Long Cronkite Poems
Long Cronkite Poems. Below are the most popular long Cronkite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cronkite poems by poem length and keyword.
Joplin was to Southern Comfort
what Hendrix was to smack
Morrison was to masquerade
what Dylan never lacked
Woodstock was to boomers lost
what music is to rhyme
Saigon was to those who stayed
what Auschwitz now reminds
Kennedy was to hopes and dreams
what nightmares are to some
Castro was to leftist thugs
what cymbals are to drums
Kissinger was to Nixon
an Appian Way to roam
Dr. King to civil rights
what kings are to their thrones
Walter Cronkite was to news
what context is to fact
Altar boys to feral Priests
what pretzels are to snacks
58,000 were to die
a wall would then proclaim
58,000 were to all
— what conscience is to shame
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
No estate should be able to turn away health inspectors,
No estate should be able to turn away ambulances,
while bleeding internally,
No estate should need to employ so many muckrakers,
or bush lawyers.
No estate should hold so many water rights,
if they pour cold water over journalists,
who want to investigate,
No estate should hold so many gun licenses,
until shooting oneself in the foot is no longer endemic,
No estate should be given awards for mediocrity,
No estate should have license to print money,
to pay for influence.
No estate should be bereft of microscopes,
or access to an eye specialist.
No estate should hold so many contracts out of state,
to stifle competition,
No estate can survive without bread and butter
or an understanding that no freedom is absolute.
No estate can survive when it no longer sees the need to spellcheck,
and uses words covered in sauces past their use by date,
No society can survive when it has a fourth estate,
that no longer pays heed to the edicts of,
Walter Cronkite or his ilk.
Joplin was to Southern Comfort,
what Hendrix was to smack
Morrison was to masquerade,
what Dylan never lacks
Woodstock was to 69,’
what music was to time
Saigon was to those who stayed,
what Auschwitz now reminds
Kennedy was to hopes and dreams,
what nightmares were to some
Castro was to leftist thugs,
what cymbals are to drums
Kissinger was to Nixon
what Canada was to home
Dr. King to civil rights,
what kings are to their thrones
Walter Cronkite was to news,
what intention was to fact
Altar boys were to Priests,
what pretzels are to snacks
58,000 were to die,
what a wall was to proclaim
58,000 were to all,
what conscience is to shame
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
I'm bathed in the night, as it climbs through my window
While the music of moonlight softens the air
It dips, oh so softly, peeking gently with care,
Into the room, to lighten the gloom
While a timeless sonata, of so long ago
Croons the same somber notes,
That have played on for years
I have noticed how moonbeams, seek my attention
Hanging over the garden, waiting to hear
Just as a guest, would expect to come in
‘Moonlight Sonata’ has a place in my home
I had practiced through childhood
Though it seemed quite beyond me
With small nimble fingers
Less and less satisfaction
I remember my mother
With dishes piled high
And soap on her nose
Calling out from the kitchen
“That time, much better!”
Or my dad, in the dark room
Walter Cronkite, his companion
Calling out from the shadows
“I think now, you've got it!”
Tonight in the dim light
I watch how the moonlight
Slides over the piano, sliding over the keys
It seems that the moon knows
That time cannot stand still
That years come and the years go
But the tune, is the same tune, and the moon, is the same moon
And the Moonlight Sonata is a place I call home
Continued from Part 1
Matt Dillon chases Jack LaLane
Around a roller derby lane
I think I need some more cocaine,
So please don’t ever come back Shane
I try to walk another street
When me and Walter Cronkite meet;
He says he thinks the news is neat
And starts to talk about the sleet
I run away as fast I can
When Brinkley and the other man
Say ‘good night Peter, good night Pan’
While Tinker Bell is on the can
A dog starts crapping up the yard,
He must have eaten too much Pard
But watch out, here comes Pat Boone, bard,
He’s taking steps without regard
I find a jackass facing me
And ride as far as far can be
And find myself beneath the sea,
But now Lloyd Bridges faces me
I think he must be on a hunt
To find a mind that he can stunt;
He says ‘they’re sitting all up front
And you can hear them as they grunt’
Old Ironsides rolls into view
And says he’s looking for a clue;
I close my eyes and say ‘me too’
’cause something seems so much askew
I better buy some brand new specs
’cause Mickey Mouse is rated X
And everybody’s doing sex;
Ben Casey gives the VD checks
Hey, Milton Berle is throwing rocks
And Elvis Presley’s chased by flocks
Of girls in teeny bopper socks;
Please help, I’m sick, I need two docs
A weirdo asks me ‘what’s my line
If Ricky Nelson drinks my wine
And Lucy is my concubine;
Paola’s great if I get mine’
I’m looking for a place to hide
I stick my thumb out for a ride
When Jackie Gleason pulls up beside
‘If two squared’s four, can you divide?’
‘Of course I can, I’ve been to school
And I am not nobody’s fool’
I feel I am a molecule
Just floating through a vestibule
So Jackie says ‘you are a kid
But older than a pyramid,
Too bad you’re not a phallic squid;
I say, ah, can you spare a lid?’
