For today’s prompt, write a good old days poem. Sometimes the good old days were actually good or not, everyone has a good old days poem in them (even if it’s someone else’s good old days story). So dig deep and pull it out.
Here’s my attempt:
“Here we are”
Those were the good old days
when we only had two lamps
in the whole house and we
all slept in the same room
and one day my parents
went out to pick potatoes
leaving me home because
I was young and it was
cold outside and back then
there was only a fire place
to warm yourself and they
said I said I was only
poking at the fire with that
poker and set it aside
on the curtains and when
they returned it was gone
or mostly gone but no one
was hurt and here we are.
*****
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And check out my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob.
THE GOOD OLD DAYS
sometimes I lose myself
in thought, wondering
about the good old days
have I already had them?
am I living them now?
are they yet to come?
I decide that the best
thing for me to do, is to live
like they are every day
Good Old Days Of Love (An Unfinished Poem)
Remeber when you were perfect?
I sat upon your pedestal;
we basked in the light of purity
as beginners do…
GREEK COFFEE*
It was a summer night on Brooklyn Street
In a simple wood frame house the other side
of the Curling Club, not far from Warren Avenue,
kitty corner from the Ford Freeway we sat
on the porch thinking about a cup of coffee . . . Let’s go
to Greektown, I said.
It’s not far from here
beyond the overpass, downtown.. My watch told me It
was approaching midnight, the sky was clear blue. Nobody
around to bother us. A perfect time for a walk
to get a cup of coffee. Past the police station
the billboards told us about the beautiful ladies inside
who would dance with you as much as you wanted
as long as paid up front. Across the street Father Divine
held forth, then the all-night movies,
after that the used book stores. Closer in the White Tower gleamed
in the street lights with late blooming customers
looking for a burger. Three giant steps and, Louis the Hatter
offered his haberdashery in moonlight
not far from the Fox. We were downtown, but
still a way to go. Grand Circus Park was just down the street,
we turned left to the East Side. The Steak House was lit and
open for business. Crossing the street, on the other side, United Artists
stood in all its glory, the Old Opera House, too. Bill’s Shoe Laces
was the turn off for Monroe, and on to the restaurant. It
was a few blocks down. The shops, the coffee houses, and
Hellas, where we drank our coffee. The juke box told this was
not Michigan, as long as we were inside, nor was it
Michigan along the street. The bakery was open, but
we weren’t looking for souvenirs. It was going on one o’clock,
walking slowly along Woodward Avenue . The strong sweet brew in
the demitasse, the backalava that broke
apart when the dessert fork touched it,
the stars above took us back to the porch,
one more enchantment in our memory bank.
Zev Davis
The 27th
Was a good day
The sun shone
Children laughed
The boat didn’t break down
And five dolphins
Chose to play hide and seek
At the bow
Sometimes I Yearn
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Inside the old place,
there are ghosts who whisper
about of the good old days
when men had jobs to keep ‘em busy
and womenfolk kept the country going
by the sweat of their backs
and kids respected their elders,
when grandparents still rocked on the
porch with the rest of the family,
back before the brain jaundiced
and Dad shriveled up before my eyes.
The Aunts and Uncles are now
mostly gone as well, the Cousins
too far removed to bother
phoning or sending Christmas
cards to anymore.
Sometimes I can’t help
but still yearn
for the good ‘ol days.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Old Songs
There’s music my brother can’t listen to anymore. It belonged
to the marriage; no one got custody. Our mother long gone,
I can’t remember the lullabies that were our oldest songs.
Once, I dreamed that we lay in our twin cribs
as our parents gazed down, in Lucy-and-Ricky
black and white, and sang “Pass the Plate of Happiness Around.”
All those old couples uncoupled, all the lo-fi songs forgotten.
My brother has no memory of that old song. His stylus is stuck
on the first dance, the backseat stereo.
I don’t know what to find to ward off the melancholy.
Shall I stone him with reggae, out-blue him
with blues? Shall we kneel with the Gaithers?
In the end, we return to junior high, a time
when every spotted soul was united in abject misery,
a time of no hope. As he stirs the marinara
for our dinner a deux, I crank up Donna Summer
and we stand, fraternally, against my flower-flocked wall
and sing “Last Dance.”
Pamela Murray Winters
Outstanding poem my dear (esp. the ending of which I too can relate to greatly)!
Someone Else’s Good Old Days
Over the holiday
I got to see some old slides
on an old slide projector.
(An archaic idea these days
but still fun.)
And it was a revelation
to me
the way other people’s
childhoods
were so very different
than mine.
It was like a window into
the past,
seeing the faded images
of vacations
and graduations
and weddings,
all of the people
seemed so young
and new, though the slides
were yellowed and
blurry.
I imagined living the life
of the people portrayed.
Going to school with the same
neighborhood kids
for all twelve years.
And having no step-parents
or step-siblings
or step-grandparents.
But the thing that struck me most
was the idea of
living in the same house
ones whole life
until it was time to grow up
and move away,
a way of life alien to my own
gypsy
childhood.
Good Old Days for My Daughters
I
hope
that when
my daughters
get older, they look
back at our Thanksgiving visits
to my wife’s aunt’s and
uncle’s home
fondly
like
us.
Day 26 11-26-2011
Write a good old days poem.
These Are the Good Old Days
For one day we’ll look back on them
and wish we were here instead of there.
We’re making the memories that we’ll reminisce,
and then we’ll miss these good old days.
But if we breathe in the moment that happens
right now, right before our present senses,
we realize they’re here:
These are the good old days.
“Used to Be”
Used to be she had unlimited energy;
woke up early, stayed out late,
went on forever and never tired out;
nothing hurt – no aches, no pains;
stiff knees, sore joints, achy back –
all myths, rumors, old wives’ tales
that she needn’t pay heed.
Once upon a time, that face
in the mirror was firm, smooth;
eyes bright and clear, but
“laugh lines”
that’s what she sees now,
when she dares to look
in the mirror these days –
if she can see anything at all; and
energy’s a legend, fable, fiction –
or a movie, maybe,
she recalls having seen
once, long ago;
but, then again,
her days are her own;
no one tells her
what to do or when,
or how, and so,
it’s not all bad, this
growing old, and besides,
it still beats the alternative.
1939
My dad’s good old days
didn’t sound that good to me –
seven kids in a three bedroom house
and only one loo (outside).
War was declared
on his 4th birthday,
his earliest memory
hearing Chamberlain
on the radio.
Put on a train soon after,
heading out of London
for the safety of his
Aunt Nellie’s arms in Scotland.
A long time before
he’d see home again.
And yet, he recalls these
days as happy ones,
full of love and laughter,
everyone pulling together,
helping each other through.
The spirit and the bonds
that couldn’t be broken.
Tough Row To Hoe? And How!
Back in the day
(As no poet would say)
If the rhyme wasn’t perfect
Well, that was okay.
As long as the spelling
Was similar, you
Were allowed to plough through
And rhyme you with, say, thou.
With all due respect
To great poets like Blake,
Symmetry rhymes with eye
Just as hoe goes with rake.
Burning brightly, Blake’s tiger
Stalks forests most fiercely,
But text me that rhyme,
I’ll write, “OMG srsly?”
I won’t say one style
Is better or worse
(And I’d much prefer riding
A horse to a hearse)
But telling my ear
That the sound in my head
Is supposed to defer
To the spelling instead
Of the way, when you say
It aloud, the word’s heard,
Is absurd! Every time,
I’m left scratching my beard.
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Recollection
Ah, the good old days.
In just the blink of an eye,
See? These will be them.
a penny for your thoughts
I am the holder of your good old days
for all those times when it has gone to –
you know where or what. remember
when? and then? and after that? oh
little sister, big brother, and the one
beloved who never did give back, at
least in the places we had hoped – I
hold that thought, that lovely memory.
you, too, are the holder of my good
old days, new days, past days, blue
days. there is no fault though there is
a considerable amount of might have
been, here and there. it’s all said, done.
we are the holders of our good old days
we hold the direction of the ones to come.
Sweet succinct and vividly authentic
The Good Ol’ Days
The good ol’ days were…
… stress free…
… pill-free…
… innocent, enchanted
The good ol’ days were…
… the ones…
… we took…
… for granted…
Omena Lake
Someone had saved their great grandfather’s,
Model T Ford, in an old barn.
You bought it for fifty dollars.
And fixed it so it would run.
It was black and had no seats.
We had to stand up and hold on.
We used a cane to push the gas pedal.
And drove like crazy around the lake’s
Dirt roads flying in the margins of
Fear and fun.
Wow ” in the margins of fear and fun”!
granddad poem
My grandpa’s coupe had a four-ninety-five
air conditioner: crank down four windows
and drive ninety-five. I knew him through jokes,
his wheezy guffaw and the affection
of a grandpa as sharp as whiskey neat.
Nights went timeless when he played mandolin
picking “Michigan Rag” with Uncle Mike
on guitar. After he died, I heard Spike
was the nickname all his friends had for him.
I found out he was something of a sport.
Mexico in the 30s, Yucatan
vacations shooting Gusano Rojo.
The line I draw backwards to him from now
infuses such romance into his lives.
Ooooh wonderful!
Goodnight all…sweet dreams when they come to you ….
‘night right back to you PKP!
In response to an earlier comment that being ” offended” is part of being “human”
The problem is when young men are killed against fences….and others driven to take their own lives to end unrelenting pain…there is a difference between being ” offended” and being dangerously hurtful…. I refer you to the cinders of six million who “offended others”. as but a paltry example of a historical consequence where the freedom to hate those who “offended” led, while others in silent agreement or silent fearful horror stood by. This cannot be an America or Canada, or India, or Spain, or Wales, or Germany or England or ANY of our Poetic Asides contributing nations that ANY of us could possibly want or defend.
0kay folks before I am tempted to write about the “good old days, of slavery and lynching, inquisitions, gas chambers, apartheid and on and on in a legacy of what people can do to each other…. Let’s remember the poetry…the power of the pen, and the joyful freedom of expression not only for those with whom we agree but for those with whom we powerfully disagree. Yes it takes only for good men to “do nothing etc. etc. but we do no good when hatred is forced underground…. To paraphrase Brandeis , I believe, sunlight is the best disinfectant…. Let the sun shine
Like that sun, Pearl!
“Let’s remember the poetry…the power of the pen, and the joyful freedom of expression not only for those with whom we agree but for those with whom we powerfully disagree.”
Amen, Pearl. I am going to quote you under Joseph’s message above. I hope you don’t mind.
Delighted to see our community rise together
.
Reruns
Growing up,
life wasn’t abusive or neglectful,
but it was staid, Spartan
and security minded.
