Jerome John Garcia
was into smoking reefer
as a guitarist his music was in his head
so he formed The Grateful Dead
I was a late arrival
born in nineteen fifty-eight,
during the folk revival.
As a kid, music was survival.
Records then sounded great
on a platter or a plate,
like Peter, Paul, and Mary,
and Puff on a seventy-eight.
Later, having no place to go
and no one to meet,
Mr. Tambourine man would show
a wonder I did not know.
In my consciousness, he took a seat,
I listened o'er and o'er.
I put it on repeat -
something worth living for.
Chase dreams, he would entreat.
How I remember, in the park,
I heard my first live electric guitar.
At the sound of that spark,
something in me, no longer dark,
like fusion in a star,
with electricity instilled,
from where I was, it took me far.
Everything inside me thrilled.
That was only just the start.
There are too many bands to name,
who created musical art
to expand the mind and heart,
no two of them the same,
like the Airplane and Grateful Dead,
peace and love, they would proclaim,
and those sentiments would spread.
The stretching of nimbus
arcane into the neigh
the grateful dead laugh
into the dark
half lying
with mouth open
where the sons of the glen
take you into the Sun
over broken barricades
mounds of high light appear
into the blue of the waves
kiss winds spark
pass the dark
half time
the rest of me
into the spiral of spin
the schelpture of electric light
cascades over wretch
the grateful dead
kiss you into life
A couple of bands disbanded and found each other
Forming The Grateful Dead in 1965
Their rock, blues, jazz, gospel, reggae kept them alive
For thirty years,
although they lost three keyboardists.
My favorite song of theirs is Touch of Grey
I will get by, I will survive, which is what they did
And they survived in spite of many hardships
They were survivors!
“the touch of grey kinda suits you anyway”
This meant nothing when I was a young deadhead.
Now that I am older, I cherish this line also.
I may be gray, but I will survive.
I will get by. I will survive.
Away on a strange trip
No, I couldn't see
Away on a strange trip
High on L.S.D.
A true "Grateful Dead" head
I always will be
When I lay in my bed
Oh, the colours I see
"What a strange trip it's been"
The "Grateful Dead" sang
Jerry Garcia- seen
Went out with a bang
They all tripped on acid
How did they all play
I saw them "Lake Placid"
Way back in the day
I went with my brother
First concert- ever
I didn't tell mother
Let me go- never
What price for country now
Is it what money takes a bow
To attack another is such a deed
Peace the sacrifice for diplomatic speed
Flights of black crows cover the sky
Gone are the white doves who fall and die
And khaki drills fashion the day
No more bright colours is the way
When you can’t lie safe in bed
In this lost peace will you be the grateful dead
With the only dance being macabre
Who will win no-one will stir.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I went to see the "Rolling Stones"- they rocked!
I had two tickets to see "Cher" in concert, I kept them both
A "Moody Blues" concert got cancelled, I heard they couldn't tolerate each other
Never did get to see the "Beatles" in concert, that really bugged me
I went to a "Rush" concert, it was over too fast
I went to see the "Eagles" they sounded a little bit like the "Byrds"
I went to see the "Doors" with a couple of swingers
I went to see "Led Zeppelin" and "Iron Butterfly" now that was heavy
I went to see "Cream" they milked the show
I went to see "Billy Idol" he's, my favorite!
I went to see "The Grateful Dead" they killed it!
I was going to see "Alice in Chains", but I heard she got locked up
I went to see "The Guess Who" eh, I'll tell you later.
I went to see the "Mamas and Papas" with my parents
I went to see the "Animals" they were wild
I went to see "The Cars" drove me crazy
I went to see "Blue Oyster Cult" I got all clammed up
I went to see "The Beach Boys" with my sister Sandy
I
One more my friend, one more
ice cold beer golden filled,
till I alone face my mortal end
by death’s emissary killed.
