Remember causes
and affectations of effect on war
in cities now gone five-star?
Remember social action
sitting in smoke-filled rooms with Nescafe activists
and battered women with no teeth and less hope?
Remember death
when it belonged to rock stars
and people your mother knew?
Remember money
and how it wasn’t going to concern you
until you learnt the golden rule and its defensible limits?
And do you remember when the penny dropped
that the personal was the political
and you found out you had to change?
And you decided to forget the revolution?
Six Crooked Highways 
Love this
Last line ? I don’t know if you need it
Deb
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Thanks, Deb. To each his own on the last line but a useful comment nonetheless. Cheers, Doug.
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This is a most meaningful poem, Doug. There is a repetition of the words “your mother” in the third stanza which I don’t think should be there?
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Thanks, Robbie, much appreciated, especially spotting the repetition. 🙂
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Ouch
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Exactly, Vera.
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Sounds coming of (older) age and maybe coming to change is the revolution.
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Perhaps, or even evolution. Thanks for taking the time to comment. Regards, Doug.
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Your poetry ends with a powerful punch, examining how ideals and vales lessen over time, washed away by convenience and comfort. How easily we forget the revolution. Well done!
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Still waters run deep Doug. I’m sensing there’s a deeper sense of political frustration in you after reading the other piece. Or is that me projecting ha,ha.
There is a certain sadness here. Almost nostalgic. A person looking back over a life misspent maybe. Death in particular, as youngsters that’s forgotten as immortality seems up and front. As you point out death belongs to the elder generation and rock stars, not them. There’s a sort of progression through life here too. Forgetting youths exuberance and entering the rat race where one forgets oneself…money, causes that once were passions, social activity becoming tired and insular. In the end, a sense of reflective regret… or is this me imposing my own thoughts upon the world 😳
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Nailed it, Gary, and I have to say this is one of the most popular pieces with poetry audiences (which mostly comprise old farts like me).
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Ah, the passions of youth. These lines made me smile.
Remember death
when it belonged to rock stars
and people your mother knew?
In my case at the time it was the people my grandmother knew. We moved across country 2,500 miles when I was 15 away from all our family. We dreaded Grandma’s frequent letters because she had a list of the people who died in each letter.
Great poem, Doug. 🙂
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