"seventies" poems
In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
my grades have dropped from nineties to seventies and i am incredibly sad.
my heart has been dropped down countless flights of stairs and i am incredibly bruised.
my body has dropped off of a balcony from thirteen stories high and i am incredibly gone.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I do not own a motorbike,
Never been a member of the Third *****
I’m not Italian, French or gay,
(No homophobe, just not built that way).
I’m not Tom Jones or a member of Queen,
I’m not going back to the seventies in a time machine.
I’m not a backing dancer for Madonna,
Talc on my legs “I don’t wanna”.
So why do I own a pair of leather trousers?
This was definitely a mistake,
Like breaking wind on a first date,
Swearing at the boss at the crimbo celebration,
Being caught by parents doing a ****** gyration.
Persuaded to buy them, through the mist of lust she had taste,
I found out too late, she was highly religious, chaste.
Good quality, not cheap, never worn,
Could be used in transvestite ****
Does anyone want a pair of leather trousers?
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC
If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and
finding ways to be clever about it.
Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters,
bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies.
I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing
a little song about death
a little song about love
there is nothing new under the sun.
Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than
accounting, your trade is people
like stock markets-
string them up and watch them fall
I play with hearts, you say like
a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard.
But no one is listening.
…
…
…
So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room
and swear
your name is Icarus
throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper,
taking moonlight walks down the beach and
straight into the bottom
of the ocean.
(you thought she would hit you
when you told her you wanted to write
but she only laughed...
and you were surprised
how much
it hurt.)
Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts,
seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart
of a girl that was once foolish
enough to love nitroglycerine,
sold for
a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper
and your name in the
obituaries.
...
...
...
Tell yourself it was worth it.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
Dance music,
Damp heat and talk,
Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro's ruffled,
In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,
Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,
Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate...
It's a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,
Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,
Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,
Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,
Heavy with love and breakfast but,
One will not survive.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
Venus in Boots
You scared others, but me! Attracted
By what I’m not sure, your hair, eyes, hips.
Maybe it was the *** noodle you were having for lunch
My modern day Venus: behind the beauty counter at Boots
Head and shoulder above everybody else,
Even though you were only five foot two
I was captivated by your beauty, our eyes met
Then gazing at your full red lips, hearing those
Immortal words, “can I help you sir”.
It was at that moment I realised I do need help.
Nights and days I dreamed of Venus in Boots
I longed , not for her body, but her heart.
You in your twenties me in my seventies
The odds were not in my favour.
Slowly a relationship formed
You let me hold your hand, smell your neck
No kissing: I bought you things
Earrings , jeans, you asked what colour
I could not resist. Blue!
We went for walks , town, country, seaside
The waves crashed. My heart had already crashed
Totally besotted. Even though it was all one sided
I was blissfully happy!
As I paddled, I felt tired. As the tide ebbed
So did my life. My final thoughts were of my
Venus in blue jeans, in Boots.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Growing up
in an American house
in the nineteen fifties,
sixties and seventies,
the cheese of choice
was Velveeta,
the processed cheese-type food,
and we cut it
with a cheese slicer,
which was a thing
with a handle
and a wire
and a roller,
and my mother
would make us
grilled cheese sandwiches,
which she called
cheese toastwiches,
and the molten goo
would spill out
unto the plate
as we were eating one,
and this traditional cheese
seemed to start
in the days
of the little red metal pedal car
and end in the days
of being drunk and high
at two in the morning
watching Eddie Constantine movies,
and so the cheese
has changed
and it is now
mozzarella.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC
People have talked about 'FUNK',
For the past forty-five years.
That's FUNKY!
Music is Funky.
Gimme' some FUNK!
Listen to that Funky beat!
Play that Funky music Dude!
How Funky can you get?
This is Funked up!
I'm feelin' FUNKY today!!!
I'm in a Funk.
So many different uses.
So many different meanings.
Uptown Funk; What's Uptown, Funk?
Classier than Downtown Funk?
People can take a slang term,
And make it anything they like.
That man smells Funky!
My Lady...She's my Funky Mamma!
A dancing child is Funky;
YEAH Little Man...let your FUNK out!!!
That restaurant is Funky,
Don't eat there.
FUNK, is an interdimensional, Transracial, Interdependent word.
It came from the Seventies and,
Will last forever,
And never go out.
Now;
Don't let yourself be...
...Caught in a FUNK!!!
