Long Sixties Poems
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Way back, when I was about six years old
In kindergarten, I met my first friend
Never knew our friendship would be so gold
You can't predict when a friendship will end
I've had many friends that have come and gone
Some moved, some became foes, some sadly died
Some friendships just keep on going on and on
My first friend- has always been by my side
Now in our sixties, still friends- all these years
Last night, in a pub, out in bad weather
We reminisced while with both sipped our beers
We toasted to- "We've grown old together"
We'll always be friends 'till one of us dies
Teardrops will fall on our final...good-byes
Our friendship is gold
Many stories to be told
We're both growing old
Has it been that long ago?
I remember as if it was only yesterday,
But one’s mind does play tricks on us as we all know.
It was in the late sixties and our county looked to this young man.
We watched him emerge from helping his family through their sorrow,
We were inspired by his words and the promise of a better tomorrow.
The cheers Bobby, Bobby where ever he appeared,
His smile and wave brought deafening cheers.
It seemed he was destined to follow his brother.
It seemed nothing could go wrong and in the blink of an eye he too was gone,
In the mist of yet another sorrow a family and a nation had once again go on.
And so, the years went by adding up to fifty this year,
But the memory of his words are still heard along with the cheers.
Merrie Melodies is coming on, and I am glued to the set
Hoping my favorite will be featured today, for I’ve placed a bet
Channeling my spirit guides, I hope to see Pepe Le Pew.
He is the best cartoon since the sixties, and it’s twenty and two.
This amorous French skunk, known as a polecat down in the south
With streak of affection that places kisses all over target’s sweet mouth
Dashes onto the screen, in pursuit of startled Penelope Pussy Cat.
Runs for her life, but she slows down a bit, due to corpulent fat.
Pepe Le Pew, Warner Brother’s most romantic cartoon ever made.
Sweeps her up and holds her tenderly against him, a daring blade.
She tries to show him that she’s not a skunk, she is actually a cat.
But he is too busy crooning love songs to care about that.
I watch in amazement as he catches her time after time.
Daring to love her, because he is Romeo, gallant and sublime.
She gets away, but is readily replaced with a frisky skunk girl.
They kiss in the moonlight, as his love, he doth slowly unfurl.
My mood is chosen daily, depending on no one else but me
If I want to feel down, I choose a dark room, heavy snacks, and a TV
If I want to feel uplifted, I bring other folks into the fray....
Get out my paints and put a friend on speaker, and happily paint away
I used to put on music and dance away a sad or somber mood.
But my knees are broken and aged, and no longer have fortitude.
Music makes me feel good, sixties and seventies tunes bring delight.
A sweet afternoon nap, also helps elevate my emotions into the night.
Generating excitement and enthusiasm is also completely up to me.
The first step is to shut off the phone, the noise and the TV.
I go out into nature, and I hop and skip and twirl.
For bees, bunnies, and hollyhocks help me turn back into a girl.
Nineteen sixty-nine
By Franklin Price
5/22/2019
The year was nineteen sixty-nine
A year for change and to adjust
Had just returned from Viet Nam
Was alone, without much trust
Married when I went away
January sixty-eight
Received “Dear John” on April Fool
It's a long remembered date
Went to war to do my duty
My wife could not do without
By the time she wrote the letter
Was not alone, there was no doubt
By the time that I returned
Divorce was said and done
Don't know what happened to her
She no longer was the one
The Air Force way was not for me
And we went our separate ways
I got a job at KSC
For the Apollo moon man days
Joined the team that POTUS Kennedy
Said would put man on the moon
Before the sixty's decade's over
Sixty-nine was none too soon
We worked hard and we played hard
Was much pressure from the start
To find relief from tensions,
Clubs and bars were all a part
Every week-end was a party
Many dance clubs were around
We traveled home from bar to bar
Drunken driving did abound
It was the sexy sixties
Braless tops and thigh high skirts
Men's pants were tight bell bottomed
To show their package to the flirts
It didn't take much effort
There was lots of ass to see
Many looking for a hook-up
Some a one night stand for me
Didn't ask if they were married
Some probably were and some were not
The sex was all that mattered
And satisfaction that we got
Then one day, a married friend,
Wanted a girl that I had done
If she let you, she will let me
Now I can be the one
One thing led to another
And he moved out on his wife
And their new born child, a daughter
Thought he could have a better life
Took his mistress everywhere with him
Even to our softball games
His wife came to one and met her
Kicked her ass and called her names
I knew he wasn't good for her
She was depressed and was distraught
I put my arm around her
Her marriage then was all but fraught
I drove her home that evening
Was concerned then for her life
Before the year was over
She was divorced and was my wife
That was fifty years ago
When man went to the moon
I'm still happy with the choices made
Our anniversary, golden, soon.
(November 21, 2019)
I walked from the office with a newfound vigor;
it was around 2:15 PM and my guts were at ease.
I'd had a good night's sleep, a good morning's work,
and a brief but vigorous workout right before lunch.
I'd put in some work in the early afternoon,
but I wasn't too busy for a 13-minute stroll around the plaza.
High sixties. The tiniest hint of a breeze. Soft, warm sunshine.
A stomach filled but not overly so.
My muscles pleased to be mildly exerted
after knowing rougher wear.
A body rejoicing in self-improvement,
traveling backwards to a younger time
even while fantasizing over what it might become.
A mind content that it can navigate its tasks without trouble,
always ready to immerse itself
in the tiniest of beautiful truths
that the world constantly presents.
A soul that sees itself on the path to God,
trusting to a happy ending even while believing
there will be much pain before then.
