Long 60s Poems
Long 60s Poems. Below are the most popular long 60s by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long 60s poems by poem length and keyword.
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Cathy traded studying calculus for chakras and declared:
"Reality’s just a bourgeois hallucination, man."
Her boyfriend, Sky, nodded gravely,
adjusting glasses scotch-taped at the hinges.
They wore tie-dye shirts that bled in the rain,
their sandals re-soled with tire scraps.
Their van was a tin-can utopia:
mattress in back, protest signs up front.
Discussions were existential but brief:
“Is reality really reality?”
"Is the universe love, or just vibrating strings?"
They believed in everything except deodorant and 9-to-5s.
When the decade spun itself out,
these children of peace scattered like dandelion seeds—
some rooted, some withered,
their buses rusted quietly into earth’s embrace.
Where did their wildness go, their unshakeable faith?
Did it fade with tie-dye, the beads, and bell bottoms?
Did their revolution disappear with the music,
or did it simply find a new home?
The seeds they scattered, wild and untamed,
took root in unexpected places~
a gentler hand, a kinder word,
a questioning gaze at the status quo—
Sometimes, on a quiet evening,
the scent of rain on dry earth,
a song on the radio,
triggers memories of them~
I see them again, their faces illuminated,
leaning against a Volkswagen bus,
young and foolish and full of hope,
believing they could change everything.
Maybe, just maybe,
for a moment, we did.
My older bro watered half of the garden, in the back and front,
cause the weatherman said there'll be 50% chance of rain today.
Our Monopoly gameboard doesn't have pass go and collect $200,
--well it does,
but ours came with a knuckle-fisted older bro with 5-digits on the spot.
Dad keeps on saying that he'll get it fixed,
I wondered what he meant by that
as I look at Risqué our spaded cat.
My dad did this for my older bro -- the very top rung of our ladder is the word: S T O P!
[EXCERPT OF MY DAD--earlier post]--
(Mumbles Mom as being right about her list as to why the car had not started ...)
Dad "It's not about who's right, but it's about who's left." (Mumbles Dad about being married to an auto mechanic)
(Dad has gone under the hood and can't hear mom
Mom's shuffling papers, mumbling)
(Dad is back, good engine started, idling time)
Mom "The kid's new school papers say 'Emergency Contact',
should I put my mom's name?"
Dad, "Put the doctor's name, what can your mom do?"
(Sigh, idling stopped, cars in motion)
Dad, "Now to make more $."
Mom, "I thought we didn't have any $ problems?"
Dad, "We don't have $ problems, we've enough $ to last for a lifetime.
That should be about 4 o'clock this afternoon."
Dad's quiet--not mom.
Long, shaggy bangs and suntan oil
Attracting the rays through pieces of foil
Transistor radio playin' Beatles tunes
Soppin' the sunshine from morning 'til noon
Soft, summer grasses, the rabbit is loose
Teen Beat in one hand, the other one, juice
Beads of sweat but stubbornness wins
Starin' at summer through dark tinted lens
Time to go in and get dressed for the show
Iron my hair before time to go
Listen to Baez of the war
Yeah life in the 60's, we knew the score
Sit in the Westwood, feet on the chairs
An usher walks in - his flashlight, it glares
Go to the drugstore, buy paint for our face
The hippies are loose, they hang out every place
Get home for supper then head for a bath
Throw on some clothes and go over to Kath's
Get in the car and get ready to cruise
'Cause life in the 60's is makin' the news
Unconventional, they mocked the establishment
Clad in paisley tops and bell-bottom denim,
With a symbol hanging on necks wrists or belts -
An emblem of inverted V , the birth of protest
Where murmurs from unrest gusted through lyrics,
In Woodstock of dreams hailing Baez, Hendrix, Dylan
As flower-power’s youth signaled change…
People of the 60s wrapped in love, not Vietnam rage!
Although experimental, they rallied a quest
For oneness, for a gentler‘ Blowing in the Wind,’
They lived on the streets to ignite an ideal
Which flashed ardor illuminating hearts,
In a kinship which assuaged a decade, lost
To claim their anthem, ‘peace begins with me;’
Embracing a norm with the grace of harmonious light.
For Richard Lamoureux's People Contest
6/6/2018
Giddiness pretends we love indifference
Desperation in ignorable thoughts
Status quo readies us for church and stuff
Our heads buried like the pink flumed ostrich
Having more in common with us than us
Hatred follows us around like mouse traps
Head clouds are pretty not hearing squeals
Bigotry alive more than the sixties
War? Why not? We have our assault rifles.
Dr Martin Luther King tried so hard
How many of us still remember this?
I feel he would be ashamed of us.
Come take a picture so we can pretend
Crazy out-of-sync is our new normal
Souls leaving hard and fast now to escape
It was late August the "summer of ’69."
Mike and I were "going on sixteen, "
"daydream believers."
chasing "Puff the Magic Dragon"
and "ice cream castles in the air."
We tied our transistor radios
to our bicycle handlebars.
The little speaker crackling
between bursts of static,
pulling melodies from unseen places.
Mike rode beside me,
his laughter keeping time
with the clicking spokes;
our pedals did "turn, turn, turn"
through our idyllic hometown,
our very own "land of Honah Lee."
We were living on "cloud nine" that "summer of '69."
At night, we kissed beneath
"moons and Junes and Ferris wheels,
feather canyons everywhere."
October arrived, and
"we frolicked in the autumn mist
in the land we called Honah Lee."
December came, "the leaves are brown
and the sky is a hazy shade of winter."
But in March, "here comes the sun;"
"April, come she will"
with her "new moon bright above and
cherry pink and apple blossoms white. "
It's the "time of the season
when love run high."
May afternoons stretched forever;
with our transistor radios,
we pedaled beneath elm trees,
certain every road curved
toward something wonderful.
The radio knew every shortcut
through the kingdom of sixteen
and the "land of Honah Lee."
"Monday, Monday" drifted from the speaker,
followed by "Do You Believe in Magic,"
and then "Daydream Believer,"
as if the air itself
had memorized the charts.
At sixteen, we never questioned the future.
Why would we?
"All you need is love"
seemed reasonable enough.
With very passing hour we wore
our "Groovy Kind of Love"
like a lucky charm.
We rode past porches,
baseball diamonds, and
fresh-cut lawns,
while somewhere beyond the water tower
there were always "Good Vibrations,"
The radio traveled everywhere with us~
through long twilights,
through summer thunderstorms,
through first kisses
and our almost goodbyes.
Songs spilled from that little box
like bright confetti:
"Bus Stop," "Mrs. Robinson,"
"Build Me Up Buttercup,"
while "The Sound of Silence"
arrived as the evening sky turned lavender above the rooftops.
We didn't know enough to recognize nostalgia
while we lived inside it.
We only knew the thrill
of hearing a favorite song
float from that little box,
as dependable as summer.
Today’s student is not like we were in the sixties.
The child never had the last word back then.
The child must always have the last word today.
Today’s teacher’s biggest problem is this….
When one student is sassy, other students chime in.
This could not have happened in the sixties.
In the sixties, in my day, the teacher was god of the class.
Usually goddess, but you get my point.
They held the whips, chains, all of the power.
We students were respectful almost a hundred percent of the time.
Those who were not, were rapidly shipped off to reform school.
A place we figured was like jail, except without food or sunlight.
In the sixties if a student had been disrespectful, we would have been silent.
Waiting for that student to be tarred, feathered, and murdered by the teacher.
Her full right, as goddess of the class.