My parents were too busy
trying not to lose their status
in the lower middle class
that there was rarely
time for laughter,
time for joy.
I don’t look back and see
the good old days.
I see reruns,
mostly sitcoms.
All I was allowed
to do was watch TV
so I did.
I even learned to read
by matching the synopsis
to what was on
in the TV.
Now I use
DVR technology to watch
shows I saw as a kid
and I recite the scripts,
perfect in memory and intonation,
I even know the rhythm
of the laugh tracks.
To this day,
some of my fondest memories
are found in episodes of
“All in the Family”
“Sanford and Son”
“Green Acres”
“The Honeymooners”
and better than family,
they will all
outlive me.
The Tressel Years
Jim Tressel was coaching
A great year approaching
Man, do I miss the old days.
Our offense, impressive
Our defense, aggressive
Man, do I miss the old days.
Now comes the revival
Of O.S.U.’s rival
Man, do I miss the old days.
And as I write of ya,
My Bucks, I still love ya,
But MAN, do I miss the old days.
WORD POWER
Rest assured
The power of the pen
Or the keyboard
From Niemuller
To Angelou
Continues
Just like
In the old days!
Til tomorrow, peace to all!
Well said.
When you’re right, you’re right.
Ahhhhhhhhhh delightful Patricia
Sara, Jane, PKP–thanks so much for your kind words!
PKP says:
November 26, 2011 at 11:22 pm….. THIS WAS A RESPONSE TO JOSEPH HARKER POET LAUREATE OF POETIC ASIDES WHO WAS VERY DISTURBED EARLIER TODAY BY THE TONE AND TENOR OF SOME “POETIC” CONTENT
Joseph, I was busy with NaNo and was not here…the only way to deal with vitriol is to admonish and then ignore…..imagine the world if Adolph had truly been admonished and IGNORED … this is not turning a deaf, ear or being a kumbayah idealist ….. It is absolutely refusing to give traction or validity to the slippery slope upon which free speech slides into hatred. There are many perhaps who agree with those who write hatefully and others perhaps, you are correct, fewer in number who do not. I struggled years ago when a person repeatedly provoked and penned vitriol….but ranting remains powerless when no one listens. I do not believe the opposite of love is hatred I do believe the opposite of love is indifference. I have no interest in responding to those who believe I, or anyone else is or shall be damned because of who we are or who we are not or what we believe or what we do not. I stand for freedom. I stand with your right to be you – and my right to be me and our collective right as long AND THIS IS IMPORTANT no one is hurt or disenfranchised for others to hate and for us to be indifferent to hatred …. and watch it die for lack of sustenance….I will not feed hatred on this site or anywhere…. please my talented young sensitive poetic friend…WRITE ON…. and never feel you stand alone. You have admonished and been supported in your admonishment….let us now turn to the power of indifference… Banishment and censorship and leaving only serves to feed the hatred….let it starve …. With love
Reply
Truly hope that Joseph will continue to write!
echo this
Oh Pearl – I wish I’d scrolled down here and read this beautiful and spot-on note you wrote to Joseph before I scribbled my rambling bit of incoherence to him – this is exactly what I meant to say Joseph but in a much more articulate fashion – as you can see, people on this site are speaking out … take heart and do keep writing -
sorry, meant to say June 7, 2011
The Good Old Days…(Written on June & 2011, just for fun:))
I bet you think today I am going to write
About birthdays and getting old
How I just can’t remember quite
What I have or have not been told
Bet you thought that this was the day
I would celebrate and lament
But all I can really think to say
Is I am ‘middle-age content’
I don’t mind the years that are slipping by
As my youth slips farther away
I don’t miss the dream that shone in my eye
In some by-gone yesterday
I really enjoy the ache in my bones
I’ve earned it, don’t you agree?
Lamenting my age is like kicking stones
And who wants to be twenty-three?
If I look in the mirror to bemoan its truth
I would not trade it away
For a couple more years of brimming youth
Without words like ‘stiff’ or ‘gray’
It’s a great day to be alive
If I could I would not turn back the page
To be something other than forty-five
Or, in other words…middle-age
No, I’m not crazy or losing my mind
To middle-age insanity
But if you believe this…may I be so kind
As to suggest that you might be?
Write on!
I’m posting a very short poem, a lune, for two reasons: (1) It’s been an extremely busy holiday weekend for me, with little time to write, and (2) Some of the dialogue on this blog this weekend has, frankly, left a sour taste in my mouth. Amazing how things can deteriorate when Robert’s away for a few days.
good old days:
old, but not as good
as we remember
Yes. I think it is important for all of us to remember…this is a poetry site…A place where poets gather to read and share POETRY, not doctrine. I really like this poem. It sums up those days perfectly!
Have to agree!
Poets have always included and been in the forefront of political and all sorts of passionately held belief…. We have been here before with some speaking hurtful “truths” as they “believe” them and misreading a lack of condemnation as acceptance. We do not need monitors just poems and readers. I think there are occasional flare ups here BECAUSE. this site has such sn intensely supportive sensibility…. We have come through such sour patches and shall do so again …in peace, in love, in poetry
Wise!
The Good Old Days
Danny La Rue in satin and feathers
lipstick and make-up
dressed to kill
all ideas that only women
could sparkle and sing and wear
corsets with style.
The only act I remember
on The Good Old Days
Variety Show
I used to gaze in wonder
and wish somehow
I could grow into
something as exotic
and spectacular.
But my future was
more caterpillar
than the butterfly brittle
dazzle and delight
of Danny La Rue
on his Saturday flight.
The Good Old Days was a television show running from 1953 to the 1980s and featured variety acts in a re-creation of the Music Hall variety shows that were popular in the late Victorian and the Edwardian periods in the UK. The audience dressed in period costume and it was very much a part of the popular culture for four decades.
Poet’s Note:
My explanation in yesterday’s poem is in the several REPLY boxes following those sent to me in various places down through the drift after my poem on Consumption was severely and inappropriately attacked with complete FALSE interpretation and violent commentary. A later Poet’s Note of commentary I wrote down the scale was also commented on and my explanation given. Fortunately Janet Ruth as a true LADY came to my defense and prior to the “bash” against me she posted a very nice REPLY in proper order of the day. My poem today reveals the TRUE me in context of “the good old days” as they actually unfolded. I hope EVERYONE had a Happy Thanksgiving weekend in progress with FAMILY. And I hope our POET ASIDES experience ends with a Happy Flavor for all in the four remaining days left. Rich Atwater
Nice to ‘meet’ you…Yes, I agree. This is a site to share poetry. There is a saying which I thought of as I read everything’ A truly humble person, and one who is at peace with himself and the world, is not easily offended’…may we all experience Peace both in the remaining four days of Nov. and through-out the Christmas season!
Ditto
Tales Smoked from My Grandmother’s Pipe
Rich Atwater Nov. 26, 2011
Maggie Jane Drake really never smoked, it was Grandpa who did (not on a pipe) and choked,
I never really met them because they were dead, long before I was born in my mother’s bed.
But my Dad told me about them, and about his own early life too, like the story of the old woman in a shoe,
She was born in 1860 (yes my real own Grandma says:) when Abraham Lincoln was Civil War Prez.
Way up in Maritime Nova Scotia, whence they came, She from Indian Harbor, Guysborough by name,
He a farm boy of Pictou on the opposite side, to go see her– a horse and buggy he would often ride,
They were married in 1890 in Captain John Drake’s home, My great Grandfather of wooden leg fame,
The clipper ship sailor of Drake line genealogy sheet, related to Sir Francis Drake, my Great Uncle keep.
Grandma Maggie gave birth to three daughters in the late 1800′s, a boy who died, then my Daddy 1904 wonders!
At 3 years of age he immigrated to Maine from Antigonish via train, He converted to Mormonism, went blind, only to gain–
An orphaned wife who bore him twelve kids, of which I’m number four, So thus you have “my roots” before I left out the door,
But a door we didn’t have, only a flap, since we lived in a tent, Poorer than a church mouse, who at least had a church where he went.
Eighteen years I grew double-dipped as a Protestant Christian of sorts, because Mom and Dad had very different Faiths as cohorts,
She was 7th Day Adventist, he a Mormon by belief, so I went all day Saturday with Mom, and Sunday with Dad like a Christmas wreath,
I was full blown Christian all weekend long, singing the hymns of different songs, in two different churches, back and forth like ping-pongs!
We had no running water, so my Dad in a pail took from a spring in the woods, We lived like the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hoods!
Later the Mormon missionaries helped build us a three room tarpaper shack, there I lived with siblings and mother as “Jill’ and Dad as “Jack”,
We read from the Bible by kerosene lamp, kept warm by wood burning stove, But “those were the good old days” I declare proudly, by Jove!
We washed in a round steel tub from catalogue Sears-Roebuck, and used it again as toilet paper in the outhouse, outdoors surrounded by ducks!
But Dad, as an immigrant, proudly flew the American flag on a tall pole in the air, Oh, what a life to recall and review as I sit in my poetic chair!
I rode the yellow school bus seven miles into town as a “hick”, and I was known by my family nickname “Dickie”, but some called me “Dick”.
Now I’m Sir Richard-Merlin Atwater by literary name, with 700 poems to my call, my great surname ancestors arrived in New Haven in 1635, ya’ll
May not know it, by they founded New Haven Colony under the Connecticut oak tree, on Yale University grounds before it even came to be,
During the Revolutionary War they became Tories in support of the King, thus good old George Washington drove them out to a Nova Scotia fling!
David Henry Atwater, my Dad, took Eva Viola (Dyer) as his wife and I’m glad, otherwise i would have never been born in the great state of Maine,
With eleven other siblings as a Family of Fourteen, But Oh what a life of fun and joyful rompous times we had for they were King and Queen,
Even in the depths of poverty they were living their dream, to have lots of children, praise God up above just for life like cherries and cream.
At Christmas time we lived royally from Salvation Army toys, and gifts from Robin Hood, and charitable offerings that kept us in a happy mood.
My Mom died of cancer at age 73, and Dad died past age 100, like a wise old owl in a tree, they lie side by side back there in a Maine cemetery.
Today at 65 I now recall how “The Blind Man and the Orphan” had a great call, to bring the Gospel of JESUS CHRIST to twelve children, that’s all,
What more can you want than a spiritual life, with happy children, and a loving wife, money meant nothing for we had absolutely NONE in this life,
The rags that I wore were the robes of a King, for they were shed upon me from a manger child, we lived life conservative and never went wild.
My spiritual “roots” run quite deep in the Lord of forgiveness and compassion too, because I’m the son of a blind man and the old woman in a shoe,
They had a heritage and left a legacy of “the good old days” that may never again be, for the times that they knew has been over run by technology.