Where haunts a ghost of mine
whom I once much owed...
one more my friend, one more,
just one more for the road
II
One more my friend, one more
boding self-evident truth,
but fear not a day of reckoning
nor an everlasting reproof.
Behold the virgin and the whore,
alas both have sins to bear…
one more my friend, one more
fork in a road to nowhere
III
One more my friend, one more
lost courage for me to find,
to forgive a troubled weary soul
and rest with peace of mind.
Let church bells ring for brides
and infants in holy baptism...
one more my friend, one more
old demon for my exorcism
IV
One more my friend, drink up
and seek a blessing now,
seek a true salvation and pray
that you find it somehow.
And if I pass before my time
among the grateful dead…
drink up old friend, drink up
and live long in my stead!
Written: December 1996
The high priests have spoken
we were thrilled
when they said we could sleep
through.
They knew we were tired,
that we were natural-born agitators
given to independent incivility.
It was good to relax,
to completely numb the heart-sickness;
and so to bed
with the rest of the grateful dead.
music playing
the kind the soothes the soul
water flowing
the flow that frees the innocence in the air
the cherry lemonade is just the right amount of cool
mother nature's presentation is the perfect mellow mood
time has decided to take an elongated siesta
the birds are all united and happy
no sirens are blaring
no dogs are barking
all the bills are paid
it's my first day off work today
there is money still left in my paycheck
to hell with spending more right now, i am fully unpluggin'
the james gang and the grateful dead are both in my head
however, i wanna put that don williams song on that i like so much
i believe too, and God is Blessing me for it
what makes me happy furthermore is knowing that i am not the only one
then i pray for those who beg to differ
The fire was cast forward on the wind
From Hell it came with fiery breath to begin
As it scorched the earth on dragon’s breath
Blasting everything as the world was swept with death
Those that were not consumed within the fire
Knew their situation was so very dire
And they thought to themselves in their silent song
Perhaps the grateful dead were right all along.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Dawns Just Like This
Wake now, discover that you are the song the mornin’ brings . . .em>
-The Grateful Dead-
Dawn easing through
Needle-Eye The Organs once
clear-cut, parsed plain, it seems,
like the desert, flattening its curve
over bramble, pepperweed roughage,
just for us, on dawns just like this,
breath-fresh, not one woke soul sick.
Faerie Gran asleep high up on a blue shelf.
Gremlins had messed things up with Obo their funny elf.
Washing dishes with her faerie dancing feet
PreSage Blue Sweet Faerie could keep a lively beat.
Mama of this family had finally gone to bed.
She was truly exhausted, sleeping like the grateful dead.
On her plate were two children, the oldest barely three.
Mama needed her rest, so we were as quiet as we could be.
We had tiptoed through the garden, flown above the gate.
Faerie Gran had cautioned us, so none of us were late.
White Pure Sister Faerie was consoling Baby Faerie now,
He had pricked his thumb on a needle and was putting up a row.
Soap bubbles began serenading us in their rainbow way.
We were having delightful fun, for cleaning is our play.
Faerie Gran fell off the shelf, before we were completely done.
Her wings kept her in the air, which added to our wholesome fun.
There are no intervening years.
That is only an illusion.
The mind goes where it will,
unrestrained.
We bless and we scorn,
But it all returns to us again,
unnoticed.
Music might reveal a certain nakedness--
A vision perhaps,
But illusion will triumph
And bind the mind.
Exceptions are rare.
We pivot left and right and turn 180,
even 360,
But we are trapped in this illusion
And go nowhere.
Happy or sad, does it matter?
The end is the same:
It is stream of con·scious·ness,
Revealing a heavy heart.
Or perhaps nothing more than mild raving.
I am not at ease on the floor level of reality--
the mundane.
I'd rather be listening to the Grateful Dead.
Put your hand in mine.
Let us walk beyond the thunder and the lightning,
Where rain and sunshine are a joy,
And we are the willing vessels.
How long will you deny yourself the ecstasy of storms?
Sub Categories
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.