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Mark Toney Nov 2019
mop top,
hippie hair,

Dad gives me a crew cut...
6/8/2019 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Johnny walker Nov 2018
The 1960s loved the cars and motorcycles built to last I dought very much we'll have cars from today lasting to be classics wonderful
all the music exciting always breaking new ground colourful fashions girls in their mini skirts
so pretty to see, made
I want to be alive, youth
was having Its day and
living life to the full I thought this would
never end, the hippies
had It right, peace and
love, It so sad we now
have to live In a world
that didn't take the
time to
Thought of the sixty's new ground making music exciting fashions pretty girls In mini skirts made one want to be alive
Johnny walker Nov 2018
This ever-changing world to which we live so very different from childhood days that I remember very few technologies did we have
But we were happy children, today to much pressure at the early
days of life don't get time to be children play as we
did when
I was born 1953 so had that wonderful experience of moving Into the 1960
all of a sudden everything bright colourful
Just my opinion, but maybe we all would have been better of not moving on from the 1960s ?
Just while passing the time of a thought, those who no of the 1960s maybe we might have better not moving on from there
Ffion Jones May 2018
They tease and they tantalise
Those wild-haired men,
For a raging sea of shapes that
clamour and grasp for their attention,
Despite blending into the colours of others.

Their velvet voices softer than their
growling, grovelling masks onstage,
Their words full of electric promise that
dazzle a new generation in new times,
Transcending the blur of decades to provide
hope for lost souls.

Untainted by the cracked lines of age
Simply because they never wore them in the first place.
And yet they fill their caged time with
fireworks that burn into the heart of the
living, and spark the memory of the

Ah, how I adore those wild-haired men,
For they carry me to a brighter time
Which I can only experience in my mind.
I wrote this a few years ago as a tribute to my favourite rock stars from the 1960s and 1970s. Long live rock 'n' roll!
Xan Abyss Feb 2017
Ride the Serpent, baby
Into the Great Sea
Ride the Devil, Angel
Into the Deep Sleep
I came from outside
With a universal mind
And you and I can fly, my darling
We need only to die

Ride the Serpent, baby
Into the Great Sea
Ride the Devil, Angel
Into the Deep Sleep
My friends on the inside
Pour us fountains of red wine
"Alive!" She cried, and I was mystified
By the crimson in her eyes

Persian Night, babe - fly with me
See the light, babe? Cry with me
I wanna taste your fearful tears
Show me your eyes and open wide
When the ancient witch appears
We can howl like beasts of the wild

Come back, LA Woman
I'm sick of doin' time
Is this the end?
Can someone find me reason for a rhyme?

"We are but clowns in a cosmic circus, degrading ourselves for a silent, uncaring audience. Their Collective gaze dances across our fragile flesh like so many knives on fire. We bleed. We burn. Our healing begets new ailments. We continue to suffer. We continue to survive. We never stop smiling. The circus is all we have. To lose the horror is to lose the Majesty as well. We must not quit. The lights have not gone down, and we hope they never will. We cannot afford to lose our audience. The Show Must Go On."

Persian Night, little angel!
Fly with me!
See the light, little angel?
Die with me!
I want you here, obscene
For all eternity
For I long to hear the scream of the butterfly!

So turn off the light!
Turn off the light!
Turn off the light and see!
Turn off the lights!
Turn off the lights!
Turn off the lights for me!

...Ride the Serpent, baby
Into the Great Sea
Ride the Devil, Angel
Into the Deep Sleep
Turn off the light and climb inside my universal mind
And finally we can be free
An homage to Jim Morrison.
Terry Collett Jan 2017
I knocked on the door
and Mrs Woolgar opened it
and stood there
in a white sort of blouse
and burgundy skirt.

She smiled:
hello Benny
has Henry gone
to football?
She asked.

Yes he said he was,
I replied.

Good come in,
she said.

So I went past her
at the door and she
closed the door
behind us.

I smelt the perfume
she had drowned
herself in
and stood by
the lounge door:
shall I go in?
I said.

Do you want to
go in?
She said softly.

I stood unsure
what to say:
I haven't brought
my swimwear
for swimming,
I said.

O never mind
you can come
another time to swim,
she said,
go in
we can talk.

So I entered the lounge
and sat on the big sofa
and she entered the room
and said:
would you like a drink?

Have you cola?
I asked.

Sure have,
she said,
and went
to a drink cabinet
and took out a cola
and poured it
in a glass
and handed it to me.

She poured herself
a gin and ice
and sat next to me.

I sipped the cola
and she sipped her gin.

How was school?
She said.