I’ve long since retired as a 30 year career military intelligence officer with many a degree, my life on the line so many times to keep America free,
But I’ll never forget what they gave to me (Mom and Dad)-stories and “Tales Smoked from my Grandmother’s Pipe” that make me who I am– me!
Poet’s Note:
This is the TRUE story of my life and of those who gave it to me as a legacy back in “the good old days”. I was born in the back woods of Maine October 6, 1946– in a blaze of glory of Autumn falling colorful leaves, on a Sunday morning (my birthright–like the poem of birth on which of the 7 days of the week says–happy, joyful with glee), a mile outside Canton Township (Oxford County) “Down East” New England Yankee Maine–along the Androscoggin River along with moose and bear as my brother, and i bear the partial blood line of the narive Algonquin Indians who are partly my forebears along with immigrants on all four lines of my FAMILY grandparenets names from England back in the 1600′s— now nearly 400 years in America, the native homeland I love, and for which I gave my life in service of to defend the freedoms God shed upon us as his gift. May we all live in righteousness so as to deserve it. Sir Richard-Merlin Atwater (Obi-wan “Merlin the Musician” as poet)
“Rootbeer with Jive” (A Blitz Poem)
Orange Soda
Or Rootbeer
Rootbeer floats
Rootbeer malt
Malt Shop hops
Malt Shop bop
Bop on the face
Bop on the head
Head home
Head to the drive-in
Drive-in movies
Drive-in love
Love poodle skirts
Love rock-n-roll
Rock-n-roll all night long
Rock-n-roll is here to stay
Stay close to me
Stay in my dream
Dream angel
Dream car
Car hops
Car race
Race to the start
Race to the finish
Finish last
Finish first
First love
First kiss
Kiss me senseless
Kiss me one more time
Time after time
Time stands still
Still waiting for you
Still on my mind
Mind your manners
Mind your cheating heart
Heart ache
Heart broken in two
Two turtle-doves
Two o’clock rock
Rock –n- Robin
Rock in my shoe
Shoe of blue suede
Shoe in the hand
Hand in your pockets
Hand jive
Jive on the streets
Jive in the soul
Soul
Streets
I’ve never heard of this kind of poem…it made me smile and want to try one. Thank-you for this light-hearted jive…
I am blitzed! YAY
Good Old Days
These are the good old days.
The golden years were in the summer
of my life, when the sun was shining.
I met my husband, held my children’s
wiggly bodies for the first time,
had a houseful of laughter and activity.
The good old days are now. I’m old,
but there are riches to be found
in the love of this same sweet man,
the mountain top in fall, or a winter
scene when I write or paint to my content.
You are a wise girl, and I hope I have this attitude when I get there, if I do. This poem is a beautiful picture of contentment!
Ooh aaah and BRAVO,!
They never left
The good old days?
You know I don’t like
to choose favorites.
Besides, how could I pick
from this endless
cycle of days?
If I must, I’ll say
that it was where
our mythology began.
Were we Qin or were
we Zhou? You called
me another name.
I only know that I loved
as we watched
the first black-faced
spoonbills arrive
early to the fen.
Your laugh, full of white
teeth, was borrowed
by the sun setting
over your shoulder,
and we flew our red kite
late into evening.
Another beaut. I have begun searching for your poetry and book-marked your web-site. Thank-you .
Just wonderful!
Count me in with your admirers. Intelligent and beautiful
YOU CAN’T GO BACK AGAIN
I drove down the four-lane
that used to be two, undivided.
Where was the little dirt road
that took off into canyons
where I’d ride my big black mare?
It wasn’t there – the dirt road,
the canyons. Nothing was there.
Only houses, freeway, convenience
stores. The ridges bull-dozed,
flat places paved. I kept on driving,
to a deserted spot that no one wanted
yet. I stopped, got out, and felt
the knifing winter-wind off ridges.
through dry arroyos. I closed
my eyes and cantered bareback
on a big black mare. Then
I got into my car and drove off
into the transformed world.
This poem brought a lump to my throat. Years ago, as my dad was driving my grandpa, Grandpa was looking for landmarks with anticipation, but they no longer existed because four-lane highways ran through what once was a peaceful farming-country side…and I remember grandpa saying sadly, ‘It just doesn’t look like it used to…’
Responding through tears from the back of a big black mare
I liked this piece very much. Good work, Taylor!
Fogged Up Lens
We keep adjusting the volume to hear Al Pacino
and then to not hear him as much,
and when it is too low we look around the room
and you can see different interpretations of the good old days
on the eyes of the others looking around the room,
but if we were to go back everything would be too small.
If only we did not possess the ability to turn around!
2011 and still some make a living by digging up gold,
looking not backward or forward
but down at pans of mud and water.
Who has that kind of faith?
Water is a lover which lets us do whatever we want
but even water reaches a point where it screams.
You’re a gangster now, says Pacino,
and we all look back to the screen.
O–o-o-h My!!! WOW!
YES A definite WOW
Then, and Again (a Nove Otto)
Women did not frequent bars.
Few were seen at wheels of cars.
Housework was not done by men.
Oh there were ladies of the night
with skirts and tops sinfully tight
for barflies in cars with a yen.
We still fight for equality
It’s been an uphill climb, yet see,
equal jobs, unequal pay, now and then.
Memories
Nostalgia
Transforms memories
With a thin
Veneer of
Self-deceit, an illusion
Of what never was.
Good Old Vinyl ( a Brevette)
Albums
s p u n
songs
Sweet!
Thanks, Patricia!
Those Were the Good Old Days
“Ba-NAN-ios! Five cents a dozen!” was
the cry that woke my father as a boy. So
he told us. He loved to tell us all his tales.
He loved to thrill us with his stories: how
his friend’s father, a mortician, let them
play inside the mortuary; how he’d walk
home alone at dusk, skin a-tingle, for he
knew a neighbor liked to choose a fat tree
from those that lined the walk and stand
hidden, waiting for a passing youngster.
Then he’d jump out and scare the child
who’d run off screaming as the neighbor
laughed until he couldn’t catch his breath.
“Those were the good old days,” my father said.
When I was young, no summer day could
be too hot for us to play outside where we
would climb our tree and pick green apples.
Underneath, the grass wore thin, the perfect
place to park our scooters, trikes and bikes.
A dime would buy a comic book; a nickel
bought an ice cream cone – but only one
and not a dozen – like my dad’s bananas,
purchased for the same five cents. Better
yet we could see a movie for a nickel. That
was quite a buy, for no one owned a TV yet.
But if we were penniless, we’d join our friends
to caravan by bike to the library. Back home
we shared our borrowed books all afternoon.
Those were the good old days that I remember.
Forward, if You Believe in God
I must delete a dozen emails a day from her,
all surely well-meaning, but annoying as hell,
her assumption that all her family members,
believing as she does, must be willing to forward
her messages to like believers who will take them
global, an army marching from her keyboard.
This one today is about school prayer’s being subverted
by atheists, communists, and liberals, children being
denied a connection to their maker in the name of inclusion,
the anti-Christ; pinkos, rotten teachers, and democrats
ruining the fine old days of yore when America grew up
bearing arms and waving flags in the guardianship of saints.
I am sensitive to educational issues, having spent over
fifty years as student and teacher, educated by thinkers
and judgmental bastards alike. I see my students’ faces,
of many races, national origins, sexual preferences, faiths
and non-faiths, cultures and language groups who have
come to me seeking a life of the mind, literature and research,
grammar and scholarship, each student a singular self, unique
and wondrous in the world. I feel within me the lessons we taught
one another, their best writings still in my “Save” folder for second
thoughts and lunches years hence when we meet again
as old friends. I feel I must defend them from a well-meaning
email I will never forward, but that I will respond to rather
than silently deleting. And so I pen a well-meaning letter
to her, assurances that while the good old days may have
suffered necessary revision, tolerance, kindness, acceptance,
and love are readily available in schools, as surely any god
might approve. As for prayer, I know all too well that around
exam time, prayers for success waft upward like doves.
And since I’ve taken the time and energy to respond to this
one email, I ask her if she would mind not forwarding so
many such angry accusing emails to me, that in fact
I don’t agree with them and that they just bum me out,
but I’m always eager to see her holiday pictures and
hear of her family’s trials and successes. We are family.
I hate those forwards. Yeah, I believe in God, but hitting forward on an email doesn’t prove a thing. It’s how I treat others that is the proof of the pudding.
Well written, Jane! It is a big diverse world we live in, a school community is clear evidence of so many varied individuals; the “singular self” is each and every one in a classroom or in life outside the classroom. Your response is one of those small individual responses that helps to make a difference.
Thanks for the comments, friends.
Well there you go again proving my point….each one a gem sparkling!
Well done, Jane! One of my favorite poems of the day!
Remember the Good Old Days,
when you ate your first oyster,
stole a sip of daddy’s beer,
or made love for the first time?
Oh come on, think hard.
Haha …Hmmmm … A poem that has the reader fill in the most vivid images Exceelent!
Back, Before
there was a hawk,
sat on the ladderback chair,
sat up on the chair back,
like a crown for the table.
there was a hawk
held quiet for the blessing
never snatched the best fried chicken
or interrupted conversation.
there was a hawk
once on a time
said: this is getting old–good-bye.
once on a time
there was a hawk.
Wonderful, Barbara.
Ditto!
In Kirkland, 1977
Those were the days when
my father wore a powder-blue
leisure suit that matched our
velvet chairs, in whose surface
I traced endless patterns with
index fingers, four years old
like the rest of me. We lived
in a suburb of Seattle, with
a view of lake, mountains,
and, somewhere between them,
a sparkle of city lights that one
great aunt who visited always said
was like a jewel box. We owned
all the jewels then, velvet and cedar.
Even polyester doubleknit can sparkle
if you look at it just right, when it is
a suit on your father, who is still
so young and world-beating,
his hair still black as that sky.
even in polyester this has such a gentle touch – generous in the texture of something very sure – like a moment in time continuing to be found
Thank you, Jane! We moved around a lot when I was a kid, and I think that house is where we felt most at home. Somewhere, there’s a picture of my dad in that suit, and when I’ve looked at it in recent years, I’ve realized how young he was then — a few years younger than I am now.
amazing to think how young I was when I had children – parents seem so all knowing to us little ones and then in reflection I stand amazed that we all made it through given what I did not know –
OH WOW AND TEARS ….SOOO MOVING….
“When the world had no color”
What a difference a couple
of decades makes— I now know
that age is a badge of honor to
wear with pride, though these
children I dare to call mine, often
smirk at these gray hairs and ask
me what it was like to live in a
world that that did not yet have color,
I narrow my eyes, then pause
long enough for them to squirm,
then say, you guys think you know
so much, it just so happens that the
world is still black and white; there
must something wrong with your
eyes. They chide me, but for the
next seven days, I’ll catch the little
darlings rubbing their peepers as if
they believe me.