Some girls are wearing panty hose
They shave their hair which overgrows
And spray away their bod’s B.O.s;
I want to fade inside my clothes
Continued in Part 3
Flipping Through the Channels
By Franklin Price
3/11/2018
Flipping through the channels
On this, time changed, Sunday morn
The network commentators
Politically committing ****
Presenting their agenda
Spouting their one sided view
To degrade the opposition
To see who they can screw
We participate as voyeurs
Watch the honored guests they slam
The truth is secondary
For the hosts don't give a damn
Asking very pointed questions
Elicit answers for their side
When not hearing what they want,
Their guests are taken for a ride
Verbal water-boarding
Not below the path they choose
To make their guests look foolish
In presentation of the news
Sunday shows one sided
Commentators rant and rave
Have no doubt that Walter Cronkite
Is spinning over in his grave
The Great Escape - The Birds - Charade - The Fugitive, The Twilight Zone
It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World-
Civil rights, Viet Nam
The Beatles begged to hold my hand
The day was young and so was I
My eyes were focused inward, never far my own home
In the tides where I swam, the shoreline seemed far from my door
The morning broke, and all was well. Just me alone with Jack LaLane,
A new routine to start the day. The seas were calm within the room
I was swimming on the floor, lifting legs, breathing hard
until…..until…..until
Abruptly, as the static rose, Jack soon transformed into fuzzy snow
An anchored voice would pull me down, as if a wave was drowning me
Cronkite appeared with solemn eyes, he cleared his throat, and took a breath
I searched within his trademark psalm to calm the storm that whirled around
But none was found. As he kept control, he let the wounded words unfold
I begged for him to change the tide, but magnitude too great to own
The undertow was understood.
The day was bright, with amber light. Leaves drifted down as they must do
Football games, a dance that night. Holidays had been conceived
But life and death were thick as thieves, giving lungs no time to breathe
No hit parades, no silver screen, charades, escapes or Hitchcock tales.
An unrelenting undertow had swept the ground beneath my feet
I remember how the day was born, intended for a different end
Ringo, George, Paul and John .. was there someone there to hold my hand?
No great escape. I had to drown. It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
_______________________________________________
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
cultural revolution
psychedelic evolution
sporting polyester mini skirts
spouting love, not war
rebellion sprouts
flower children
wonder years
rendered drugs
Beatles blew in, humming about yesterday
evening news, Cronkite summing war today
distant shores
scores dying
small, heroic Rosa sat in front
civil rights, King’s light, confronted klan
bullets break the heart of man
good die young, a president’s child...
salutes goodbye -- nations cry
one step on the moon
for mankind
into hope
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
___________________________________________________________________
For Nette's Contest "Magic Of Decade's Mood"
By Carrie Richards
I would practice each day without satisfaction,
longing to capture the moon's oratory.
DeBussy, God, help me, I should say that I'm sorry!
Though my fingers were nimble, I'd lose concentration,
and fumble along with a grumble and sigh.
Provoking the chords, that should tumble and rise
into a glorious, exquisite river of mist.
But, when thumbs went adrift, beyond the abyss,
I'd return to the first bar, and start once again.
-
I'd retrace every note of the measure and time. And time after time,
I'd assault a B-flat, where a C-sharp should chime.
All my hopes and my schemes came from this longing to please.
My dreams to succeed, and to offer this gift.
To grant her the wish.
The rapture, to swoon, as I played 'Clair de Lune'.
My mother's favorite. -- And I aimed for the moon
__
I remember my mother with dishes piled high,
soap on her nose,
calling out from the kitchen.
“That time, much better!”
Or my dad, in the dark room, Walter Cronkite, his companion,
calling out from the shadows,
“I think now, you've got it!”
Tonight in the dim light,
I'll watch how the moonlight,
slides over the piano, sliding over the keys.
It seems that the moon knows,
that time cannot stand still.
That years come and the years go.
But the tune, is the same tune, and the moon is the same moon.
And DeBussy still winces in the place I called home.
It was a cultural revolution, while a world jumped to conclusions
Of mini-skirts, and go-go boots, and psychedelic tensions
The flower child, would smile and sprout communal peaceful versions
about a war, and called it wrong, and marched to have it end.
Mary, Peter, Paul, would sing,... Pete Seeger wrote his songs
While somewhere soldiers fought the throng of distant Viet Cong
The wonder years, had rendered us to march in protest parades
Invading rights, the south would fight against the Ku Klux Klan
Rosa Parks would take a seat and fight for rights of men
her bravery would light the world. .. and sparked a light within
The Beatles sang of "Yesterday", and everything between
"Imagine" if you can at all,.......what peace could ever bring
The evening brewed the Cronkite news, and we believed in him
On distant shores the scores of dead, the dreaded war ensued
A bullet broke the heart of man...
and we would watch a child salute
the father that he loved and knew
struck down beneath,
a Texas sky one cloudy afternoon ...
His uncle too, ...then, Dr. King.....succumbed to hate, such fate would come, as well
The dates we keep with lock and key, and still,....our throats will swell
Yet through the clouds, into the sky....one step for all mankind
Would light the world, again with hope.....and take us to the moon
_____________________________________________________
For Kelly's Contest: Decades
3/4/15