Long Hippies Poems
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Reminiscing and full of nostalgia
looking back over the years
A life full of joy and laughter
though some occasional tears
But no real regrets
Oh, maybe just one
For at this time of year
to my mind it doth come
So why before I die
have I never been to Glastonbury
watching from my old armchair
wishing it was me
wishing I was there
For despite
the rain
the mud
the loos
euphoria is all I see
with babes in arms
and sixties hippies
this place I really I want to be
sitting here full of joie de vivre
To see those happy hippy souls
festooned
bejewelled
leaves me beguiled
their visage truly says it all
they dance and sway the night away
a fantasy world of music and colour
this place is truly like no other
It’s never too late for me
to visit Glastonbury ~ my guilty pleasure
donning my happy hippy attire
strategically placing my stick- on tattoos
I turn up the volume ~ I'm ready to go
So singing and dancing the whole night through
at dawn ~ as I wipe the sleep from my eyes
I’m enjoying the luxury of my very own loo…
Written on 28th June 2019 – the first day of Glastonbury Festival
3rd PLACE
Contest: YOUR CHOICE SEASONS-FESTIVALS VERSE ,any form,any theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand
People smoke weed, or crack to ignore problems and laugh hysterically,
coffee is my drug, it's my quick pick-me-up...I say it so proudly,
because it won't harm me, hallucinate me or make me feel afraid;
I will be alive tomorrow, not crash into into a lamppost as Freddy did.
I lived through the Hippie Era: bell-bottoms...long, frizzy hair
and funny clothes the kind that clowns wear,
no offense to those who thought they were cool;
it's my opinion, not of that guy who didn't see himself as a fool!
I had no time to protest, or vindicate the Vietnam War as Omar;
off I went to work each morning as hippies hung out by a bar
shouting at me, " Kid, stay alive...don't ever go to war! "
They ran and screamed, knocking down police barricades...horror!
Visualize
He is just a pauper, preaching from his own pulpit;
All the thoughts he has have grown from his own agony.
Beaten down, but never kept down, he is not in sync.
Living one way; his way. At war with everybody.
One fist holding a flower, with a hand upon his heart;
He has never known a love like yours, so give him your sympathy.
Down on his knees, he is crying in the dark;
Begging for you to just show him a little mercy.
Anti-social, humanitarian ghost;
No longer does he believe in the hope you offer and the joy you see.
Happy Days is just a T.V. programme; not a thing he knows.
Death and despair is all the news shows today
And there are no hippies to bring him some peace.
A countdown to oblivion is the only image he can see;
An Armageddon with love and hate…he is our last hope.
This is the time, this is the hour; let us not be empty.
Share love’s wealth around, give him thanks and not rejection…
Betrayal is a no, no.
Last man standing under a banner with a heart design;
Let a pacifist army march with him, as he holds his flag up high.
Let all the wandering lost souls, be drawn to what he has inside.
He is the keeper of the secrets of how to love;
Let just one soul see what he keeps within, so he can save two lives.
When all others have fallen beneath the sword,
A lone man will walk beyond the ruins and find a paradise.
If you have faith in him, he will be all yours;
Let him show you a future where we all love each other…
Allow him to help you to visualize.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Next day
A beautiful woman
Drove me to near Chicago
In a red mustang
Might have been
The girl in the song
Took it easy
Digging her vibe
She invited home
But was not sure
If her estranged husband
Would welcome me
So, I am being foolish
And inexperienced with women
Did not go to her place
And always regretted
That I had lost
My chance that day
Then on to Chicago
Several rides later
Visited friends
Hit the road again
A series of uneventful rides
With truckers
And others
And a week later
I ended in New York City
Slept along the way
In cars
In truck stops
In high way rest stops
Always moving
Always going
None stop talking
And lots of free weed
And beer
And conversation
One more memorable ride
Occurred outside Albany
On my return to Chicago
A middle age creepy looking man
Picked me up
In a brand-new Cadillac
He was he said a dynamite deliverer
For the Mafia
Went to various places
To blow up ****
He hated a lot of people
Particularly hippies from California
And Jewish people
Looking at me to confirm
That I was both
I told him that I lived in New York
And had never been to California
And although I might have looked Jewish
As I what was called back in the day
A “Jewfro”
I was not Jewish
Many years later I discovered
That I am indeed part Jewish
But then I did not know
And I felt a bit of strategic information
Might keep me alive
Then I realized that he was just jiving with me
And we relaxed
And he pulled out some weed
And beer
And we mellowed out
But I believe that he really was with the mob
Perhaps not a dynamite dealer
A real made Italian made mafia member
By Chicago
I had enough
I called my Dad
Told him what had happened
Wanted a ticket home
And he sent me a ticket
And 500 dollars
And I went home
I told him I would tell him
My tales some day
But never did
I learned so much
About my fellow Americans
And the strange vibe
That was 1975
And now it is too late
But I wanted to finally
Tell the world
Of my hitchhiking tales
In search of America 1975
end part two check out my poetry blog https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for this and other poems
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Cathy traded studying calculus for chakras and declared:
"Reality’s just a bourgeois hallucination, man."
Her boyfriend, Sky, nodded gravely,
adjusting glasses scotch-taped at the hinges.
They wore tie-dye shirts that bled in the rain,
their sandals re-soled with tire scraps.