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I wish I was pretty enough to be a seventies groupie
Strong, and graceful
with famous men wrapped around their fingers
and life at the tip of their tongues
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
we drank so deep from a bottle so thick
and you
looking through the slickness of this mirror
into
my eye
you tried so hard
to get me off
and I told you sweetest things
and what's best I told the truth I
told you what
is true
edge of the bed I had my pants down
around my thighs
and here you are
you are
a seventies rebellion
filling the room so thick so hot
like the stereo speakers yelling
"damaged by you
damaged by me
I'm confused
confused"
we're both speaking to doctors
speaking always better
to one another
but you wouldn't admit that
sooner to be farther
farther to be nearer
and nearer to hear better
my breath into your ear
my shirt was green darling
and your shirt was red
I gave it to you
and then you gave me head
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just with his mid seventies look instead.
Sown and grown in a house
from the past,
fixed by the full swing of
the can-do and will do,
not by the we’ll get through
or the **** you*.
****** by the plum tree
because its root system
sat lower than the toilet seat,
in the downstairs bathroom,
working radiator- never any heat.
Tantrums on the second step
because bad-mannered children
never want what they get.
But in hindsight, and I’ll admit,
they were doing it good, doing it right,
doing it by the book
printed in black and white.
Nothing but rocks and stories where I’m from:
pebbles in the path
between the herb garden grass;
box hedge borders that’ll protect
and last;
stone walls hiding cancers and dangers,
unwanted gifts from door-to-door strangers;
postmen in shorts
with their all-weather legs;
women up the road
with their cool-box eggs;
neighbours behind curtains
hiding help not guns;
children in the street,
they’re somebody’s loved ones.
I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just this time round
tall, grateful and glad.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
He broke his neck thirty years ago
I break mine more with each
promise of keeping you in my life
but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot,
grieving for souls I will never know.
Some of his songs are so sad,
like hearing the premature
snap of his bones
Cannot help but resent
how clever society is
to glamorize the unglamorous,
even I am aware
the flowers upon graves are not just for
aesthetics, but we are still always trying
to cover terrible tragedies
with beautiful things.
Am I just as guilty?
I cheat on you with him.
His spirit through my headphones,
hoped if I listen intently
the narrative changes.
purple marks on your neck
just that weekend you
taught me what a hickey was
and how they felt good
yours’ declare ownership,
not declarations of love.
You walk into art class,
purple painted across your throat.
If love could save Ian,
had I lived in the mid-seventies
he may very well have lived forever
and his throat painted by love,
rather than the bruises of a noose.
The letters I wrote you were in vain,
my mistake quoting those Smiths’
songs:
Morrissey is an *******
and so are you.
I still
am too scared to
wonder how far I am willing
to go
to reap the benefits of sorrow.
"New Dawn Fades"
tears into my heartstrings
feeling responsible in
the prevention of another
suicide
I grapple onto
what a savior complex was,
your dead father
the tracks on your arms made me cry
but I thought it was stupid.
It made me hate myself more
why could I not learn to undo
my drive to save anyone,
but myself
The phone call
where I broke up with
you and you
pretend to
overdose on the speaker
One of us had to grow up,
had to make it out alive
And I love you again,
every time Ian's ghost
sings Isolation.
And I leave you there,
sure, to end the album
after the final song.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 10:31 PM UTC
Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
Today three hundred gather recalling to the World its’ shame.
They’ve come once more to Auschwitz on a more comfortable train.
The youngest, in their Seventies, were children at the time,
when Russians overran the camp and exposed the Nazis’ crimes.
If you were gypsy Gay or Jew incarcerated there
They starved and worked you unto death-
Your grave was in the air.
The walks were paved with bits of bone from those who died before.
These lives and deaths were cataloged for the ***** Chancellor.
All who remain now gather for this last and final time,
to testify to their suffering and rebuke those who deny.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
It’s Springtime.
The hours, the days pass quicker,
especially to folks already in their
late seventies, or eighties…
a cool breeze blowing easily brings
back good times, bringing smiles
to their wrinkled faces...to some,
rage and sorrow are resurrected,
recalling, how they lost loved ones,
all that they've had, through ways
unlawful, how they pined for truth,
justice, and freedom...time is too
slow for for them...some choose
to forget, but couldn't...
malfeasance is a habit, a way of life.
The privileged ones bask in the
brightest of comforts…impregnable
walls of their fortresses have made
them blind and deaf to the woes
and the doldrums outside.
The "unsolved" remain unsolved,
the "miserable" are now despondent,
the needy, the hungry, in greater
need...are even hungrier...drifting,
wherever their needs take them,
some minds have gotten used to
distorted versions of democracy,
existing on uncertain airs and waters.
Being bereft.......takes its toll.
Past awakenings were wasted.
eyes...minds opened, and closed.
those outside the walls, patiently
await...nothing is ever permanent.