There you go! We have to keep them alert. Good one.
Good Old Days
When happiness included
a beat-up bike,
a swim suit,
and a friend at the pool.
Those days before
polio vaccine,
TV’s, and drugs.
Some say the old days were better.
Maybe it’s a trade-off.
Hi Sally! Terrific poem great to “see” you
today’s
A good old days tanka
Everyone crowded
By Gran’s remote-less TV
On the gold flowered
Sofa covered in plastic
We hated so much back then
interesting how the feel of those sofas in the days back then remain so close just now – you really give us this moment here.
yesterday’s Consumption poem
When the frivolity and fun of a few hard earned extras
Bypassed compulsion to keep up with the crowd
Becoming a national need to overbuy or risk the roof over a friend’s head
Consumption consumed us
Do You Remember?
It seems just like yesterday
Gas was only $3.49 a gallon
And milk was not far off
Chocolate was only 75 cents
How prices have gone up!
They pay us less and less each year
And make the work harder
And longer!
Do you remember?
It seems just like yesterday
When you only had to wait an hour
To get from one side of town
To the other
Traffic has gotten so bad these days!
Do you remember?
It seems just like yesterday
Things were so easy
The grass was greener
Everything was cheaper
At least that is how
Our children of today
Will look back on these days
When our age they reach
And we in grayer caps
Will chuckle as history repeats
As the good old days are recalled
Back in the Day
Back in the day, Summer was forever.
A simple time when all the world was fine.
Never any worries or big conflicts.
Great hopes and dreams and wishes were all mine.
Being outdoors from sunup to sundown.
Hard work and exercise enhanced the mood.
Weekends at the lake were just a given.
Swimming, boating, fishing and great food.
Back in the day, everything was perfect.
Faith and hope would always light the way.
We look forward now to a much brighter future.
I still wish things were like back in the day.
By Michael Grove
Nice, and so very true!
Poignant yearning beautifully poemed
Joseph, it’s a damned shame that you feel the way you do about the site, but I certainly understand why and where you’re coming from. I tend to ignore the vitriolic, preachy, politicizing, judgmental poets here (and I need not name names – we all know to whom I refer), but it’s easy for me to say if I don’t feel personally attacked. On the other hand, those who offend my friends offend me, and so I say (on behalf of Robert. who’s absent this weekend): Cut it out, people! If you want to push your socio-political agenda or proselytize, do it on your own blog. This is supposed to be a home for poets of all types, and getting on the soapbox poem after poem gets very tedious after a while. I don’t even read certain poets any more for that very reason, so for me at least, you’ve achieved the opposite of your intent to get attention. Lighthen up, already! Joseph, I’m sorry to see you go, and hope you reconsider soon.
Thanks, Bruce. I wholly agree with you.
Agree with all… well said Bruce
Ditto, Bruce.
Well, said.
Bruce you have said it so well.
Joseph, take heart and keep writing!
Another Collom Lune:
we reminisce about
the good old days, while
checking our email
– Cara Holman
Cara – you have made me laugh tonight – thank you
And me as well …..thank you,!
Echo that!
Thank you Jane, Pearl, and Patricia. The funniest thing about it, is it’s true!
The good ol’ days
My entry for today.
The good old days,
I heard you say,
and It sends my thosughts
your way ..
good days, old days
I differentiate both
Good can be today
with friends in heart
and occupying life
old days are with you
good, bad i cannot say,
but its special in many ways.
good old days,
I hear you say,
do I feature in them,
will you ever say ?
So sweet
I swear the air was bluer then,
or maybe my eyes saw clearer.
I swear the days passed slow and full
and the infinite now felt nearer.
All the time I took to grow
into who I am, an awestruck man,
has brought me cycling around life’s math
feeling closer now to the infinite then.
Terrific flow
Climbing Trees
The pear tree in my father’s orchard was taller than his house
though not as tall as the sky, nor the crows that flapped
laboriously through the morning air to alight on its branches.
I could climb it by the time I was ten, tall enough to reach
the bottom branch with my hands above my head
and scramble up the dusty trunk.
Mum would always know when I’d been climbing trees
by the green dust of the lichen-covered bark on my clothes,
but never when the blossom had set
for each blossom knocked off was a fruit that wouldn’t grow.
In August I would clamber up with a basket
picking the biggest and best of the Conference pears
passing the baskets down to my parents and sisters
by means of a rope from the highest branches.
Forty years later and I tremble to climb a ladder.
Those days of looking at the world from the top of a tree –
my father’s pear or the oaks on the canal bank –
seem to belong to someone else.
That couldn’t possibly have been me, could it?
this makes it so easy to see and sense that small boy and that tree – so much a family working together too. like this
BRAVO BRAVO …..
Simply tea!
In the good old days
Tea was orange pekoe only
Future there to read
I hear you Joseph. It is OK to be a darned fine poet, our laureate, and our reminder of civility. Three Shadormas, a form I learned here at PA, thanks to Robert.
Looking out
at others instead
of in at
myself is
too easy a habit, too
given to judgment.
Sometimes it
Takes a brave heart to
Speak against
Hard words flung
Like schrapnel, dropped like bombs on
Small silent targets.
I am old
enough to think that
any day
I wake up
see the sun and breathe deeply
is a good ole’ day.
Good one, Jane!
Thanks, Patricia.
“.
Are These Days Golden?
When age comes upon me,
And so much of my time
Will be spent in the past,
Sparring with memories
That will judge my life –
Will these days bring smiles
At the joys we shared?
Or tears of regret
For those we let pass by?
Good Old Days
In the good old days, when one person had,
Tomatoes, squash and cucumbers,
Everybody had them.
After supper, in the hot summer,
My uncle’s family would sit on their porch,
And wave across the street to his friends family
On their porch.
I would stand and soar down the open stree,
On my blue bicycle until I hit gravel,
At the drug store, comic books were a dime.
We would buy penny candy,
And get a nickel, vanilla coke.
At night, on the way back from the lake cottage,
We would look out the window and see,
What people in their houses were doing,
And later, fall asleep on the giant back seat,
Or in the shelf of the back window.
Listening to the engine’s soft hum.
.
What a picture of the past!
Kevin’s Visit to the Retirement Home
Back then, we just flirted with the boys and led a gay life
without any cares. We didn’t have much, but we had enough—
the occasional talkie, the radio, everyone played an instrument,
your Uncle Theo made brandy from every fruit on the place.
We’d push back the furniture and have dancing on the floor,
everyone favoring the slow dances so they could canoodle
a little, perfectly innocent, to love songs not racy in the least.
It gave us urges, but nice girls didn’t, the boys praising sluts.
Young Kevin listens to Great-Aunt Jennie, a crease in his forehead,
while I decipher terms. Happy, not homosexual; talking movies, not
silent films; on the actual floor, not in the yard; hug and be close;
naughty, not fast; urges, sluts, and nice girls, we’ll talk later.
Of course, in my day, the war was on and nobody knew
when he’d see his girl again, Aunt Jennie’s friend Herb breaks in,
and of course we wanted some before we died, thank god for hussies.
Those girls had the heart to see that for some of us, they would be
our first and last, so many young men gone before they’d even lived,
they could carry a gun but they better not lay down with a woman
or get drunk, our first and last, and then he tears up, sad and angry,
as Jennie pats him. Kevin looks at me. It’s going to be a long drive home.
WOW, ! I sincerely think you are incapable of writing a less than exquisite poem….
Indeed I am. I wrote half a dozen real stinkers today
Walking Upright
In those days, long ago,
I would walk the woodland paths,
Lay back upon the ground,
And count my blessings on the stones,
And in the stars, the ancestors looked
Brightly back at me.
Years and decades, wires and asphalt,
Pass, while we connect and disconnect.
What life are we living now?
Taking the straight line uncoils
The spiral dance, takes away the rhythm,
Constant data input muffles the heartbeat,
The one that we share.
Peel the onion of existence,
Back and back and back,
To the full emptiness of that time,
Past, present, what will come,
All in the vast dark of the cave,
From whence we came.
Beautiful, Kit.
“the onion of existence” indeed …lovely!
I posted something to this effect two weeks ago, and here I find myself writing it again…
I’ll tell you the good old days I miss. I miss when Poetic Asides encouraged diversity, brought in people (hundreds of them) from all different walks of life, race, religion, orientation, and background, and hate speech and its writers were not ignored, but admonished. There has been a sea change in the population of the forum: this happens, and for my part, I’ve accepted it, because for the part of almost everyone else, that population is still a supportive and polite one.
It is not easy being different. And I know there are people on here that may consider themselves one minority or another, but trust me: you are not. You have friends, family, colleagues, or congregants who are in the same boat, both here and in your life. If I were to say “white, Christian, straight, married (at some point)”, I would bet 90% of people here would fall into at least two of those categories. (And your odds are pretty good elsewhere.)
I have never tried to make any secret here of being a gay man who has struggled with religion and spirituality, and being something of a black sheep here. I have tried my best to write poems in which the political, religious, and lifestyle choices of others are a complete non-issue. What you have to understand is that writing about your own is fine; writing about those of others raises an eyebrow, but okay; and criticizing those of others is just not cool. Free speech is only as wonderful as the way you use it. It is absolutely your right to treat other people like shit with your words, and if you want to do that, fully aware of the consequences, then that illustrates to me, at least, what kind of person you are. Do you think I enjoy coming here and reading work which suggests, either implicitly or explicitly, that I’m going to hell? Would anyone?
I’ve done my best to ignore it, and not name names, and continue writing true to my heart. Poetic Asides is where I re-discovered poetry after a long absence, and with the exception of a few moments, I have enjoyed my time here. But I’ve just had enough. I’m not angry, I’m disappointed: by the fact that hateful writing is allowed to continue (repeatedly, this month), and the fact that there are such people writing in the world. I’m honored to have had the opportunity to work among a number of truly wonderful poets, but that little bit of venom builds and builds and taints the whole of the place. It’s a damn shame.
This is written in the spirit of the moment, so maybe later I’ll be over it and come back feeling sheepish once again. But right now, in this instant, I am closing the door behind me. It’s been real, you guys.
“First they came for the communists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.”
- Martin Niemöller
We write from the heart
Our opinions and beliefs
Pain is not our goal
Earl, I’m not sure how someone who is gay is supposed to take this phrase:
“I remember the day not so long ago
When sexual perversion wasn’t accepted
Traditional marriage was protected”
as not intending to cause pain.
Pain was not intended. I was writing about things the way they were. I apologize if anyone was hurt or offended.
We are all different, and different things bother each of us. I get offended when the name of Christ is taken in vain. I get offended when Christianity is put down. And I get offended when America is trampled on in any way. But, that’s life. People have differing opinions and beliefs. We offend and we get offended. But we can’t let things get to us.
It’s all part of being human.
Maybe it is all a part of being human, but I think we can try to be nicer. We can try to care about each other a little bit more. And we can do better because that’s all part of not just being human but of having and of showing some humanity.
The problem is when young men are killed against fences….and others driven to take their own lives to end unrelenting pain…there is a difference between being ” offended” and being dangerously hurtful…. I refer you to the cinders of six million who “offended others”. as but a paltry example of a historical consequence where the freedom to hate those who “offended” led, while others in silent agreement or silent fearful horror stood by. This cannot be an America or Canada, or India, or Spain, or Wales, or Germany or England or ANY of our Poetic Asides contributing nations that ANY of us could possibly want or defend.
Earl, the idea that “pain was not intended” sounds like that old Reaganism, “Mistakes were made,” as though you eschew any responsibility for the pain you inflict. It’s about sensitivity.. Try walking in a gay man’s shoes for a day. Or my gender-queer daughter. Or a homeless non-Anglo person, and bear the stares.
You are a privileged person, my friend: White, male, Christian, and straight. That’s a dangerous combination when asserting oneself poetically without the aforementioned empathy. Amy
Earl, I saw no offense in your poem at all. I saw rather a similarity to a song by Don Williams titled “I Believe in YOu” ,–I believe in the good old days–I believe in babies, I believe in Mom and Dad— I Believe in YOU.
The words of Alexander Pope are appropeu in regards to your sentimental journey towards times past:
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
Must be us New England Yankees from Maine have similar beliefs “from our roots” that are counter to the “forced political correctness” that misinterprets even the words we write. But just remember Christ as a JEW who brought Christianity to the world was CENSORED severely for his THOUGHTS and words and ultimately crucified by those of his own Poetic Asides group. I like what PKP had to say in regards to allowing full open thought and expression. Let the sun shine in on all aspects of poetical thought. Some would say we both spent too much time in the Air Force defending others freedoms–retiring–only to have ours curtailed. I’m on YOUR side–Like Don Williams sang: ,”I Believe in YOU” and in Christ’s teachings as well. Even if the WORLD is contrary to it.
Amen, Ina. You rock.
I’m new to this group of poets because on WritingDotCom where I spend most of my time, a collegue suggested this month’s Chapbook Challenge. So I’m here.
I have not read everything this month from all the other poets and have fortunately not come across anything anti-gay or I too would have bristled.
Your comments today certainly need to be read by a large number of people, but it is my experience that those who will approve of your words are those who do not need to receive this particular message.
Write on. Continue to express yourself. Human beings are not doormats.
This is unfortunate. I’ve not read enough of everyone, I guess, to experience the prejudice you’re tasting. I truly respect you and always admire your writing. I hope we can still be honored with your gift of voice. I understand if you can’t but I believe there are many of us who would be missing your presence.
I did some back-reading and have discovered, with much disappointment, what had taken place. I Just wanted you to know, Joseph (and I don’t know if you’ll get to read this but) I’m very saddened by this and my heart is going out to you.
sorrow
Thank you, Joseph, for speaking up. I often have felt the same way here, and do “take a break” most of the year. Wherever we weave our words, and our lives, it is best to be true to oneself AND do no harm to others. Unfortunately, many feel they have to proselytize. It becomes disrespectful. Best to you.
Very well said.
Joseph,
Thank you for saying what you’ve said. As someone else who doesn’t fit any two of those criteria – I’ve found some things that get posted here incredibly hurtful, this morning included.
So many people here are so kind. It’s a pity that other people are so busy exercising their right to free speech that they forgot to exercise good manners.
I hope you’ll come back. Your poems are beautiful, refined, thoughtful- stuff that I equate with lit. journals – so I can read your work regularly. But, unselfishly, I understand that life’s hard enough without adding tsuris.
ina
Joseph was busy with NaNo and was not here…the only way to deal with vitriol is to admonish and then ignore…..imagine the world if Adolph had truly been admonished and IGNORED … this is not turning a deaf, ear or being a kumbayah idealist ….. It is absolutely refusing to give traction or validity to the slippery slope upon which free speech slides into hatred. There are many perhaps who agree with those who write hatefully and others perhaps you are correct fewer in number who do not. I struggled years ago when a person repeatedly provoked and penned vitriol….but ranting remains powerless when no one listens. I do not believe the opposite of love is hatred I do believe the opposite of love is indifference. I have no interest in responding to those who believe I, or anyone else is or shall be damned because of who we are or who we are not or what we believe or what we fo not. I stand for freedom. I stand with your right to be you – and my right to be me and our collective right as long AND THIS IS IMPORTANT no one is hurt or disenfranchised for others to hate and for us to be indifferent to hatred …. and watch it die for lack of sustenance….I will not feed hatred on this site or anywhere…. please my talented young sensitive poetic friend…WRITE ON…. and never feel you stand alone. You have admonished and been supported in your admonishment….let us now turn to the power of indifference… Banishment and censorship and leaving only serves to feed the hatred….let it starve …. With love
Joseph, you are much loved and respected in this group. I won’t say that what you have written is not true, because I notice many poems which I try to avoid reading. I would greatly miss your fantastic talent here, and hope you decide to come back.
Sara
The Martin Niemöller quote is fantastic.
Joseph, I fit into the white (1/2 Irish and 1/2 Italian), married, Christian category. Yet I too had to take a break from this site a while back, because the political and religious hate-speak got to me. When I wrote a poem that asked for those from every side of the aisle to cease the hatred and find a way to express themselves mindfully, I was shocked at the reactions I received. It stung, and I felt it was unwarranted. At the time, it was better for me to step back for time-constraint reasons as well as being honestly disillusioned and feeling the need to step away from the “drama.” I had more than I could manage in real life, so to speak, without piling on in cyberspace. I returned because I missed the fellowship and beauty that is also very much a part of this poetic community. Also because I learn from all of you. I’m sorry you’ve been hurt by the expression of heart-felt opinions of others here. I realize it was exactly that (expression of heart-felt opinions of others) that hurt me as well. It seems poets are passionate by nature, and sometimes our words can be offensive and hurtful … whether intentionally or not. When Walt and I created Poetic Bloomings, that was one of the things we agreed on … we reserve the right to yank anything that crosses the line. We discourage political posts, and will not tolerate hateful or totally insensitive speech. That’s a “plus” of having a small, personally-owned blog. It’s easy enough for us to monitor. So far, thankfully, we’ve not had the need to hit “delete.”
I sincerely hope we don’t lose the beauty of your words here, Joseph. Your poetry stretches and intrigues, and I would miss your voice.
A thought provoking reply
I agree with you Marie and glad to say I hope we don’t lose Joseph’s voice here – inclusion and kindness are the true gold of my day
Very well said Joseph. I hope you don’t leave us. Amy – you too (see yesterdays posts).
I have just read the reply to a brief comment I made yesterday about ‘someone’ and was torn between the desire to laugh or cry as I read it. Everyone is entitled to their opinions of course, but I do wish certain people would stop shoving extremist views in our faces. But I don’t suppose that’s going to happen. Alas.
I love your poetry Joseph and I hope you will continue to share it with us.
Sorry, hon, I’m gone. I’ve had enough! Please feel free to drop by http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com if you want to continue to be in touch!
Good grief, it’s not the rats deserting the ship, it’s the wonderful, loving idiosyncratists! (If that’s even a word.) Amy, I’ve barely caught up with you again, only to find you gone. This is lousy.
Pam
To quote Pearl: “Let’s remember the poetry…the power of the pen, and the joyful freedom of expression not only for those with whom we agree but for those with whom we powerfully disagree.”
AMEN, and well said. Thank you for the reminder, Pearl.
Hard to imagine how inclusion and kindess become less important than opinion or belief – so sorry Joseph – Once I see what looks more like hate than generosity I don’t allow myself to read or listen to those voices. Real off-key this kind of divinity. Please know gratitude and kindness are present here too.
Joseph, I’ll see you on many other blogs, I know. There is little point in gracing a place with your intelligence, your empathy, and your immense talent when it stands side by side with the tolerance of those who think “it’s not such a big deal” that homophobes and other intolerant people are allowed to spew their hatred under the guise of poetry.
The quote is perfect. It is repeated often in the United Church of Christ, where I performed music ministry at two services today. Take care, my friend, and remember, there are plenty of straight, Christian folks who love and embrace your message. BRAVO. Amy
Joseph – I’m sorry I’ve not been paying close enough attention to know what’s gone on here to speak to this issue properly or I would. The idea of anyone putting something up (and obviously more than once) that has hurt you and/or other poets to the point that you would leave the site is intolerable. I, too believe in freedom of speech but truthfully? I don’t understand poetry that seems designed to hurt or denigrate others; I guess I just don’t get it. You are the second fine poet I’ve seen in as many days that is taking this drastic step and it saddens me deeply. The piece by Niemoller that you’ve posted expresses eloquently the way I feel myself.I wonder if it isn’t time for many more of us to start speaking out It’s easy to let things go when there’s nothing on the line for one personally but that doesn’t make it right and that’s the way it’s beginning to feel to me – not right. Please know that I will miss you here and will speak out for you whenever and where-ever possible If there’s anything more I can do to persuade you to return, please don’t hesitate to ask.
It’s been a busy weekend, so I posted late (and pathetically poorly) yesterday without reading anything. Came on today to seek out (okay, stalk) one of my favorite poets, and read this. My heart is sad. Joseph, your work is amazing. I cut and paste entire poems of yours into blank documents to read, digest, and learn from later (yes, as I said, stalking…) I’m so sorry we’re back to this point. As you have said, a damn shame. I will be subscribing to your blog in hopes of staying in touch with your incredible talent. This place will be losing an awful lot, if you do indeed stay away.
I, myself, have heavily employed my “mental ignore” button once again this challenge. Sad, but a necessary survival tactic. I just want to read great poetry.
Keep writing from that amazing heart, my friend.
Let’s likewise take great care folks, to NOT start promoting censorship here either, which is equally as ethically/morally/tragically wrong as hate-speech itself. There should be room here for poets from all walks of life, without fear of duct tape over any subject or topic. Poetry should make you cheer or curse, laugh or cry; even fire back a retort in quatrain if you must! (LOL) But please oh please, let’s NOT entertain censorship at all here because by the way the discussions have been going, it sounds like we’re beginning to lean darn near close to the very idea of it, and this concerns/alarms me greatly.
