Long Pasadena Poems
Long Pasadena Poems. Below are the most popular long Pasadena by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pasadena poems by poem length and keyword.
We sing our sixties folk songs
And live in our Woodstock memories
Dancing to Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,
Hanging on to our excitement at surviving the seventies.
Peace is our sign, with love beads and Go Go boots
Thanks to Nancy Sinatra and “These Boots are Made for Walk’n”.
Don’t squawk, youngster, go your own way. Be you.
Don’t just survive, thrive! Live your soul dream.
Take this guitar and travel the world. Take Route 66.
Here are the keys to my Chrysler. Sure she’s old, but she’s powerful.
Singing “Little Ole Lady from Pasadena” with Grandma is not enough.
You have to get out there and live. Your life is waiting!
Destiny is sending you a cookie cake. Gobble up those chocolate chips.
Like Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet,
and most suckers are starving to death”.
Don’t let it be you. Go out and grab your gusto.
Parade in your pizzazz.
Be your most delightful and delectable you! Live your ethereal truth, my friend!
Florence McLane
1889 – 1902
Psst… over here!
My toppled tombstone is the one
With the somber seraph carrying a cross.
My grave is the one that no one can see or find.
My hidden final resting place is in the digesting shade
By the willowy walnut tree.
Can you find me?
Olly olly oxen free!
Do you see me?
Will you now hear me?
I breathed my days on Pasadena Street
Inside the little white house with the horseshoe over the door.
I slept my nights under the stars
With dreams and visions and intense remembrances.
My cross to bear bore no semblance
To the old bloody rugged one
Borne by my Lord and Savior to Golgotha.
To my friends and foes,
Dead now for a multitude of minutes.
I sought no pain or revenge.
But your closed eyes never noticed
My own bloody cumbersome cross.
Never truly noticed the tiny ray of pure light
Deep, deep inside my singed soul.
Enveloped and masticated alive
By the deadening darkness of the faithless.
My final words to you all:
Olly olly oxen Free!
Cantina Tina never met one meaner
Though she sure looked pretty as the night grew long;
And so did I, in the mirror of the john.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
A Skid Row guy with an eye for Pasadena;
Spend my nights between seventh and third
With old Jack D ’til the world is blurred.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
Out of County jail for a misdemeanor,
“No sir, Judge won’t be doing that no more;”
Hot foot it down to the nearest liquor store.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
Once had a girl, oh boy, you should have seen her
“It’s poker, pool, or me if you want me staying here:”
So yes, I went ahead and chose the boys and beer.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
So here I am, eyeing Cantina Tina
She’s sure looking pretty as the night grows long;
And so do I, in the mirror of the john.
Bottom of the bottle is where the grass is greener.
If I remember this correctly
I was about 15
At school in Cambridge
Bunking off
Watching BBC 2
And Depeche Mode 101 was on T.V
Never really been interested in Music
Never bought a record
Sport was my thing
But watched in awe
Never let me down again
Live at the Pasadena Rose Bowl
Gothic is the best way I could describe it
A spontaneous wave broke out
The hair's on my neck and goosebumps broke out
When it finished
I got on my bike
And rode to St Ives to buy the Album
I got to see them live 20 year's later
A dream fulfilled
And it never disappointed
Better than I could have imagined
Better live than on record
A timeless memory
That stood the test of time
Is mine forevermore
That never grows old
101 Live
Depeche Mode
Never let me down again
(At 10:40pm on December 8, 1980,
John Lennon was shot and mortally
wounded on 72nd Street, New York.
Given his love of outrageous wordplay,
this poem imagines his stream-of-
consciousness utterings as the
ambulance rushes him to hospital,
moments before his death.)
