in the fifties I was an odd kind of beatnik.
I did not have a goatee; I was not Maynard G. Krebs
I was a hippie in the seventies, but not promiscuous.
But love, sweet love, I surely did believe in that.
And I was not crazy happy about the Vietnam War.
In the eighties, I heard my kind referred to as Bohemians.
We did things our way, not our parents; okay by me.
Now I a non-conformist, but most are who truly grow up.
Grow away, grow their own set of rules and values, right?
I will soon be old enough to be called eccentric.
Oh, I am there now?
Thank you my sweet.
The windows shimmer in a fit of snow and wind, early in the season,
with a smack of uncertainty. Snow and bitter cold frost the glass like
half of Dad’s old Chess pieces. Through glass we peer dimly as if looking
for a dream.
Playing Chega de Saudade on a dry piano carries authentic tones
of the bitterness which Dr. Denning captured in her account of a
1970s or 80s trip to Russia among Bohemians yearning to hold on
to an unbridled youth and freedom not possible in the West since.
I never read her book but find its contents indelible some 15 years
since taking her class in the early months of 2008. Through the glass
passes fleeting scenes of the past to make the world a little warmer.
Two timelines eventually converge into one, leaving the rubbish behind.
Back then we could eat clouds -
we were that tall, even baggy Ben (who
was small for a lumpy kid),
could leap over a pub door
without leaving the floor.
Then behind our backs
a Lilliputian world crept up,
it was mouse-grey, and it nibbled ferociously.
I went to the South Coast to roustabout;
then the lot of them
chose to join the heavy brigade;
they got real jobs
not the casual hourly sideshow work
bohemians favored.
After spinning my head for a shilling I returned,
but by then the whole decade had dispersed
like moths in a rainstorm.
I renewed an acquaintance or two
with former females,
those who had been set aside
on shelves for later.
There was no longer any power in flowers
drum circles lost their nativist beat.
Of course we all sold out,
I was just a late bloomer.
Now in my mature and preserved fruitiness
I spurn the hallucinogenic
and am as pious as any defrocked magpie
that drips memories by moonlight,
grudgingly bemoaning the sag
of this slow jowly age.
I am a hippie, untried but true.
With nothing to prove to him or you.
It must seem like I live in a zoo.
My ways to you might be voodoo.
Do not bespeak my witches’ brew.
Heartfelt meditations are my strong glue.
My spirit loving your ballyhoo.
In my home there is a rainbow hue.
A loveliness Bohemians always knew.
Outside my cow has a sassy moo.
My melody dances through and through.
For living my truth makes my spirit true.
bare tree's shrill splendor
a hundred bohemians
sienna flashing
December 21st 2018
Winter Haiku
Sponsor Tania
A bon vivant lyfestyle
of the Bohemians de Paris,
has always saddened and deluded me...
by seeing it in someone's happy smile.
Mademoiselles and jeunne hommes,
exchanging artistic and poetical ideas
at the Cafe' de Flore, or at the Les Deux Magots...
with coffee aroma on their breaths.
Living in legendary and vibrant Hollywood
is an honor to be seen with the admired and respected wealthy;
and whoever struggles, can't keep up with any of them...
whose only desire is the glitter of money.
And steadily dreaming of a bon vivant lifestyle with an aloft
imagination, I let this want often disrupt my peaceful sleep...
not being able to accumulate, quickly enough,
fortunes and stand on that pedestal of greed.
So snap out of fantasy and don't peruse into La Dolce Vita
of Hollywood! Stay away from those extravagant fashion shows!
And at the Cannes, Capri or Venice Film Festival, avoid contact with movie stars,
stare at them from far...they are as contagious as influenza.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In my area there’re no children with diapers
No young people in their formative years.
People call it “a place of aged couples “
There are no young people married or singles,
No grown-ups with their hope and dreams
In my area there’re no children with diapers
There are only aging and aged humans,
Self-obsessed, pretentious, bohemians,
People call it “a place of aged couples”.
To the past or future they have no eyes,
People are rather at home and homes,
In my area there’re no children with diapers.
No happy mothers bothering for diapers,
To take the children around no happy fathers,
People call it “a place of aged couples”
Feeding and food worries not the parents
To regenerate no people returning homes
In my area there’re no children with diapers
People call it “ a place of aged couples.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.