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 18, 2023
-<O>-
OZYMANDIAS
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I met a traveller from an antique land,
2Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
3Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
4Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
5And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
6Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
7Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
8The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
9And on the pedestal, these words appear:
10My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
11Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
12Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
13Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
14The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Mar 14, 2023
Mar 14, 2023 at 8:41 PM UTC
So, he's a cheater.
So he's wealthy.
What's so strange to admit to many?
Women not all innocent in these scandals.
You cry Me-too or Me-three and it still is various takes on the matter.
Whether it's the comedian
The movie mogul.
Or the reddish clown of the United States.
In all situation, we notice some took money to quiet them into silence.
Now, they claiming this and claiming that.
But like many say in silence or around select friends.
Women, not all innocent in these matters.
Some people do anything for money.
And then we spin the tale before the press that goes into instant judgment.
Now, what kind of *** that a fool would pay 130, 000 most men can't state?
Some guys would tell her to call the Wahington Post, New York Time, and any other paper.
Wouldn't any money be paid?
Then we aware this a trait this man has in paying for the pleasure.
Why?
Do we feel this level to say the man to blame?
Deals, mainly with many ladies jumping on this "It happened to me too".
And some has the honest truth.
But then you go back to the seventies on one of the accusers.
Club 54 was more than a club for dancing and fun.
It was also a place to venture for joy.
Why?
Be at a man house when the spouse not there.
But that neither here or there.
Cause once accused many men can't win.
Even when in her mind she knew what you had planned.
In scriptures, Samson was a complete fooled.
The woman used all kinds of tricks to get the information she needed.
And in the in he came to regret it.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
There’s a group called “Madness”,
Play a thing called “Ska”.
Though their music’s jerky,
Suggsy is a star.
Started in the seventies,
Still are going strong.
Suggs is their lead singer,
They just can't go wrong.
Would you Adam and Eve it,
That they done so well.
If you do not like them,
You can go to Hell.
They had fifteen top tens,
In their fine career.
Cheer them on I tell you,
I’ll just have a beer.
This poem’s written in their style,
That you must have seen.
If you hadn’t noticed,
Just where have you been?
Saw them on the telly,
Just the other day.
Was a golden oldie,
Hip hip, hip, hurray!
Oh where is that policeman,
To make that cardiac arrest?
Oh I’d better not hurry,
Being peaceful is the best.
Paul Butters
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
I am now so old
I only remember things,
Whenever possible,
That please me
From days “back then”,
When my **** was where
It was supposed to be
Now it walks along behind me
Like a lady in waiting.
My **** is like bunting
And my hair is hunting
For new territory
Up my back and shoulders;
It happens when men get older.
The hair on top thins
The stuff below begins
To reupholster my anatomy.
It’s so irritating to me
This whole aging thing,
This “being a senior” stuff.
It’s really rough on someone like me
An eternal teen, new to the scene.
But now I have become
That eccentric old fellow
In plaid pants that looked dumb
In the seventies and before
And forever after.
But I can’t join the laughter.
Because it’s me, you see.
All I need now is to pull them up,
My pants, my belt
Right under my man *****
And I’ll be the guys on YouTube
In the video gag reels.
That’s how it feels.
But, it’s not funny to me.
It is, however, reality.
I will just have to make the best
Of the good and bad, the rest
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
Theodore left an unknown legacy to himself and to everyone, in American history.
That two hundred years from now, women’s children’s, children, children will learn about Ted Bundy and his devious wrongdoings back in the simple, maniacal, chaotic nineteen-seventies.
When his hopeless, vulnerable innocent victims that weren’t able to make it, didn’t get the
opportunity to
accomplish life’s greatest gifts, as their lives were just getting started. They didn’t get the
chance to become wives, mothers or grandmothers when they should’ve. As over forty years passed since those tragedies began, there’s still this reminder of : NEVER EVER AGAIN.
Monsters unknowingly appear in all shapes, sizes and even faces. They instantly appear right in front of your face in any place at any time of the day. Morn
They don’t hide under your bed, basement or inside your closet, like our parents told us in children’s folklore.
But right in front of you as you walk down the street in your friendly neighborhood, grocery store or taking the edge off talking to a stranger from the long days work at some random local bar or coffee shop. They could even be your best friend.
You. Just. Don’t. Know.
It’s like whenever you see a vintage VW Beetle, driving down the street downtown or down your neighborhood street, fellow women all around must feel an internal bone-chilling shiver creep down their spine’s. That that warning is still there to watch out, whom you encounter with. To never help a man who is in need.