In my life I've loved them all
Brian, Ono, Victor, Paul
two of us Sunday driving
not arriving
bigger than Christ
you know it ain't easy
do what you darn well pleasy
one banned band for sail
standing on the dock in Southampton
one careful onus
Henry the Ford Cortina
little old lady from Pasadena
like a dog without a bonus
keep playing that rock
and roll music, naughty girl
you let your frock
ride up sorry Mimi
getting steamy
one thing you can't hide
is when you're crippled inside
I'm going to
Strawberry Fields
nothing is real
banter, see, is paramount
tantamount to fantasy
inkspots on the platters
menlove matters
Cynthia fragrant
Yoko flagrant
I saw her standing there
day after day he silently stands
the fool on the hill
with the troublesome glands
seeing the glint from the German bint
when she rattles her jewelry
she's the one with the royal mint
Tom Jones, tomfoolery
Alma Cogan needs a slogan
Cilla Killer she's a thriller chiller
I'm just a jealous guy
what's it all about no reply
Of parrots and parakeets, no one knows
now numbering in the thousands
no longer Mexico's bucolic birds
new urbanized citizens migrated
to the suburbs.
If you travel to Los Angeles and county
where hobo avians flock to Pepperdine
hoping to matriculate to paradise..
Pasadenans know the raucous calls from palms
festooned in bright feathers and pheromones.
Should you wish to elicit a response
from a Red-crowned Amazon..
just ask any witch cat which hungers
with an acute accessory olfactory
rife in feline grin and purpose
eye'n the skies cheerfully.
And somewhere Marianne Faithfull warbles
'this little bird who lives on the wind,
this little bird that somebody sends.'
they're listening too, with a coo and squawk
o'er the skies of Silverlake
and Eagle Rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Little Bird sung by Marianne Faithfull - Lyrics by J.D. Loudermilk 1965
Sir Albert the Egghead was in an arena
somewhere 'tween Frisco and Old Pasadena
Determined to joust with the best of the knights
who'd ever assembled near Frisco to fight
He rode in on a sleek thoroughbred, oh so gallant
Awaiting his chance to show off his great talent
When into the picture a-ripping and raring
Roared Hal the Computer on a steed with eyes glaring
Now Sir Albert the Egghead was deft with a sword
Many a foe, brave and worthy, he'd gored
But Hal the Computer was stealthily stealing
Sir Albert the Egghead's plot to be dealing
A deadly steel thrust into Hal's data system
To render Hal helpless, unless he would miss him
Yet the brainiac foiled Albert's dastardly plot
And cracked the Egghead's brain-shell in two with a bot
What's the point of this story? --to tell you straight out
That machines can joust better than us, there's no doubt!
In but a few notes in the seventies, I recognized The Beach Boys
Little Ole Lady from Pasadena inspired me to push petal to the metal.
I had never wanted to be in California, and now I wanted to live there.
Thanks to Surfer Girl, Good Vibrations, Kokomo, Wouldn’t it be Nice?
I am singing along, with my windows down, my hair flying in the wind.
These boys keep the happy beat coming, incorporating a bit of jazz
California Dreamin, Surfin Safari, Dance, Dance, Dance.
I am surprised to notice I am going a hundred miles an hour now.
Brian, Dennis, Carl, Mike and Al should be paying for my speeding tickets
I still drive ninety miles an hour to Little Ole Lady from Pasadena.
"Thursday's Child"
Saturday She Left
Saturday You Arrived
Tuesday Answers Delivered
Spirit of Ether Speaks
(Lovejoy-Burton/April 2018)
LJ - G - L
”A circle is the reflection of eternity: it has no beginning and it has no end…”
1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aether_(classical_element)
2. http://www.theosociety.org/pasadena/forum/f14n02p135_is-aether-spirit-or-matter.htm
3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astral_plane
4. http://pmj.bmj.com/content/postgradmedj/22/252/280.full.pdf
5. https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_beginning_of_memory_985070
6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bardo
7. "Thursday's child has far to go...."
8. Music: Goldmund, "Cascade"
https://youtu.be/4OtIzuBthVU
Remember all those tea ads with the chimps on?
We’ll prostitute the Prague of Gustav Mahler
and desecrate the divas of La Scala.
Would Bart betray begettor Homer Simpson
(he’s not so much a whoreson as a pimp-son)
to get himself a Chevrolet Impala?
You bet he would. This is the Grab-It Gala.
The cripple pawns the plaster that he limps on.
In Pasadena, Pimlico and Perth,
the only thing we´ll go without is girth.
Where JP Morgan’s played by Colin Firth,
we airbrush self-awareness, muffle mirth,
and drown in plenty, blink at moral dearth.
We're always prizing price-tag, never worth.