As a Mexican-American myself growing up here in the turbulent 60′s and 70′s, I’ve had my fill of having my mouth/voice duct-taped. When I write, it’s often of my own experience, and as such I am aware that there may be times when expressing my side of it might end up offending someone somewhere. But that’s ok. That’s the price we pay for the freedom of expression. I reserve the right to express myself, to write of my pain. You have the right to disagree, or skip over and leave my words unread, or hell even pen a counter piece about how my kind is the ruin of this great nation. I’m a big girl, I can accept that. It would be nice to live in an Utopia where everyone is tolerant of one another, but sadly that is not within the realm of possibilities. Let us protest. Let us persevere. But also let us never ever start dictating to one another about content or subject matter. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I for one will NEVER allow my voice to ever be duct-taped shut again.
Juanita – just wanted to endorse what you’ve said as well. While my heart aches for the poets who feel the sting of hate-speech (and I do consider some of what’s being posted as such even though it probably wouldn’t pass the test legally) I am very much against censorship, or, as you put it, duct-taping shut anyone’s mouth or pen … in my circle I’m known for being the one who can tolerate almost anything except intolerance. That becomes a double-edged sword in situations like this … I guess what I’m saying is I will continue to speak out for those who are being bullied (in my view) but for those who have a different opinion, I will like Voltaire, fight to the death to allow them to have it. The problem, as I see it, is in learning where the fine line lies … you, and others, make a good point in that this is a poetry site foremost and people have the right to write and/or read what they will. For me personally, I think my dilemma is this – I believe that most poets are meant to bear witness and if what I’m witnessing amounts to something hateful, hurtful or in any way against my personal code – I have to respond, not just shut my eyes. Does this make any kind of sense?
one last thing….perhaps even, in a way, a little in defense of Earl here…..while I certainly can understand Joseph’s hurt and disdain, I must report that for others like me, at first read, I did not take Earl’s poem in the same vein that Joseph did. In fact, how I took it was that Earl was writing a piece about the perspective of a generation before us (my parents and grandparents for example). As I read the poem I could picture my father ranting like this. As much as I loved my father, he could also on occasion have the viewpoint of a pig. Trust me, I learned from his mistakes.
Perhaps if the offensive stanza would have appeared by itself, I might have taken it as the poet ranting hate-tribe. But coupled along with all the other stanzas, I took it as just being a read from the perspective of my father’s generation, lamenting what HE felt were the good old days, to the eye-rolling of the rest of us.
Anyways, If that indeed was the original intent, then perhaps Earl could have been a little more clear about that.
one last thing….perhaps even, in a way, a little in defense of Earl here…..while I certainly can understand Joseph’s hurt and disdain, I must report that for others like me, at first read, I did not take Earl’s poem in the same vein that Joseph did. In fact, how I took it was that Earl was writing a piece about the perspective of a generation before us (my parents and grandparents for example). As I read the poem I could picture my father ranting like this. As much as I loved my father, he could also on occasion have the viewpoint of a pig. Trust me, I learned from his mistakes.
Perhaps if the offensive stanza would have appeared by itself, I might have taken it as the poet ranting hate-tribe. But coupled along with all the other stanzas, I took it as just being a read from the perspective of my father’s generation, lamenting what HE felt were the good old days, to the eye-rolling of the rest of us.
Anyways, If that indeed was the original intent, then perhaps Earl could have been a little more clear about that.
Bottom line, I believe Earl when he later said that …”Pain was not his goal…”
Thank you, Juanita. And thanks to Marie Elena, too.
I agree, Juanita. No censorship. And of course we are all free to read, or ignore, as we desire. However, “good old” kindness and a little sensitivity are always welcome.
I agree as well, as long as this is what Robert has in mind for his site. As I said earlier (either here, or in the PA Friends Facebook thread), this is Robert’s site, and he is free to place any boundaries he chooses … or none at all.
And for the record, here (at the risk of having tomatoes thrown at me) is my own opinion of what Earl said. A “perversion” of something is that the original intent was cast aside. Earl is obviously a strong believer in literal interpretation of the Bible. As such, he may look at gay sex as being a perversion of God’s original intent: propagation of the human race. Someone had mentioned that they don’t see how his statement could NOT be taken as intended to hurt. Personally, I can. Earl strikes me as one who is peaceable, but strong in his beliefs. I can respect that. Joseph strikes me as one who is peaceable, but strong in different beliefs than Earl. I can respect that.
And now I am done rambling.
This is heartbreaking to me. I haven’t seen the words that Joseph has found hurtful, but then again I’ve learned to scan past the poems of certain people with whose words I disagree.
But what if all of us who are “privileged” in some way did so?
I’ve had it easy; although I’m absolutely someone who’s “different,” it’s not in ways that are so visible or can be easily categorized. I’ve loved the diversity here in previous poem-a-days, when I’ve had more time to read more poems, so if things have slipped, I’m sorry to hear that.
Joseph, you’re one of my favorite poets here. I’d like to think that it’s just because of your particular style, and that’s a big part of it–you’re both very accomplished and likely to write in a way that speaks to me. But it’s also, in part, because of your perspective as (I’ve assumed) a young gay man. I’ve learned from you. And, selfishly, I don’t want to lose access to your poems. (I don’t want you to be wounded by intolerance, either.)
Although I’m sad about what you’ve said, I’m glad that you’ve spoken out. I just don’t want you to leave.
(I’m playing catch-up here and haven’t read much of the ensuing discussion, but I wanted to offer my words of support to you, Joseph.)
Pam
nothing to do but sit
on a stone bench in the middle
of the grassy quadrangle
and wait for something
to happen, someone to wander
upon my ennui with a tuned guitar
and an even sweeter song
until the sun would set
in purple oranges, and I outwaited
twilight’s first star catching
hoping for a stolen kiss
under the broad sycamore
a timid lad, I played tough a lot…
love was still buried safe in my heart
covered under the eiderdown
of dreams not yet invented
the days were long and careless
or carefree if I went to the river
and waded in the tall reeds
I never dared skinny dipping
so young – that would happen
soon enough when experience
roughed up my youthful shyness
still, I played hide and seek
with love’s promise -
like I do some forty years later -
but then, during that first summer
when freedom let me gaze into myself
no worries tossled my blond hair
and I hadn’t yet forgotten
how to smile at strangers
’cause that’s what you did
being polite in a small town
before life got rough and tough
[2011.26.11...a]
Ah a charm, a decorum and loveliness that brings the good old days fresh to us here:)
Privilege
My friend is not too sick to laugh at me
for baking pies because I already had a hen
in the oven, for asking if she wanted biscuits.
The oven is already on, I say, the time is right.
She naps into her medication while I cook
and trace this need to fill an oven, while it’s hot,
a need to use what’s there before it’s gone,
to bake from scratch, and preserve the garden.
I hear mama splitting wood and passing it to me
through the back door to kindle an oven fire,
the water in the steamer warming, the top
too hot for leaning, the oven soon just right.
Behind her, Daddy chides us for complaining
with his story of walking three miles in the snow
in a flimsy coat, no gloves, wearing girls’ shoes,
just to get to school because it was a privilege
Not a right, he drills, a privilege. He leaves out
the part where he punched his French teacher
and promptly quit school just short of graduation.
The point he’s making is to shut up and work.
By then, we’ve made biscuits, coffee, bacon and eggs,
and since the oven is hot right now, we bake a cake
or pies, for later, the kitchen toasty as a knitted sock.
My word, you made real biscuits, my friend says yawning.
Strange, she mutters, digging in, still wondering what
goes on in my head. And there among my brain cells sits
a Home Comfort wood cook stove in a farm house, summer or winter,
making us mop our faces as we cook, hearing about privilege.
You told this beautifully.
Back in the day!
Thanks, ladies. So much of the privilege was just a load of hard work, but the biscuits were great!
Continuing the good old life in mind, in spirit, in honor, in biscuits, in poetry Beautiful as always
(from nano character’s pov)
Good Old Days
I long for the good old days
when we were still in college
shooting hoops
playing Killer
walking on a starlit night
dancing
holding hands
making out,
all before
graduation
moving
teaching
meeting him.
Now that he’s gone,
can we go back
to the good old days?
“To form good old days, bury in soft peat, then wait”
Time
left in a box
loses its form.
1978 moves
closer to 1983
while 1972 falls back.
Memories
fold in upon themselves
forming pockets
where you can touch
different views
while warm in the knowledge
that these days
have passed
leaving you
here
now.
I really like this – the sense of folded and pockets so tactile and warm
I like to keep a poem in my pocket! This is a gem!
Memories
fold in upon themselves
forming pockets
Love this idea!
Unique and beautiful take on time…a bit of folded time of quantum physics and parallel universes BRAVO
~FROG POND~
Wind spilling over my face
Pulling my hair to knots,
Shoulders relish rays of sun.
Crunch of dirt,
Creak of gear,
Wheels pulling through
pine-needled trail.
Turquoise of spring fed pond
Peaks through the edge of wood,
My skin can taste it already;
Aquatic release
From heat of Summer.
Heart is light,
Mind is free
And life is “easy.”
Beautiful.
Thank you much, Jerry!
From first to last line lushishly “easy”
Thank you, Pearl!!
Littleton Diner
Bette Davis came here in 1941,
to Eugene and Stella’s place,
for her world premiere of The Great Lie
and nursed a raspberry-flavored lemonade at the gleaming silver counter.
Nostalgia hangs out by the cash register ~
a first date,
the malt after the school dance,
the rumble of the glass-pack on a 57 Chevy,
muscle shirts and polka-dot bikinis,
ducktails and bobby-sox,
red-ribbed seat in a hot-rod convertible.
You can order up a North Country Burger and a slice of America,
drop an affable one-liner,
stay a while,
take it easy.
And in the back booth,
you can almost hear Eugene and Stella having a high old time of it.
a great location for good old nostalgia.
I am there, thanks to you
Sigh…
A Good Old Four-Stanza Story
Upon a time two houses were sold
to two milk-faced country boys.
One was handsome, strong, and bold.
The other was one of the Smiths, from out near Lyles.
Upon a time two men found wives
in two long-haired working girls.
One had never been kissed in her life.
The other was Jennifer Copperfield.
Upon a time two ends were met
by two stoop-shouldered men.
John Good looks down from Heaven yet;
Theodore Smith had taken up gambling there near the end.
Upon a time in a neighborhood
two widows lived side by side
One was old Virginia Good,
The other was Jennifer Copperfield-Smythe.
oddly ( since Robert uses the word “days” several times in the prompt) I read this as a “good old poem” prompt.
There is something simply delicious in this poem..calling me back to read again and again
A Visit Downtown in the 1930’s
I still held tightly to my mother’s hand
As we approached Cleveland’s Public Square.
Time to catch the St. Clair street car home.