A heart brimming with zealous fire,
so ready to give itself to another.
And my heart-soul gasped a little in a moment of realization,
as it has at times before.
What a perfect day it is.
You have given me so very much.
And these blissful days see me on the rise,
disciplining my mind,
strengthening my body,
learning better how to guard my soul,
and watching my impatient little heart
waiting for its turn at a dream.
Oh, how perfect!
To be caught up in the halcyon perfume of fairest winter-spring,
warm in the sun and cool in the shade.
To have much, but yet still have reasonable hope
that tomorrow might be sunnier, still.
6 February 2024
Wily wordsmith wields wisdom and wit
renders requiem welcoming thee to visit,
no matter foisting poetic riffraff (mine)
necessitates applying figurative tourniquet
to staunch potential
life threatening hemorrhage
oozing out fifty shades of
your gray cerebral moon unit,
thus best be extremely cautious
heed warning to preserve
self interest and quit
while ahead, i.e. stop reading
now lest noggin contents
rendered into pureed blivit
causing irrevocable damage,
now just for fun grab
amusement park ride ticket,
and picture yourself
in a boat on a river
squarely bobbing along...
within skeletal ricket
tee skiff analogous to
time warped white picket
fence forever lost and seasick
out of desperation imploring malefic
powers that be while moored thick
within (think) Scylla and Charybdis
not caring a lick
despite super tramping cheap trick
worse fate than death,
where metaphorical flick
finds one human flotsam and jetsam (ye)
violently sucked into realm wick
head witch, which
in toto along metaphorical yellow brick
road nsync cues soundcloud
faintly reminiscent of Herman's hermit
mid nineteen sixties approximate
time Beatles made mop top headlines
both bands selling
one after another smash hit,
where half crazed lasses frenziedly
screamed and threw maniacal fit
activating advent of groupies
they made nun sense sickle habit
to shadow many rock and roll band
initially majority identifying as Brit
nowadays global musical hodgepodge
synthesized linkedin with fitbit.
I just finished flipping the calendar to March
I keep a paper one hanging on my kitchen wall
despite everything being digital
I’m old school some would say
How is it each day I’m at work every minute I'm there
passes like an old woman with a walker running a marathon
while months and years fly by like fighter jets breaking the sound barrier
Life is like that ride at the amusement park shaped like a silo that spins
slowly at first, the velocity incrementally increasing
until the world becomes a blur
finding yourself pressed against the wall by an unseen force
unable to move a muscle without exerting extreme effort
My birthday is a little more than two months away
I don’t feel old or look anything like I imagined (and feared) I would
when I was in my early twenties and forty seemed like such an ancient age
I'm older than my parents were when they became grandparents
making my entrance into this world when they were only teenagers
in the early hours of that late May morning
I was a bit older though too young as well
when I took up the mantle of mother
When you have no hope you cling to anyone that pays attention
in order to feel you have any worth
that you matter to someone even if only for a few precious minutes
I’m reminded of men I’ve seen who are likely in their sixties
their silver hair, if they have any at all, blowing in the wind
as they race down the road behind the wheel
of a brand new expensive sports car they had aspired to own
since they were sixteen but can only now afford to buy
who will soon find themselves waking up to the fact
that some dreams left unfulfilled for too long grow stale
realizing it isn't the thrill it would have been back then
when women would have paid equal attention to both car and driver
each complimenting the other instead of such a stark contrast
reselling it a year or two later concluding it’s not worth the expense
investing those funds in a pre-paid funeral and life insurance
Oh, venerable mask on high!
You have replaced, my God, so do come nigh.
Of hand-sanitizers do I religiously sing.
No church, no God, I adore social distancing!
I will make wrong, all who wear no mask!
Label them as idiots or freaks ~is my latest task.
The government is my Higher Power now.
I have no time for you God, so take your leave and bow.
I gleefully forgot you already know the day I will die.
So media fear colors my rivulet of days, like sixties tie-dye.
Maybe I will trust you when this is over?
I doubt it though, since I let science and government
I adore, even more than my dog, Rover!
April 14, 2020
11am PST
Circa - approximately early
to late nineteen sixties,
where yours truly
found himself surly,
particularly compounded
if my parents,
where Mister and
Missus Santa Claus
played by Boyce and
Harriet Harris respectively
failed to purchase
for this sole son,
thee latest trendy
toy, sans whirly
gig, gizmo, or
fuzzy electric doohickey,
BUT NOTHING girly.
Translation: Inxs of
severe (incurable) envy
infected Matthew Scott
most pronounced, asper
quantity of presents,
the gratitude receiving gifts
meant diddly squat
if I counted less goodies,
than either eldest,
and/or youngest sister got.
This rancor kept
under (ahem) wraps
though ironically, either
sibling oohed and ahed
over some fancy shmancy
garment with snaps,
which this lad
feigned ambivalence,
indifference, or
repugnance toward getup
for young chaps.
No sooner did the
last, (and usually
biggest) boxed surprise
found these then kiddie
fingers tearing into,
when thine irritating
nasal voice didst rise
above the melee "That's all,"
or some variation
on said theme blurted out
as "FAKE" real lies
already, eagerly, and impatiently
anticipating same holiday
three hundred and sixty
five days, hence unaware
how fast "time flies"
now this soon to be newly
minted sexagenarian eyes,
those memories of innocent
naiveté, and bliss
with sentimental nostalgia
(envision: slight moisture
around tear ducts), and
aye close this poem
with reminiscence dabbed
with tissue sadness dries.