So take this notion to be aware of all of your surroundings and be cautious of who, when and where you talk to. Lock your doors, windows and get a high-tech security system if you have to. Because you just never know, when your life will turn into a three-sixty mess in a matter of seconds.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:01 PM UTC
Your skin was illuminated by the green lights,
like a seventies serial killer
and it made my legs shake.
My eyes roamed your glowing skin.
I was lost in a galaxy of never ending beauty.
Your cryptic soul unveiled itself
as you exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
I felt as though you could feel the fire
spreading through my flustered cheeks.
I couldn't put together words
to explain my wonder of your unblemished perfection.
But I could just muster up the words,
"You look like a serial killer."
and a sinful grin spread across your face.
That's when I knew you were just like me.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Gusto affairs spiraled to marooned stairs!!
Amphibious angel,
Where art thou own wings?
Apparent your sanctioning is,
Appointee of marital status!!!
Anthropologist of creations new madness,
Armful arousist!!
Arrogant aspirant!!!!
We are all baggage carriers of used goods,
Bestowed to thy own selves thou ******** of crud!!!!!
Very few bonuses this time around,
For the metropolis hath gone broke and choked!!!
For oil runneth this deliveranth!!!
Bind thy own,
You biggot of brigaded quarters!!!
None to coincide with ,
No cognac love to filleth me with cocoa nestled swifts!!!
Engrossment of shufflers, greasers to seventies sneakers,
Esteemed of high retailer goods!!!
Distinction between euphemisms blame!!!
Highed tops to spindle games,
Atrocious calibrations!!!!
Such tiredness flees the crime felt page,
Who's enraged?
Refute novelties of javahouse breaks,
Wherein assemblers are all members of cafe corner states!!!!
Paxilheads to axlehead drinkers,
Some material like,
Some medicinal thinkers!!!
How much shalt one taketh before his psyche leaves reclusiveness all behind the robust tower!!!!
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Bell bottom hip huggers
And my Frankenstein shoes
That had stack soles and heels
That I could only barely use.
A crop-top sleeveless tee shirt
With a superman emblem on it
And diamond ring on my hand.
In case I might have to pawn it.
Because we were picketing
Downtown at the City Hall
And at some police stations.
It was the seventies after all.
Our parents raised us to acquiesce
It was their America they protected.
And it was just exactly this blindness
That we, en masse, all rejected.
We failed to understand them
The generations that came before
That prized prejudice and bias
And celebrated sending us to war.
We felt there was another way
To go about sweeping social change.
We saw beating and fire hosing
As nefarious and more than strange.
We got beaten ourselves and jailed
For just pointing injustice out to them
And watched our sit-ins and love-ins
Turned into scenes of ****** mayhem.
We heard them call us all criminals,
Long haired ******* was a favored taunt.
It seems we were entitled to our opinions
As long as we didn’t chose to flaunt.
It felt so very much like **** Germany
Including storm troopers and jack boots
And the local politicians were obviously
At least agreeing if not in cahoots
With the police in their fear of rebellion
And protecting their good paying jobs.
So, they beat us and vilified the students
Calling them ***** communists, and slobs.
And, yes, some of us were getting high
Back in our homes and apartments.
Sometimes it seemed the only way
We could deal with the estrangement
Between what our country said it was
And what it turned out it really was.
It was hard to realize our land wasn’t free
And there was no social Santa Claus.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Everyone wants to just stick it in the hole,
And pound the pin in,
Ask them to tie some nylons with their hands,
And they're all pinkies.
Kids these days,
Can't even play an F chord,
Three string chords
And verse chorus verse,
It gets worse every year.
Thank the lord above, that guitar geeks are born periodically,
To make that thing neigh, like a Bad Horsie,
And prove, a three piece garage band can still rock the block.
For every one hundred and fifty parttime power chord players, hiding their lack of practice behind digital effects,
And excessive distortion,
There's one Jimmy Hendrix or Dimebag Darrel born.
I see the brows furrowing now,
As you wonder, how does this geezer know about Dimebag?
Just because I prefer the feel and vibration, of a classical guitar in my arms,
Doesn't mean I don't Listen to Sabbath,
and I was a Dime bag fan in the seventies.
Power chords are fine by me,
It makes my tutoring sessions, much easier,
I don't even bother trying to convince them that there are more chords,
Unless, they have that thing about them.
That little floating sign that says
"You are special",
Or the eight year old,
Who mysteriously has thick callouses on his fingers,
Even though he never picked up a guitar before.
What I'm trying to say is,
There is nothing wrong with the kids these days.
I hated learning my scales too.
Rock and roll is here to stay,
As long as the next Hendrix isn't
Aborted.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC