50 Years on
Twelve thirty five
three shots ring out.
The Presidents been hit.
He's dying, no doubt.
A ghost stares down
at the Motorcade.
Another clutches his throat
as lifesblood is splayed.
Their drama plays out
at Dealy Plaza
Without the blood
or the Dura mater.
A great Man murdered,
A vision gone
November twenty Second
Fifty Years on
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Day they Murdered Camelot
.
One afternoon in Dallas, Texas
November, Nineteen sixty three
A brace of shots were fired
That would enter history
With Jacqueline beside him
in the presidential Limousine
John Kennedy was waving
taking in the happy scene.
Coming out of Dealy plaza
They made the turn on Elm
No shots had yet been fired
The day was mild and warm.
From above, Oswald was waiting
In the book deposit loft
His rifle at the ready
His prey scoped and crossed.
“You can't say that they don't love you”
the governor's wife said
From behind a shot was fired
a scoped rifle spitting lead.
J.F.K. then clutched his throat
And John Connelly his side
A second bullet hit a curb
and ricocheted aside.
The third shot was the killing shot
bone and brain cells flying
The Marines had trained the sniper well
and Camelot was dying.
That afternoon in Dallas
As darkness was descending
Did he think about his children
as consciousness was ebbing?
“Make for Parkland Hospital”
The secret service screamed
they'd failed to save the president
But who had done the deed?
Walter Cronkite told the nation
that Camelot was dead.
L.B.J. on Air Force One
became the nation’s head.
Back on the Streets of Dallas
Oswald had killed again.
An officer named Tippit
Lay in the gutter, dead.
Oswald was apprehended
In a movie house nearby
They found his nest and rifle
What they never found was why...
A nation mourned its President
on his final Caisson ride
and watched his little boy salute
standing by his Mother's side.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
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The Date Of Christmas DaY
The Date Of Christmas DaY
A.D.Four plus thirty-three= A.D.Thirty-seven.
The millineum year Two Thousand Thirty Seven has not yet occured.
Inn mye humble opinion never will it ever bee.
Iff Christ was born in September Thirty-Seven,
we should have Christmas on September Three.
December TwentY-fifth is the dead works day of druids.
They still dance the maypole day in May.
May ONE could be the birthday of GODS son.
The time is tricky anyway after more than a few years.
Everything gets blurry after way too many beers.
The moral of this story just accept that it was done.
This Christmas try to worship on December Twenty-One.
Drink less eggnogg and have more FUN.
On this millineum day in Nineteen Fifty-Four;
Eye was not yet one year Young.
poem by Charles Hice
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Perfect Pitch
I wish someone would accuse me,
Of stealing my creativity from them.
When I've been doing what I do...
For more than 'fifty' years!
Count them...
Not five, ten or twenty!
But FIFTY years.
'That's impossible!
How could that be?
You have 'yet' to leave your fourties! '
Well...er, uh.
You're right!
What am I thinking?
It just 'seems' as if I've been doing this...
For so very long.
At least...
Thirty anyway.
'Tell us the story about how you were breast feeding,
While your mother accompanied you on the piano...
As you sang Ave Maria.'
That was 'not' Ave Maria.
It was the First Noel.
And don't laugh!
I still pride myself for having perfect pitch!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.
quote by Muhammad Ali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.
quote by Muhammad Ali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Suicide
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World.
You have punched me over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul.
You look at me now and think,
'He is still strong,
There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there.
At the end of that time he will be old and broken,
Not able to strike back,
But cringing and crying for leave
To live a little longer.'
Those twenty, pitiful, extra years
Would please you more than the fifty past,
Would they not, Old World?
Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes,
And snatch them away as I laugh in your face,
Ha! Ha!
Bang —!
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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When I Grow Up
When i grow up to be a man
Will i dig the same things that turn me on as a kid?
Will i look back and say that i wish i hadn't done what i did?
Will i joke around and still dig those sounds
When i grow up to be a man?
Will i look for the same things in a woman that i dig in a girl?
(fourteen fifteen)
Will i settle down fast or will i first wanna travel the world?
