Best Beatnik Poems
Beatnik, hippie, free spirit, oh my.
Enjoying their bliss with barely a sigh.
Full of great fun
Enjoying the sun
I like all of them with barely a try
Beatnik Snaps
Onomatopoeia-topia
(poet sits on a stool in the café and begins)
I could onomatopoeia all day daddio
With cool sounds in the iambic pandemics sphere out there.
“Far out man…far out… Onomatopoeia all the way” (The crowd shouts and snaps fingers in approval.)
On the down winds jive below slow jazz notes I go
Goatee Joe eats the avocado on the down and low
Basements bottomless souls measured tuna outlet cries out
The bongo boys drag on the joint while munching on the tacos loco
Cigarette smoke lays down a cloud…talks to the humming bird
Laying down some heavy tones to the bones with the smooth sax
Cats calling in the alley way cruising on the cat nip trip
Waiting on a little miss kitty called Pussy Meow
She’s a no show Joe. Man, that’s no way to go.
In the wild thick woods of words working on his behalf
The half past 1952 Johnny, goes marching home
Alone down Bluesville Avenue in a zoot suit out back Jack
Slick black jacket looking for some chicks on the beatnik clicks
Snap!
Notes raining down on the sax as some jive time chumps
Get busted by some jive time cop
Flat foot flopping down the street with some flat foot beef to pound
Drowned on pounding grounds outside
Down in the drip drop flop of day….Grazing on the rain.
“Shows over Jack and Jill.”
“It’s been a thrill.” (More finger snaps from the beatnik crowd)
Debaucheries Departure
Sooner or later we gotta blow this café gig…..Dig?
Slurred speech measured beats by bongo boys bid a retreat
In matters like this …..tipping matters….and meter matters…My meters dry man.
We tapped out our tab long ago so….One last drink!
What’s your poison my onomatopoeia friend?…He retorts; “You’re right.”
“ I don’t want to pay it either”…. but we gotta get out of this joint.
What kind of iambic pandemics beatnik friend do you think I am?
In deed briated with liquid libations I guess….. (Snaps)
Do you remember the Beatnik generation?
Those angry young men with long hair
You could see them playing a guitar in a station
Strumming and singing without a care
Where are they now, that lost generation?
Now, the new generation by comparison
Singing platitudes, a yuppy sensation
Tame, well groomed, without passion
Looking back, I was a beatnik teen
Now I am part of the suburban scene
Hey,hey! It's the Bohemia Cafe!Barry and Kirra'd greet you and say
"Hi there! Pleased to meet Chai!"
Barry and Kirra they say had a crazy Cafe where musicians would
go to jam and play.
You'd go...Through the kitchen and down the secret staircase to the
round dusty table where people
played for hours.`
When Barry met Kirra their world revolved around the Bohemia Cafe
the story is told...
You could go there anytime to order coffee,chat and listen to Kirra
play "Gypsy Caravan"on her clarinet.
Once you bought your coffee, Kirra would never bother you to clear your
table or buy another cup.
Sometimes customers would do the dishes,and at one stage Barry's
curries were quite delicious.
Then you'd go through the kitchen,down the narrow,steep staircase
to the secret lounge room of the Bohemia Cafe.
Every Sunday night an Irish Orchestra would swarm and settle in the cafe.
and the other musicians would go downstairs to play.
On Teusday nights people would come for chess to win their quests,while
guests happily blended at their own tables.
Poetry nights were Wednesdays and occasionally some almost famous
poets would gather,recite and be toastmasters for the night....
Till the tension grew so thick in the smoke-filled joint,you could
cut it with a knife.
Yes, the point is...the Bohemia
was in its heyday in the 1990's.
Many an artist and poet would have
gone there.
It reminds me of what a true
"Beatnik" cafe would've been like.
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Thank You for the Applause.//
Though I think it’s time to pause,
Find space in the mind to reflect,
Ideas and inspirations floating about to dissect,
Do you feel me yet?
When you know who you are,
Try to manifest each star,
Establish bridges over an ocean,
Before you give yourself the notion,
That poetry isn’t an absorbed emotion,
Just thrive on it,
Feel alive on it,
Get high on it,
And somehow try to rationalize how,
Minds meet at in a smoke ribbon pow wow.
