Think before you write,
write before you speak.
Categories:
sixty eight, emotions, feelings, poetry, writing,
Form: Free verse
Sixty-eight! What the heck. I look in the mirror and see another me.
I am twelve inside. Can’t anyone else see?
My sense of humor is hilarious just like it always was.
I am young at heart; I still run from the fuzz.
I am a giant cuddly peace-loving hippie, who did not make it to Woodstock.
I would have but my parents would not allow it; which I think was a crock.
I was in high school then. I should have gone to Berkley.
But I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, so stayed home. Was still perky.
I want to tiptoe through the tulips, catch a ride with a communal VW van.
Painted with yellow happy faces, bubbly daisies and a peace-sign hand.
I will play a ukulele and sing folk songs louder and happier than Mama Cass.
Look at my face, my friend. Sixty-eight. Come on! I am a 17-year-old lass!
I see my eyes are fading. Arthritis makes me limp a bit when I walk.
But inside I am 19, a real beauty, with a heart that doesn’t squawk.
Sixty-eight. You’re kidding! At the most I am twenty-two or twenty-five.
I lived through assassinations, bombings, Viet Nam. It’s amazing I’m alive!
Categories:
sixty eight, age,
Form: Rhyme
Sixty eight sheep dancing on my head
Wandering across my face, declaring me quite dead.
Sure they are little but mighty you see
They are fleecy and funny and tickling me.
Just count sheep my shrink said kissing me off.
I wanted to go; she had a giant Covid 19 cough.
Just count sheep, she said, with a wave of her hand.
I had no idea I would end up in sheep-shearing land.
They are lining across my belly, in line for their cut.
Some have bikini waxes, others, shave off their big butt.
The next thing you know they will be cutting my hair too.
Then frankly I have no idea what I will do.
Sixty eight sheep twirling up and down on my bed.
I wanted to sleep, but I am babysitting instead.
Sixty eight sheep, no, wait. Here’s another ewe.
Insomnia is killing me. What the hell should I do?
Categories:
sixty eight, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Rhyme
Conversation with my four-year-old grandson Max.
“I cannot throw the ball one more time, Max. I am old.”
He glares at me. “No, you’re not.”
“I am. I really am.”
I throw the ball ten more times.
“I mean it Max, I have to stop. I am tired. I have a cough.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes, I really do.”
He comes closer and looks at me hard.
I try to cough, putting myself into an explosive coughing fit.
He gives a couple of fake coughs.
We stare at each other.
“I’ve had my cough for three whole weeks, “ I tell him.
“How long have you had your cough?”
Brown eyes look at me closely. “Sixty-eight weeks,” he says smoothly.
I keep throwing the ball.
Categories:
sixty eight, grandchild, grandfather, grandmother, grandparents,
Form: Light Verse
terrified that you might lose me
petrified with the "you and me"
yes, the best things in life are free
and from you i want to be free
we add, we remove and we keep
promises at times we don't keep
on you, on us, i'm losing sleep
i'm done counting a herd of sheep
Categories:
sixty eight, anger, angst, freedom,
Form: Quatrain
in a series of stops and starts
on bouncing back and broken hearts
vicious cycle of love and hate
all you want can blame your fate
each time i close my eyes, i see
someone struggling, fighting, it's me
Categories:
sixty eight, abuse, anger, angst, anxiety,
Form: Quatrain
SIXTY EIGHT
For years I’ve lived with being a soixante-huiter
Although my wardrobe’s more fastidious and neater
Those heady days are not beyond recall
The nights and days when we first did it all
But sober work and ethics have combined
To make a settled bed my truest mind
And catalogues and dictionaries my woe
To understand what happened long ago
Far flung days have their own allurement
But nothing beats the logic of procurement
And adventitious loves have gone the way
Of all youth, to say it’s had its day
I daren’t even call myself a woman sweeter -
Past perfect indiscretions tend to tweet her.
Categories:
sixty eight, adventure, education, emotions, giggle,
Form: Sonnet