(sixteen seventeen)
Now i'm young and free, but how will it be
When i grow up to be a man?
Oooooo ooooooo oooooooo
Will my kids be proud or think their old man is really a square?
(eighteen nineteen)
When they're out having fun yeah, will i still wanna have my share?
(twenty twenty-one)
Will i love my wife for the rest of my life
When i grow up to be a man?
What will i be when i grow up to be a man?
(twenty-two twenty-three)
Won't last forever
(twenty-four twenty-five)
It's kind of sad
(twenty-six twenty-seven)
Won't last forever
(twenty-eight twenty-nine)
It's kind of sad
(thirty thirty-one)
Won't last forever
(thirty-two...)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sweet November
Sweet november.. you stole my heart
I let it go with all the fear and doubt
Sweet november.. you opened my mind
With all the sweetness that you left behind
And I'm living, with a vision of you
All the days grow colder, but I know
It's not the way I'm holding on but how I'm letting go
And how I will remember
Sweet november
And now you're with me
You're with me in the sun
I'm a baby in a world that's just begun
And now you're with me
You're with me in the rain
I'm so glad that I will never be the same
Cause I'm living with a vision of you
All the leaves are falling, falling down like snow
It's not the way I'm holding on it's how I'm letting go
But how, I will remember
Sweet november
Sweet november
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Next Thirty Years
(track 12 - time 3:37)
(phil vassar)
I think Ill take a moment, celebrate my age
The ending of an era and the turning of a page
Now its time to focus in on where I go from here
Lord have mercy on my next thirty years
Hey my next thirty years Im gonna have some fun
Try to forget about all the crazy things Ive done
Maybe now Ive conquered all my adolescent fears
And Ill do it better in my next thirty years
My next thirty years Im gonna settle all the scores
Cry a little less, laugh a little more
Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear
Figure out just what Im doing here
In my next thirty years
Oh my next thirty years, Im gonna watch my weight
Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late
Drink a little lemonade and not so many beers
Maybe Ill remember my next thirty years
My next thirty years will be the best years of my life
Raise a little family and hang out with my wife
Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear
Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years
In my next thirty years
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Grew Up
When I grow up to be a man
Will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid?
Will I look back and say that I wish I hadnt done what I did?
Will I joke around and still dig those sounds
When I grow up to be a man?
Will I look for the same things in a woman that I dig in a girl?
(fourteen fifteen)
Will I settle down fast or will I first wanna travel the world?
(sixteen seventeen)
Now Im young and free, but how will it be
When I grow up to be a man?
Oooooo ooooooo oooooooo
Will my kids be proud or think their old man is really a square?
(eighteen nineteen)
When theyre out having fun yeah, will I still wanna have my share?
(twenty twenty-one)
Will I love my wife for the rest of my life
When I grow up to be a man?
What will I be when I grow up to be a man?
(twenty-two twenty-three)
Wont last forever
(twenty-four twenty-five)
Its kind of sad
(twenty-six twenty-seven)
Wont last forever
(twenty-eight twenty-nine)
Its kind of sad
(thirty thirty-one)
Wont last forever
(thirty-two...)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ring Out , Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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I Remember
I remember being ten years old
And wondering what I would be?
I talked it over with my father
And he said, “We’ll see.”
I remember being twenty years old
And wondering all about life.
I found myself getting married
And learning to be a wife.
I remember being thirty years old
With 2 sons at my side.
I saw a few strands of gray hair
Which I tried to hide.
I remember being forty-five
And birthdays coming too soon.
I was teaching kids all about music
And waiting for vacations in June.
I remember when I turned fifty
And my body started to change.
The hormonal and emotional challenges
All became so strange.
I remember becoming fifty-eight
When retirement came my way.
I thought to myself, “ Now what do I do? ”
On every single day?
I remember becoming seventy
When breast cancer came to me.
I decided I wanted to live some more
So I created poetry.
All that I remember from that point on
Is where I am today
Using this pen that’s in my hand.
It’s become my way to say
Thank You.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sequestered Writing
Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.
The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.
White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls.
The way they withdrew from the child's body and spoke as if it were not there.