Their van was a tin-can utopia:
mattress in back, protest signs up front.
Discussions were existential but brief:
“Is reality really reality?”
"Is the universe love, or just vibrating strings?"
They believed in everything except deodorant and 9-to-5s.
When the decade spun itself out,
these children of peace scattered like dandelion seeds—
some rooted, some withered,
their buses rusted quietly into earth’s embrace.
Where did their wildness go, their unshakeable faith?
Did it fade with tie-dye, the beads, and bell bottoms?
Did their revolution disappear with the music,
or did it simply find a new home?
The seeds they scattered, wild and untamed,
took root in unexpected places~
a gentler hand, a kinder word,
a questioning gaze at the status quo—
Sometimes, on a quiet evening,
the scent of rain on dry earth,
a song on the radio,
triggers memories of them~
I see them again, their faces illuminated,
leaning against a Volkswagen bus,
young and foolish and full of hope,
believing they could change everything.
Maybe, just maybe,
for a moment, we did.
Once upon a time:
a wet market bat eater
turned humanity into mask-wearing
double-ply paper-hoarding survivalist.
Rapist and assorted ogres were being set free
while citizens were cuffed for walking beaches
San Fran libs gave free housing to convicts and druggies
while teachers lived in vans and cars like degreeless hippies...
PEOPLE! This is just a glimpse of what is to come
what happens when a rogue sets off a dirty bomb
millions of desperados will be displaced overnight
they'll disperse into the gun-stripped suburbs
frantically- hungry- dirty-minded
willing to snuff your life
for a little grub and
a sparkling behind
"crazy" preppers
were oh-so right...
once upon a time.
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
Raised a thumb, hitched a ride
random raced, inside
a freaky, desert mirage—
—then took it——solo
and slammed smack dab
into Slab City.
Oasis to lost, wandering souls
outcasts, living off society’s Grid
—crash landed—
into immediate immersion
of oddball oddities and eccentricities.
Psychedelic dreamscapes
mixed with Truth tellers—
—Salvation Mountain, God’s love
and John 3:16.
then, around the corner
East Jesus, where heathens
and aliens commune.
Find your path, your truth
within Coke bottle walls
Madonna shrines, plastic people
junk art sculptures—-
—-RV snowbirds and hippies
living side by side.
Commentary complimentary—
—spun from a grey bearded elder
telling tales of the glory days—
—of protests and picket lines
—of hazy days, flower children
and far out, rainbow dreams.
The atrosities of war leap out into rage
children slaughtered on the battlefields of pain
peace the blessing of the golden age
carressing dreams of yesterday
Once the world stood up and cried
hippies in a world of coloured flowers
the sign of peace embraced the world
the youth
gripped in a frenzied attack against war
peace a sympton of the times
flower's raged and wisdom cried
make love not war
and then the world embrace the touch
as woman surrendered their diginty
peace the created embrace of their youth
yet love is not an act or game
Love is the gift given from father to son
mother to daughter embrace the love
embrace the peace embrace the life
raise up as youth embrace real love
peace a sign of the times
once a great thriving beleif
once a great dream
If only the world could dream again
Nutter Butter. Almond Joy, Mounds Bars, and Cherry Mash.
Those candy manufacturers know how to name to get their cash.
We contenders scoff; we snicker and sneer.
The toymaker crazy idea brigade has just arrived here.
Someone throws out, Betsy Wetsy, Tiny Tears, Shrinky Dinks!
The contest is on, we are throwing down our inks.
Uh-oh. Star Wars George Lucas has entered the fray.
R2-D2, Han Solo, and Chewbacca have paved his way.
I do not mean for imaginations to get crazy, you all.
But is that manly cowboy, John Wayne, giant and tall?
Whew. Relief. False alarm. Just an advertising man.
From the 50’s, with a Marlboro cigarette in his hand.
“See the USA in a Chevrolet,” he screams loud and clear.
“Winston takes good like a cigarette should,” Trixie screams, and all hear.
What are you doing? I hiss, slightly embarrassed, and fully miffed.
Garfield comes in next, with his pal, Heathcliff.
A haughty sixty’s model brings in Beatniks, Hippies, and Happy Faces anew,
Informing us that the 60’s and 70’s was where words really came into view.
What about our urban dictionaries? The 1990’s delegation screams.
We invented words faster than a Mattel toy-namer figured out Barbie in her dreams.
The contest is on, now, the whole imagination convention is dancing and twirling.
My dendrites are hopping, clogging, doing somersaults, flipping and swirling.
What about those music videos? White-gloved Michael Jackson asked.
When his creative prowess enters, everyone promptly is aghast.
Are we doing words, ideas or what? I hear a contender scoff.
Three prissy judges get mad, and two promptly walk off.
No matter what, the creative committee is having a field day,
Meeting in Room Sixty-Two thousand ideas, and we all want to play.
Here’s an idea, one screams loud and clear.
Let’s just throw out some words, and scramble right here!
Trixie is ready to drop our hat into the ring.
She jumps right in there, to do a bit of Jell-O wrestling.
I am proud of my muse. I give her the wink.
She grabs Donald Duck, and she gives him a twink.
Her medal is all over the place, in shades of yellow and pink.
We are having a great time, our ideas on the brink….