Long Beatnik Poems
Long Beatnik Poems. Below are the most popular long Beatnik by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beatnik poems by poem length and keyword.
One night each week, we courting couples meet
to share our poetry and chat a while.
This time we’ll all enjoy a special treat.
Romantic sonnets sure to make us smile
and swoon will be recited in grand style.
Though not part of the beatnik “misfit” crowd,
we’re nonconformists--in just one respect.
Our venue is a grassy field! We’re proud
to have this spot that many would reject,
this place where kindred spirits can connect.
March 12, 2020
Contest Title: Back When Poetry Contest one of two that placed 1st
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
April 4, 2020, entered in Brian Strand's contest
I'm a cool cat
Beatnik
Bohemian
Free spirit
Freethinker
Hipster
Cool cat - daddy-yo
Skoopy, loopy koo!
Skippitty, dippitty
Wah wah wah!
Like, dig that jazz, daddy-yo
Do you collar this jive
Play it hot
Emphasize the rhythym, baby
Free and easy
The cats fell out
When he took that solo
I feel groovy
Daddy-Yo, make e dance
Fimme baby gyal, gimme whine slow, girl
Cats having a blast
Daddy-yo were cookin’
Dig it, man, that's crazy
Yah, man, real bang-tail gone cat
Dig it
Blasting a good time
Crazy "Like crazy,man"
Rattling your cage
Razzing my berries
It's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Here I am, waiting around for a topic
How about 'Philanthropic?'
And I've got to have an attitude
Well, there's always good ole 'Gratitude'
O.K. -- Let's see: 'Philanthropic.' Hmm...
If the more you give, the better you feel
Then why not just give away the whole blinkin' deal?
I guess that won't work
'Coz then you'll need someone philanthropic
Who may have just moved away to the tropics
So, there are limits to Philanthropy
Though surely there are none to 'Gratitude'
At least, none that occur to this poet dude
Thank you, Merci, Cpacibo, un a Dank
There are even more in my language tank
Mutsamesk, Gracias, Obrigado, Asante and Tack...
To wrap up this off-beatnik verisimilitude
Don't be over-philanthropic; you'll end up screwed
Now there's a zinger of a fine attitude!
i wait at the river for the cry of the loon
from below
in the muck
reeds
grow tall
there are no lips that will draw music
from these clarinet dwellers
the moon above is glued in place nailed in to its spot
holding on to a piece of the bedtime sky
a hand descends from above
cuts the trapped moon down to a sliver
leaving the twilight mostly blind
the little dipper reminds me of a rocking chair
my favourite star shines just a little dimmer
i'm getting old
time passes
does so
uninvited
quiet is my flow of sand
stressed beyond reason
my emotions are stretched passed their limit
the choice
has always been mine
i have not lived the life i was gifted
wide awake in the after dark
with all the usual players
the wolf with his cool stance
dressed in a zoot suit
snapping his beatnik fingers
wooing the maiden night
the lynx with a fluid stride plays
the ground like bongo drums
negotiates the air like brushes on snares
there is a chasm of nurtured colours
engulfing me in its rich deep tones
having stood here longer then i know
i inhale my time in tiny puffs
i am void of the sanity i once possessed
i happily dismissed that blurry concept a long time ago
i live every moment as fully as my strength allows
all the living at the river and its surrounding land
add their breath to the natural air of the eventide
i breathe in the chill of the nightfall air
and i
i wait at the river for the cry of the loon
Gladys has an iconoclastic personality
a beatnik, hippie, nonconformist to the max
her yard does not fit into this posh modern neighborhood
it is colorful with reds, greens, blues, oranges
an assortment of mushrooms, frogs, windmills and such
she has not had to comply to the four approved color schemes
the homeowners association cannot oust her
she was grandfathered in, “as is”
a stipulation for selling this land to the developer
her monkeys, gnomes and faeries thumbing their noses
at neighbors who are not allowed to paint their doors red
or add an ornamental rock without permission of the association
Our tribute to the eighteen year old boys who were sent to Viet Nam
Was to be chill, chillin, and chillax’in as a tribute to those soon gone.
We were groov’n, and groovy, beatnik style, but we called ourselves hippie.
We were funky, groovy, and pretty nifty, copacetic, stoked, and thrifty.
Wearing our hip hugger bellbottoms, our flowered shirts and necklaces too.
Traveled the country in VWs, singing folk songs with a home fry or two.
The true hippies ran to Berkley when they left their parents’ crib.
Lucky to find shagged carpeting, pet rocks. Stoked with each other, glib.
Seventies amazing, pretty out-of-sight, our threads lasted night after night.
Fab time for us whether we were dorks, dudes, foxy mamas, putzes so bright.
Getting the low down was a bummer, but flower power was alive all summer.
Did not feel the need to rip anyone off, shared love with each newcomer.
Learned some stuff about ourselves in these days of lava lamp and Woodstock.
We could give each other skin, and keep on trucking, sharing a bong or a rock.
When boys returned from Viet Nam I am not sure they spoke the same way.
Many of the survivors put soldiers down which was an ignorant, mean play.
(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
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)
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
It's the beat era
It's beat of the heat
It's beat deep to keep
It's beat start of the heart
It's beat frown and beaten down
It's the beat generation fascination
It's beat truth of the youth
It's beat faces of the places
It's beat displaying to zen praying
It's beat politic of the beatnik
It's the oldtown bohemian lowdown
It's beat in the street to meet
It's beat swaying to the playing
It's beat with a hanger-on' doppelganger
It's beat Lords of the beat adored
It's the beat of Kerouac yak
It's beat of Ginsberg dirge
It's beat of Burroughs prose
It's beat attitude of generation beatitude
It's beat of The Beat Generation feat