What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
-- With its no one without its I --
A dwarf ghost? A closet of empty clothes?
Ours was a ghost who stole household goods. Nothing anyone would miss.
Supper plates. Apples. Barbed wire behind the house.
At the end of the hall, it sleepwalks into a mirror wearing mother's robe.
A bedsheet lifts from the bed and hovers. Face with no face. Come here.
The bookcase knows, and also the darkness of books. Long passages into,
Endless histories toward, sleeping pages about. Why else toss gloves into a grave?
A language that once sent ravens through firs. The open world from which it came.
Words holding the scent of an asylum fifty years. It is fifty years, then.
The child hears from within: Come here and know, below
And unbeknownst to us, what these fields had been.
poem by Carolyn Forché
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My Twenty Lines
I just read this poem about using just twenty lines,
and it brought these words to my mind.
Who are they to tell us how many lines we should use to speak?
This is America where we have a law known as freedom of speech.
Just twenty lines tell you something about my life in words.
To me that seem completely absurd.
My life is much more than just twenty lines.
Hell I am thirty nine.
And if they except me to sum up thirty nine years in twenty lines
They are complete outside their minds.
How am I suppose to tell you how I nearly died when I was child?
Or how my mother harsh words took away my smile:
In just twenty lines?
Like I said they must be out of their minds.
I guest I can do if I shorten my life.
I don't have to talk about how much I love my future wife.
But her love is the inspiration for a lot of my poems.
So to not talk about her would be wrong.
I have a lot more to say but I'm out of time.
I reach my limit of my twenty lines.
An Unresolved New Year
At the hour of twelve on New Years Eve
When the old year turns into the new
Thoughts turn to what the future holds
And what goals we should pursue.
At the hour of nine on New Years Day
Or some time thereabouts
We wake with great reluctance and
Those resolutions start to doubt.
At the hour of ten on New Years Day
When we start to feel our age
By then we've written lists of things
That will benefit through change.
At the hour of twelve on New Years Day
When things start getting clear
We find we've hid that list away
To return to in one year.
poem by David Keig
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Twelve Bar Lil
Sweet Lilly Larnie
plays the blues away
she plays a three quarter strat
like B.B King plays Lucille
She plays the twelve bar blues
like nobody else can
she plays a blues lick so fast and quick
it makes you sick
She's twelve bar Lil
the three quarter strat Queen
you wouldn't believe
she's only three
For my Daughter Lilly, who's now four.
poem by Dave Alan Walker
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To Mrs. Thrale on Her Completing Her Thirty-fifth Year
Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O'er the bounds of thirty-five
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five.
Ladies, stop and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five:
He that ever hopes to thrive
Must begin by thirty-five:
And all who wisely wish to wive
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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American Skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots, and we'll take that ride
Across this bloody river to the other side
41 shots, they cut through the night
You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule
Praying for his life
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
Ain't no secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots, lena gets her son ready for school
She says now on these streets charles
You got to understand the rules
Promise me if an officer stops you'll always be polite
Never ever run away and promise mama you'll keep your hands in sight
Cause is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
41 shots and we'll take that ride
Across this bloody river to the other side
41 shots my boots caked in mud
We're baptized in these waters and in each other's blood
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in
Your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ghost Of JFK
the ghost of JFK
walked through my dreams....
and i could see and feel
the heartbeat of America
before the disease took us....
the voice of freedom and moral
conviction.... taking issues,
examining our own souls...
repenting of past prejudices,
searching for a way
for peace and freedom.....
but the shots rang out,
the hope of a generation murdered...
the Pentagon rolled, defense contracts,
smoke filled rooms....
J Edgar Hoover's lists...
the battle for civil rights;
and the young rebelled
against the lie in Vietnam....
against the lie, against the lie...
the search for freedom turned inward....
and the National Guard became the thugs
of the new regime.....
more people killed, more voices stilled....
Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King,
among them.....
that which we fought for now gone....
bought out by the corporate lie.....
and now the battle begins again...
now the voices, new voices,
spring up again....
and i stand amid the ghosts,
waiting on the shots to ring out!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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