Pale white against the ghostly fog
Smoke curled for lack of oxygen
Black rim glasses hide, head bows
Conceal eyes of cool cat daddy-o
In dark, goatee, groomed and moody
Beret tilted silhouetted, covers identity
Captures blues wrapped in a sax
Brown paper bags cover booze
Jazz releases notes unknown to claps
Fingers snap approval to the poets silence
Something to be trusted no matter what
Underworld shadows gather dust
A secret spot built on a fog bank conjured up
On a dingy dream found five steps down
A hideaway ten degrees below zero and counting
Leading beyond all cafe dive boundaries
Cold nights survive on hanging tunes
College degrees wall to wall leave hollow marks
Jive time turkeys hold on to hot tea instead
Twilight characters friendly as death reset
Step down in reality to displease history
Bass man puffs his last cigarette
Joint smokers fill up the cavern
Underworld types gather with germs abounding
Fallen ash in trays lose attention
Coffee stains on tables remain
Stale as bread half consumed
Down and dirty with the blues
Tinted in a melancholy stench
Night life rises numb, basement ready
Dim lights permeate the senses
Lays waste to the alley cat man
Smoke rises in a trance to swoon
Turtle necks hold stiff men intact
A band doing hourly sessions Jam
Bass players hammer out shadows
Discord is all that matters
To mimic politics, smoke marijuana
The attraction of the day is on the menu
Curse words say it all
Snap and double snap poetry incognito
Verses flow like painted butter on walls
On melted atomic babies breath powdered bottom
For war, use the toilets next door on the right
Bullets are the flavor of the day
The favorite flavor after blanks
Matchstick men in bazooka suits flirt
The moon turns supersonic jello cool
Cool cats know squares from pigs
Cubes are abstractions of night sticks
Never mix with visions of gas lamps
It is a gas man, can you dig it
Elephant dancers run wild man
Suspicious of pigs who shoot first
Ask questions about bacon later
Snap daddy snap on beatnik back
The cow waltzes around
The lamp post three times
MOOOO!
Cow’s milk
Mother’s milk
The milk of human kindness
Why weren’t you kind
To me mother?
Why were you cruel
To me father?
Why did you warp my soul?
The cow tangos around
The lamp post four times
And weeps
12/22/21
jay is different than he has ever been
a neatnik of course, and he is my twin.
whereas I am a beatnik, messy and thin.
he is a cleaner, a duster, no dirt on his chin.
I am slovenly, a messy hoarder, a collector, a slob.
my dungarees are usually filthy, rolled up in a glob.
no one is dirtier than I except maybe our uncle Bob.
bob eats like a hog sloppy buttery corn on a cob.
my brother’s cleanliness is annoying; it gets in my way.
he is way too serious, always cleaning, never has time to play.
his skin is sun-deprived, he stays inside to wash down the fray.
a beatnik, I am the exact opposite of my neatnik brother, Jay.
Beatnik Charley had glowing fingers of soul
When they began tapping a beat, there was never a goal.
They understood people, and had them dancing around.
He had a unique way of drumming.
An incredible sound!
Beatnik Charley brought in women all over New York.
Many were vegetarians, other smelled totally of pork.
They were his groupies, loving him for being who he was.
We began his followers fast.
He was such a cool fuzz!
Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Do.
You can’t get my goat, I am one of a few.
I’m mellow and fun-loving, and money don’t run me.
I had a nap all day yesterday ‘til a quarter until three.
Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Day.
I am a beatnik from down New Orleans way.
I don’t have a penny and I don’t have a dime.
You can’t irritate me, being happy ain’t no crime.
Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie Doobie doll.
I am as broke in the summer as I am in the fall.
Some fat cat might throw stones, but why do I care?
I strut right past that cat with my happy tail in the air.
Jazzy Cat was playing the beatnik cat blues.
He has lost so much, what else does he have to lose?
There were many comments, about his granny glasses’ hues.
Straight out of the sixties, he was yesterday’s news.
The cow waltzes around the lamp post three times
MOOOO!
Cow’s milk
Mother’s milk
The milk of human kindness
Why did you not love me mother?
Why did you demean me father?
Why does dusk’s fading aura not bid me good night?
The cow tangos around the lamp post four times
and weeps
Lee is a beatnik all right, the seventy year olds agreed
he was lying in the grass, playing bongos next to his weed
as chill as we had ever seen Maynard on Dobie Gillis too
We was singing a weird slow song, name I had no clue
what do we do with him? someone wanted to know
Do we ask him to leave? Will he be complaint and go?
it would not hurt any of you to take a hint from Chet one said.
You are mostly Type A’s, could you try to be C’s instead?
I wanted to try, so I sat down and began humming a song.
The others tried to stop me, for my singing voice is wrong.
Then I began to drum, but a rhythm does not come from me.
I finally read a book, sitting next to the beatnik, Lee.
they are beatnik cats, their house is a bit much I was told.
Their colors were all warm – purples, reds, pinks, all bold.
I love it here I said, sitting down in a cozy sixties beatnik chair.
Of course, by the time I left my rear end was full of cat hair.