We had spent almost a day
Visiting every holiday display –
Wonderlands, filled with gifts and toys
Winding up with Higbee’s department
Store that had filled its whole seventh floor
With toys and even Santa Clause who
Listened to every child with a list of what
He or she wanted to find beneath a
Christmas tree (though Christmas trees
Rarely appeared in the homes of those
Who were not rich or had no job.) I had
whispered what I wanted to find beneath
Our Christmas tree . Santa asked if I
Had been a good girl, When I nodded yes
All Santa said was “Ho ho ho!” Then
he nodded to a store employee dressed
as an elf who handed out bags of treats.
In those depression years, that was all a
Child might expect. The magic still remained.
Walking down Euclid Avenue, every store
large or small had its windows filled
with some scene of Santa and his jolly elves
or perhaps a manger scene, even stores that
Sold nothing but shoes would join in to
Bring that happy news that yes, there was
A jolly man who drove a sleigh
And gave out presents to everyone. No matter
if you were rich or poor, there would
be a celebration with or without
A Christmas tree on that special day
Crinkle Crunch that Bunch
Falling leaves, a lazy drift
through blue air back there
Our lawn beneath giant trees
once edged a pasture land
Our lawn the scrumptious noise
of piles rising, spreading wake
As rake and rake scrape
to gather laughter
After all the preparations
for their play, an afternoon
repeated and repeated
returns that time to me
Jane Penland Hoover
November 26, 2011
Prompt: 26 Good Old Days
PAD
This has a great sound! It really calls to mind falling and fallen leaves.
Exactly so.
Absolutely I still hear the crackle and crunch! KUDOS
thanks to all – my hope that all would hear and you have
One More Time Around
Poodle skirts
Tight sweaters
Bobby socks
And Sock Hops
One more time around
Gas for a quarter a gallon
Real muscle cars
Milk fresh from the farm
Potatoes straight from the field
Drive-in movies on Saturday night
One more time around
Ed Sullivan introduced the Beatles
The Rolling Stones were risqué
The President was an honest man
Or so we all thought
One more time around
No personal computers
No cell phones
No HDTVs
No 3D movies
And we survived
One more time around
Bible on the teacher’s desk
Start the school day with prayer
And the Pledge of Allegiance
Guns on the buses
For the high school gun club
Hanky-panky in the back seat
One more time around
Church on Sunday
Everybody there
Pot-luck in the afternoon
More hanky-panky out back
One more time around
Respect for the flag
Respect for each other
Respect for the country
And respect for God
One more time around
I just had to re-post this one from a similar prompt a couple of years back:
If I Could Go Back In Time
I remember the day not so long ago
When no one would ever think
Of draping our flag from a toilet
Or spreading it on the floor
For others to walk on
And calling it art
I remember the day not so long ago
When every teacher’s desk had a Bible
And they read it to their children
Lead a prayer and took the pledge
Before the day started
And the children learned
I remember the day not so long ago
When the family was most important
When fathers made the money
Mothers raised the children
And children respected
Their moms and dads
I remember the day not so long ago
When God was much more respected
Feared, and worshiped reverently
When Jesus’ name was protected
By those that believed in Him
And respected by others
I remember the day not so long ago
When the President encouraged us all
When patriotism and pride were expected
America was the greatest nation on earth
And the American people stood tall
With freedom and liberty for all
I remember the day not so long ago
When our government helped everyone
By providing for the helpless and handicapped
Ensuring safety for all from our enemies
With a strong military presence
And a unified future vision
I remember the day not so long ago
When only one person had to work
To support the average family
And taxes didn’t cripple the workers
I remember the day not so long ago
When college was affordable and fair
The professors taught without an agenda
And the students learned how to survive
I remember the day not so long ago
When sexual perversion wasn’t accepted
Traditional marriage was protected
And divorce was a shameful act
I remember the day not so long ago
When young people took responsibility
When an unborn life was protected
And all abortions were abhorrent
I remember the day not so long ago
When Americans believed in patriotism
When the red, white and blue flew proudly
Over the greatest nation on earth
I remember the day not so long ago
When many things were better
And America was much stronger
I long for those day in the past
Her mother bled out even though
They got her to the hospital where
She saw her last, awkwardly positioned
feet raised, head down, she kissed
Her cooling cheek chalked pale
The tried-for boy baby
Home in the front parlor
Still borned in a linen covered basket
She the third not-a-boy
Guilty in her own mind
Of murder by misgendered birth
Wow, really powerful and moving. My favorite poems are those that tell a story. (must be the fiction writer inside me). Nice job!
Oh thank you Juanita… Did not see your comment I am involved in NaNo…:) fellow fictioneer
Grandpa’s Knee
My Grandpa used to set me so very gently on his knee
And tell me ‘bout the life he had and how things used to be.
He’d tell ‘bout his six brothers, his sister, mom and dad
And all their many adventures, and all the fun they had.
But most of all, he’d tell me ‘bout all the love they shared.
So much love that I almost wished I could have lived back there.
I knew that could never be,
‘Cept when I was on Grandpa’s knee.
When Grandpa talked of his mamma, he showed so much respect.
And when he told stories of his dad, he’d be careful to be correct.
‘Cause Grandpa loved them dearly, so much he’d sometimes cry.
When he told of how they cared for him the tears would fill his eyes.
He said that someday he’d get to see them, forever up above.
But meanwhile he had memories of their unconditional love.
And he told those memories to me
From my place on Grandpa’s knee.
Grandpa would tell me stories about him and his brothers six.
He told me all their secrets and their many pranks and tricks.
He told me how they kept in touch throughout the many years
And how they relied on each other, spreading joy and sharing tears.
Every year they’d have a reunion, they’d all travel from town to town.
Last year they didn’t have one ‘cause Grandpa’s the only one around.
And he spent the time with me,
With my daughter on his knee.
Now we all talk about Grandpa and the stories he once told.
We look at all of his pictures and relive those days of old.
And when we pray to the Lord above, we always ask of Him
To keep an eye on Grandpa ‘till we get to see him again.
‘Cause Grandpa was such a special man, so full of joy and love,
And God just has to have a special place for him above,
A place where someday I will be
Setting again on Grandpa’s knee.
This is beautiful, Earl.
THERE WAS A TIME
Life happens.
And changes rearrange
the way things are.
Youth fades and
the blazing fire of experience
hardens and tempers.
Our jaundiced view
is askew from what
we had learned and it
has crashed and burned.
Longing for the days
before this craziness
provides a glimpse back
cementing the fact
that the Good Old Days
weren’t really that bad!
So true…as much as I hate to look into the past too long for fear of missing the present…I have lived this poem a little…sigh:)
Thank-you for all your poetry here. I really like it.
Love this one, Walt.
(Since I am more than knee deep in NaNoWriMo, I shall post a ‘good old days’ poem that I wrote many years ago. I doubt today I would write one better. I had the privilege to read this on Wisconsin Public Radio a few years back, and that experience was a ‘good old day’ for me!)
Cleaning Out the Farmhouse
To help my mother find bits of her childhood
I went to the farmhouse closed up now for good.
Warped weathered in time the boards for the sidewalk
led up to the farmhouse and echoed our talk.
The memories have grown from farming days
of Grandma and Grandpa now lost in the haze.
To heaven they’ve gone to and left behind
the moments still treasured within my mind.
Inside the porch used to hold firewood
it’s now holding spiders as time only could.
The screen bent in I step up to the door
that welcomes me back to dwell once more.
When Grandma would give me a dipper of water
and tea and some sugar passed on to her daughter.
The smoky scent rising like bread on the table
a mason jar standing ‘apple butter’ on its label.
Talk then of a tin man come selling his wares
to Grandma so young then in Depression time there.
The clock on cupboard ticks out the minute
caring not what happens to the time lost in it.
Scented wood box now empty, no firewood burning
by the calendar still hanging and weather witch turning.
Lost is the warmth of a continual fire
from the woodstove so cold now, its heat gone higher.
To the angels above in the rooms for sleeping
looking down on the children, their safety keeping.
Where Momma would sleep along with the others,
my aunts and my uncles, her sisters and brothers.
Cloth creating a doorway to hide up the stairs
I climb up and find barrels with mementos of theirs.
Windows looking out to the barnyard below
where Grandpa would walk beside Besse and Jo.
The cowbells tinkle gently as my memories recall
the life in the farmhouse that hangs on my wall.
Grandma’s glass washboard and Grandpa’s curry comb
are adorning the wall and displayed in my home.
To show memories of wheat fields where my mother would run
in her childhood days beneath a farmyard sun.
“Warped weathered in time ” this was a trip through time of a grand warp – so glad to enjoy this journey – can hear, smell, feel, and taste that time with them through your sense
Just wonderful…. Good going with NaNo looks like I may very well finish after my late start
Baby on a hip
Dancing barefoot on the shore
Who could ask for more
Who knew three lines could evoke an ocean of memories, smiles and tears. Perfect!
wonderful!
love that image!
Thank you all…happy you enjoyed
You and I
Sitting on a bench, eating tuna sandwiches, under a tree, out of the sun, sharing one Coke in a cold bottle, burning for each other as fingertips accidentally touch and we apologize for nothing we have yet done and all we yearn to do.
Oh, you are on a roll today. Oh yummy, I love, love this! sigh…
These are those good old days
Brimming with the mundane
Often boringly melting
One into the next, polished
In time’s burnishing.
Gathering unseen flecks
Of glittered gladness
To sparkle in the today
Of tomorrow’s shimmered
Reflection
Superb!
OH MY – THANK YOU
Haikuued Grandmother
My grandmother said
All of it is like a dream
Eyes wet with felt days
what joy – thinking of Grnadmothers and what was said – your poem like a dream this morning
felt days — perfect
Lovely Haiku.
Thank you all:)
The Unfolding of my ‘Good, Old Days’
She tumbles into my morning
All blue-eyed and sleepy-headed
Then brings me the comics to read with her
He, feigning innocence, asks me
If there’s any way cookies could work
Into a healthy break-fast
I’m living in the good, old days, I know…
They have succeeded in emptying my fridge
And the gas tank in the van
And, sometimes that well of patience
They forget more than they remember
Then feel so bad
Oh, yes, I’m living in the good, old days
People smile when they see my grocery cart
And ask if I’m feeding the town
I smile, and say it’s amazing
How much food kids and their friends can down…
…and I return to my oven, and the kitchen-sink
And my mountain of laundry,
Tripping over an ocean of shoes left inside the door
And I sweep the floor for the ump-teenth time
( I needed to stop and write a few of my morning-moments…
…yes, this craziness is going to be the days I will miss…)
what a wealth taken in and stored for tomorrow – the images here providing connections to us all – the tumble we fold into ourselves and friends – sturcture of tumbling into morning and the feel of the tumble of laundry is lovely
Jane, your comments are poetry.
I said the same of you both last night! Go back and read. You are treasures… Such beauty here just read now…to the day and NaNo I guiltily leave – my commenting for later.
PKP, Jane, Maria and so many more, I have appreciated your encouragement, poetry, and comments so immensely. I am sad that November is winding down…
Oooh lovely poem and smart woman who cherishes the memories as they are unfolding ( whoops unconscious pun!)
Air conditioning on a hot summer night
Those were the good old days
When air-conditioning was a special treat
The province of our parents bedroom and if
The temperature reached high enough my brother and I
At five and eight could drag one of our twin mattresses
Next to their big bed and stretch my head to his clean small feet
To sleep the whole night in creamsicle icy sweetness
Parents high up, unseen up there, breathing grownup breath
Sometimes giggling softly in the middle of the night, they play wrestled
The bed creaking just long enough for my mother to whisper-giggle sssh
And then quiet again as they slept.
All of us together
In the air-conditioning
LOve, LovE, LOVE this. ! expecially the phrases: “creamsicle icy sweetness” and “play wrestled”
Oh thank you Lynn!
Nice Pearl. Sounds very comfy.
These Are the Good Old Days
“Stay right here. . . These are the good old days.”
–Carly Simon, “Anticipation”
Box them all up with packing tape and store them in the attic,
or toss them out with the Christmas papers and packing peanuts–
the old love letters we shouldn’t have kept, the photographs
of you or me with someone else—prom dates, old sweethearts,
the old pocket calendars with cryptic notes illegible to others,
runes that bring old memories catapulting back, unsettling
the present. Let’s take off those rose-colored glasses, ridiculous
cliches, and quit straining so hard to look behind us
that our necks cramp. When we stand side-by-side, looking
in the mirror, let’s shoo away the ghosts of our own pasts,
thinner, sure, but so naïve. When we lie down together,
comfortable in the familiar, let’s invoke our younger selves
as muses to whisper secrets and blessings that carried us here
to this point, this now, this love, the only good old days we need.
so strong your line “comfortable in the familiar” – now that is a good place to live and this an inspiration
Immediately I was thinking on the same theme from Carly Simon’s song. Yours is too great so perhaps i need to reassess my thoughts
I like your take on this prompt. You strike me as a strong person who knows how to live.
loved the song and the poem.
Perfectly pitched…Perfectly centered…. Wonderful BRAVO
A Dance Step in Nostalgia – A Cento
[…people are doing…] a dance whose name we can only guess
and I cannot recall who was playing music.
When I was a child, nostalgia seemed a small stamp,
so the old tunes float in my mind.
(Nostalgia – Billy Collins; Garden of Nostalgia – Hydeh Aubon; Nostalgia – Yu Guangzhong; Old Tunes – Sara Teasdale)
don’t know this form – so is each line from one of the tune writers below? Really like your arrangement.
A Cento, at least the way I learned how to do it, is to take a line from four different poems (or famous quotes) and then create a new poem with those lines, giving credit after the poem for each of the four lines in the order in which they occur (usually in a smaller typeface pitch, and bracketed by parentheses.).
Since the theme today is ‘the good old days’ I looked for poems about nostalgia and went from there.
It was kind of like four epigraphs in search of a poem. ☼
I always feel uncomfortable using other poets’ words – even though I credit the original. Your nostalgia is lovely – and yes, the old tunes are the best tunes, particularly to dance to!
I do too, but apparently it’s acceptable if you just use one line (with credit.) I view Centos as a treasure hunt of sorts, but would probably not use any I ‘compile’ except as a workshop kind of piece like I view this one to be. But thanks for the nice words!
nostalgia, a small stamp…great image and perspective
Thanks!
Delight Full
The Good Old Days
There’s much to be thankful for in growing old.
For a start it’s better than the alternative.
At least I still have a hold on life, and there’s more:
wage slave days are long behind me:
days when work was all I seemed to do.
I can choose to do a bit of this, a bit of that,
write poetry, make quilts, potter in the garden
make a cake or go for a walk.
I might not walk as quickly as once I did
but there’s no hurry, is there?
On the other hand, there’s no getting away from
the aches and pains, the dimming eyes
and fading hearing, and as for the memory -
where did I put my keys?
But at least I remember the good old days.
I love your positive attitude! And yes, I do believe there still is no hurry. ☼
So true, Viv, and if you should forget the good old days, reread your words. You have so many worth sharing.
Echo Pom! YES VIV
Grandpa…………….
A simple man dipping well,
Guiding ragged skiff through Atlantic swell,
Forged by lashings of hemp under sail,
Knew loss by fickle nature’s scything gale,
Skin as rough as salt-bleached wood,
So deeply quiet others suspiciously misunderstood,
From the greatest war he returned home whole,
Yet never talked about his role,
Every day he read from the worn leather book,
So serious and somber countenanced his stern outlook,
And every year for summer I would return,
To live with my Grandpa next to the heather coated country burn,
The year I turned eight brought a lump to my throat,
My stern old grandpa had crafted me a boat,
He taught me to fish and sail and row,
He taught me to persevere as he sentiently watched me grow,
He taught me the wonder of life in the wild,
How to grow yet still retain the hidden inner summer child,
So a simple poem for grandpa in heaven above,
So that through my sadly inadequate words… for the magic… I can
show my love…
tears…tears…I LOVE this! You paint him, you, the setting so vividly! Thank-you~
Thank you so much. Grandma is still with us but she tried to turn me into a 300 lb cookie monster on scones. 92!
As for the magic, you sure can conjure it with words.
Oh! Thank you so much. It’s just thoughts of the old guy falling out
What a wonderful tribute to the richness of your relationship.
He taught me everything I know, including how to shear a sheep and fix a tractor!
Magically beautiful tribute.
Thank you, you always say nice things
For “the magic” he lives on in the tears your love has brought to us
wow
Thank you <3
This reminds me of a few weeks ago when I went to my old-order Mennonite neighbor for eggs (Mennonite is similar to Amish) and the little boy approx 6, was building a ‘log’ cabin out of some stiff perennial-stalks, that most likely his mom had cut down. Innocence and anticipation gleamed from his dark brown eyes…if there are no eggs in fridge he will run to the barn and gather them for me.
Thank-you for this. it is beautiful and reminds me of my childhood before we chose technology as a necessity; yet, without it I would not be doing this…sigh. We can’t have it both ways, it seems.
Dear Janet,
What a lovely story…yes, it is difficult to have it both, but we can try, a bit more than we do. Everything in moderation, even moderation!
My sentiments exactly!
Way Back When
Come gather, children, and I will tell you a tale
Of how Grandmother lived in the days of old.
Long before the magic box appeared in the parlor
with a tiny round window that opened to the world,
long before communication was a button away,
linking those we love half way round the globe,
long before we could carry our music around
in our pockets with plugs stuck in our ears,
your Nana used to play with fairies!
They aren’t around anymore
because fairies
only exist if you believe;
believing died along with presidents and heroes.
Nana used to build homes for them
in the woods and at the beach, too!
Little dwellings
made of sticks and shells, leaves and flowers.
Those were the days when children played
outside,
together,
making up games.
Nana could take an old box – in minutes
it would be a castle or a boat or even a space ship!
But, that was long ago, when imagination
wasn’t packaged in machines that did the thinking.
Yes, it was long ago, back in the day, before…
really enjoy the way this leads us to see clearly into the fairy land- the sweetness of the silent too – or so it came to me as I read – Very fine one this.
Thanks, Jane! I appreciate your kind words.
This is such a sweet and true poem.
Echo Sara M !
enjoy the easy rhymic rhyming flow working against the context – really nice
this comment was for the poem right before – who know how it placed wrong
Thank-you Jane, not all of my poetry is auto-biographical…but observances gleaned from many moments and lives:)
p.s. including mine,yes, mine too:)
I always assume fiction – let’s me keep the distance for a clear view of poetic – actually everything is fiction given the lens of memory and all the other stuff. Like to read your work.
Thank-you so much. You are a true poet:)
I recall that day
A blue-eyed promise
Called summer
The good old days are good
Because the mind has the ability
To forget the bad
Once, I told my dad
I wished we still lived
In the good old days,
He replied, ‘well, here is a pail
The creek is just beyond the hill,
But you better take something to break the ice’
I thought the good, old days
Were the days of the pioneer…
I remember them,
But then we got computers and cell-phones and…
The good, old days
Never existed
Until there was history
The good, old days
Are being formed
Even as we breathe…
Another wonderful poem from you today.
Thank-you.
Yesterday, when you were mine
And all the world was ours
When dreams, like grapes upon a vine
And hope like budding flowers
Adorned the humble lintel
Like soft unspoken prayers
And words were kind and gentle
As we bore each others cares
Yesterday, before we blamed
Each other for our grief
Before our hearts, sad and ashamed
Revealed our unbelief
Before the leaves of summer’s trees
Lay heavy on the grass
And harbored tears stretched into years
Within an hour-glass
Yesterday, before the truth
Revealed itself in history
And all the untried dreams of youth
Were life’s most pleasant mystery
Yesterday, before the morrows
Fell away into the past
To a field of chosen sorrows
In a silence, iron-cast
Oh, Janet, this made me cry! I know this past…so sad…Beautifully written!
Thank-you, Linda
Did you JUST write this? This is an inspired piece of work. It has an elegance and flow and a timeless quality. This is the kind of poem you’d expect to find in a classic poetry collection. You are a POET!
Yes, I just wrote. The timing of this prompt and a few other things came together at the right moments, I guess. Thank-you so much for your very kind words. I
One of my favorite. True eloquent poetry or premier quality
This is so well written; every word helps convey the sadness of the loss of a relationship.
Thank-you all so very much for your words.
This is stunning!
Sara, Thank-you. you are a poet I look for when I have limited time, but I have book-marked your web-site so that I will not miss your poetry after November. I have enjoyed meeting so many gifted poets here.
Exquisite…. Please continue during the year on Wednesday prompts:)
Yes, totally agree. This is beautiful.
Such a vivid poem, Robert. Every parent’s nightmare.
THE BOND
We dreamed of someday,
of endless adventure,
of running away to save
the world, or maybe ourselves.
We imagined lives of
infinite possibility.
Among myriad visions
and secret dreams,
we shared one absolute-
the unshakable belief
that we would never grow old.
Nancy this is wonderful! And, so true…we never do think we will grow old,do we?
This is good:)
…and we won’t, will we?
Of course not!
Beautiful!
Wonderful!
good one .. am glad no one was hurt !
Oh, Robert…that must have been horrifying! Glad everyone lived to tell about it.