Seventy Poems | Examples

September of Nineteen Seventy-Six

September moon,
celestial skinny-dippers,
sangria soirée, so soused,
starlight swimming,
summertide celebratory,
singing soon sepia snapshots,
streaming in soulful sisterhood
psyches of sorrowful separating friends,
sadly, still scattered,
sweetly soliloquizing of 
September of ‘76. ~

Seventy Years Without a Whisker

I lived seventy years without having whiskers
but then one popped out of my chin
it was thick and long
tweezers bent when they tried to pluck it

the whisker laughed at my attempt at removal
he was tough and determined to remain in place
he has been imbedded in my chin for two years now
it will be three at the end of the week

I put tape on each side of this stubborn whisker
and cut through the tape
expecting to hear him scream
the whisker howled, not in pain, with laughter

I grabbed a razor
the whisker snatched it out of my hand and threw it against the wall
I am pretty sure I am not winning this battle

seventy three

prickly and simply
wrinkly and pimply
old aged and one paged
ungauged and enraged
wildly carefree
honest living at seventy-three

Lovey Dovey in Seventy Four

Lovey dovey in seventy-four
a large wedding, top hats at every door
blushing bridesmaids, each dressed in red
bride has lost weight, has she even been fed?

There are six children by eighty-six
the bride is now heavy, extremely thick
by ninety there are two more children to feed
bride cannot fit on a thousand-pound steed

groom loses interest by ninety-two
runs off with a younger woman, with eyes of blue
Her mother warns “he’ll do the same to you.”
She has six children when he leaves her too.

Seventy Six and Grateful

she regurgitates her parent’s philosophy
Lives their religious beliefs
Spouts their politics
Lives with their furniture

She has never had to buy a couch or a chair
Never had to wonder what her own ideas might be
At seventy-six she is grateful
She never had to develop an opinion of her own

Seventy Plus

Seventy Plus

Have been retired for 7 years
The best parts:
no work hassles
more time to write poetry
more time to play music
more time to work on my project list
(of course, AFTER the honey do list)
more time to volunteer
more time for naps
I can sit around in sweats and tee shirt
(in summer shorts and tee shirt)

But
The worst parts:
insomnia
not as much energy
in bed by 9PM
(I am a party pooper)
need hearing aids
my joints ache
have trouble remembering names
takes me longer to do my projects
(good excuse for not completing honey do list)

These are the best of times and the worst of times
If I can remember what the past times were like!

Seventy-three seconds

One thought, igniting the dream,
Seven bold souls, steady as they seem.

Ten missions past, Challenger soared,
Twenty-five flights, the program roared.

Tick-tick.
A countdown clear.
The world leans close.
The clock draws near.

Thirty-six degrees—a frozen doubt.
A seal strained tight; the gas leaks out.

Ignition. Roar. Climb. Silence screams.
A nation watches shattered dreams.

Seventy-three seconds, sky turned to flame,
History echoes their hallowed names.

At 5:00 PM, the voice of command,
A president speaks to a grieving land:
“The crew of the Challenger honored us all.
They slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God.”

32 months, grounded hope rebuilt.
A frozen morning, a lasting guilt.

Tick-tick.
The seconds mourn.
We remember still
That frozen dawn.

Beauty of being Seventy Two

I do not embellish the truth.
I cough it out
Letting it land on the table
Ooze along on the floor
Touching people’s shoes
Slithering along the sidewalk in front and in back of me
My truth as I see it,
Part of the beauty of being seventy-two.

Dim sum die-at

We bare of human; sic-ning'
Planned these decade long schemes?
Some mad-sters of eugenics 
In bid to cap our dynamics.'
All based on their (spatial distancing)
And murder as ever
Of conscious never
With extremisam
Of which I am no fan forever.!

Seventy-Seventh Birthday

In July of 2013, you died and you went to Heaven.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 77.
After taking chemotherapy for months, you died.
You were a good provider and that can't be denied.
When a parent dies, it's always tragic and very sad.
If you were still alive, I'd say "Happy Birthday, Dad".

[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died on July 13, 2013]

I am Nineteen but I look Seventy Two

I am nineteen
but I look seventy-two
weird maybe
to those who are not here yet

in my heart I am singing and dancing
my arthritic ankles are laughing at me
I do not hear them
choosing to be young me as opposed to old me

my heart is full of joy
I am not cynical
only grouchy with one person
my husband, who must not mind
he has been with me for fifty-two years

with him I am fifteen
and he is sixteen
the ages we first met
we scoff at our seventy-two-year-old bodies
they are nothing like the real us.

The Eight in Seventy Two

Ploddingly it took the form
Of some dispassionate melody
Our wailing voices at crescendo
For our undying we mourn

With care they traipsed the deck
A mass of notions in mind
Did ten artlessly disappear
or were held by the Atlantic's inside?

Still we stood and tried to inform
Searchers of our malady
That we living men hitherto
can presently not be seen

Still we stand on Mary's deck
To us the world is blind
As they neither see nor hear
our gestures nor our cries

Not all can be explained
Not all can we fathom
Some presences can't be felt
like the eight in seventy two

interacting when you are seventy

my twin sister and I speak almost every day
saying the same things over and over
there seems to be comfort in that

we call our brother on his birthday
he never answers
but he will text back

so we text him happy birthday
he texts back right away - one word
ok

this gives us a sense of peace
because we know either he or his wife are still around
at seventy, that is a comfort.

and now for my next trick I will try to be seventy

and now for my next trick
I will try to be seventy
SEVENTY!
My brain yells “We are twelve!”
My soul yells “nineteen at the most!”
My arthritic ankles yell “we are a hundred.
Being seventy ought to be a cinch.”

What does seventy look like?
How does seventy act?
I know that seventy is invisible.
And seventy’s ideas are discounted
and seventy is easily ignored.

But I have little other knowledge
of how to be seventy.
I guess I will wing it.

A Gift

O,' my Lord, Christ Jesus of Deliverance,
A gift faceted in distinguishing the humanities hoped
Human-kind had but one-rule 
A commandment: for individualism. ('choice') 

A natural-born leader over yourself, 
Your thoughts, your intent of will
Your liberations, your goodness relished.

You there, they're reading it loud, 
Don't get too far ahead of yourself 
You were given a rare gift at birth
Now, you're empowered with it by worth. 

Move on along, tell your anecdote, 
However, you tell it so get it out
To find an end, to end this poetry
''Their 'choice' is by their loyalties.''

• Short Seventy Poems
• Famous Seventy Poems
• Best Seventy Poems
• Read Seventy Poems
• Long Seventy Poems
• Seventy Quotes