie and watched the news past our heads.
Grandma brought him a tray with bacon, eggs and two piece of toast.
As she turned to go he gave her a playful pat on her petootsie ootsie.
We young ones laughed; earning sharp looks from our parents.
We never did find out who the guy was, but figured he was an Iowan.
This was 1962, when children did not know the ways of grownups.
I have never forgotten the pat on grandma’s petootsie ootsie
Or the way the old dude’s face lit up when he looked at me and grinned.
I pegged him as Granddaddy’s replacement, but never saw him again.
Apache, the Ndee, "the people" of Arizona and other States
Blackfoot, the Siksika, whose painted red faces we can relate
Cheyenne, the Tsitsistas, meaning relatives of the Cree
Dakota Sioux, the Dakota, meaning little snakes in Ojibwe
Euchee, or Yuchi, are the "children of the sun"
Fox, the Meskwaki, eventually native to Wisconsin
Gros Ventre, strangely named "big belly" by the French
Huron, with their above allies left many a tribe wrenched
Inuit, the Eskimo, this tribe with the snow
Juaneño, from the Sunshine State around Orange and San Diego
Kickapoo, with their linguistic code, unique called "whistle speech"
Lakota, like the Dakota, speak with similar tongues they teach
Mohawk, "People of the Flint" from upstate New York
Navajo, is now the most spoken, where extinction has not gone berserk
Ottawa, "the traders" their name lives on in their City
Potawatomi, "fire keepers" one hundred speakers, my hearts in pity
Qwulhhwaipum, "the prairie people from beyond the mountain range"
Ryawas, by the Missouri River where they no longer reign
Shawnee, meaning "southerner" were are far ranging tribe
Tonkawa, "they keep together" but only a few still reside
Ute, of Colorado and Salt Lake valley fame
Victorious the ones who remain to this day, whilst the V has no name
Wiyot, and its last native speaker, died in 1962
X, xenophobic they would be, to the ancestors of me and you
Yavapai, from Arizona, are the "people of the sun"
Zuni, like all the tribes above, fell victim to the white mans gun
.
The True American.
My daddy built me a tree house in the top of twin cottonwood trees
I wondered if he knew what he was doing at first, for I watched every step
He started with a wooden garage door and cut two squares out of the sides.
I said nothing, being ten, respectful, and knowing better. This was 1962.
I was amazed when he pushed that door down into those trees.
It was a marvelous fit. This was the floor of the best treehouse in the world.
The bark of a cottonwood is white with gray slivers, and it holds lots of ants.
I spent three or four summers in that treehouse reading books.
I read biographies, mysteries, and books on the supernatural.
Sometimes I took a sandwich up, and something to drink.
Don’t ask me how I got the drink up there, because I do not remember.
My identical twin stayed in the house to vacuum, dust, clean, and bake.
Spied on neighbors from this blind; watched them hang out their clothes.
Listened the Dellabettas argue in their beautifully fast Italian language.
Heard my mother laughing with her friend Pat. They had fabulous laughs.
These memories make me smile; I emphatically loved that treehouse!
We sat on a quiet porch by moonlight splashed,
Wrapped in a static of faint cicada song,
Watching a horizon by city lights sashed,
On sultry summer nights by lithe pixies thronged.
Bossa nova rhythms rippled lukewarm air,
Languid voices tiptoed in solacing calm,
Confidants whispering of the bronzed and fair,
Of sunlit sand they crooned a sun-lilted psalm.
Abducted we were by Jobim, Gilberto,
To a land swaying with the promise of June.
Those were the years we crowed with youth’s falsetto,
Blithely singing along, slightly out of tune.
- Inspired by the song “Desafinado (Out of Tune)” 1962 -