It was good,
I said.

How did Henry get on?
She asked.

He did all right,
I said.

She leaned in
close to me
so I could drink in
the perfume
which made me feel
sort of unwell.

I sipped my cola;
I could see her *****
peeking over the top
of her white blouse.

I tried not to look,
but my eyes disobeyed
and gawked.

I looked at her
burgundy skirt;
it was soft and her
knees kind of stuck out
where the hem was.

I sipped my cola
and drowned
seeing Henry
wasn't around.
Nora Feb 2016
Children, gather round
Your second parent calls
A simple box
Wooden and metal
A face of glass
Adorned with two knobs
Take your seats
And take off your shoes--naughty!
Elbows off the table
Legs crossed, hands clasped
Black and white
Like your mary janes and stockings
Your president birthed
And mourned
Mother’s in the kitchen
The window outside your little world
Is black and red but not white
Malcolm X, and all the rest
Standing up for their territory
Little girl, the country’s changing
Pick your daisy
We’re not crazy
The bombs come closer every day
Haven’t you seen Castro
And our fiascos by the bay?
Great Society
Social Security
Aid for the old and poor
Dinner’s ready
Mother’s specialty
Credibility on a plate
Crudely disguised
Plastic, fantastic, and uniform
Yet your mind is so hungry
That you eat it all the same
And give it no thought
The window’s widening
Its light reflected
On that glowing omniscient face
Color! Color!
Bright and vivid
Dancing at your fingertips
Brother’s gone off to Nam
Off with your skirts, your stockings,
Your mary janes,
And that awful ribbon in your hair
Burning dope
The rainbow bathes you
In its splendid glory
The birds in the sky
Like rolling thunder
Hawks tearing at the doves
****** falling to the trees
Agent Orange
Fire, death, destruction
Where’s your meal now?
Johnson stumbled,
Faith has crumbled
And so have the foundations
Of your enclosed walls
Bobby’s groovy--
No--he’s gone
And King’s dream
Escaped with his last breath
White rabbit,
Gentle rabbit
Sing your peace
The country’s ablaze
At home and away
Stand your ground
Chicago, Ohio
Each one’s a battlefield
Time for dessert--
Licking lollipops
Clear your plates
For a second course
50s/60s zeitgeist.
Hannah Holliday Aug 2015
You were beautiful before the heels
and the high *** hair.
I saw your beauty everywhere.

Stacey lou grew up in a sad home too
where her mom smoked cigarettes and drank coffee for dinner
skipped a few meals, downed a few pills
woke up everyday prettier

Stacey lou began high school and felt uglier everyday too
She skipped all of her class to hide in the lou
met a man at the drive-in named dan
dropping out wasn't originally apart of the plan
but he made her feel like a million bucks

Stacey lou started drinking too
and every time she lost her mind
she swore her face would turn back time
her insides were a dyin' but her outside was a stylin'

She woke up one mid afternoon
looked into the mirror in the powder room
saw her momma looking back
and had herself a heart attack

She was beautiful before the heels and the high *** hair,
I'm tellin ya' I saw her beauty everywhere.
Just a little poem about beauty in the 1960s
Chase Graham Nov 2014
Leaving Minnesota on train or buses,
crowded and alone, were you fearful
to sleep on couches and of the Village
people with a rhapsody of dreams

and cacophony of chords, under rain
and sewer stank was it hard,
to step inside and play
the first time for glistening eyes
and stage lights and to let melody
escape your belly-throat

for them, or did you know
more, that words can sculpt
delicacy as smooth
as Donatello and that life can be bought
without wrinkled greens and pressed

threads? Walking under a hard-rain
of assumption and change, did Greenwich
birth a demon-sadness, so you hid
your neck beneath collars and dark
glasses and smoky rhyme, when the ship

comes in will you be onboard or escape
to Louisiana, misunderstood, working
a river boat after you give Lennon
a puff and Warhol a tight-fist?

Did sad-eyed Sara send you back
leather spanish boots or forget,
and was Christ able to mend that
broken love, and did you later kick his idiot
wind away and in 2009 on stage when I could
see emptiness and heartbreak
hidden underneath your creased stetson,
were you still singing
it ain't me, babe?
Maria Vera Oct 2014
it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down

karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”

it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****

i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael

the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
“La Jeune Fille a la Fleur,” a photograph by Marc Riboud, shows the young pacifist Jane Rose Kasmir planting a flower on the bayonets of guards at the Pentagon during a protest against the Vietnam War on October 21, 1967. The photograph would eventually become the symbol of the flower power movement. I wrote this poem from this photograph.

— The End —