Long Hippies Poems
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When I was in high school,
late 60's,
we were concerned
about the ballistic lose/lose climate of hate
in Vietnam
and spreading across the U.S.
The only smiling winners
were purveyors of ballistics
and their transport vehicles.
Mistrust of an unfederating nation,
bought and sold elected
through polarized competitive marketing
lack of healthy and effective self/other governing bodies,
lacking investment vision,
lacking revisional prospects of cooperatively-held vocations
in nondualistic public/private service,
unhappily lacking transparent extended family attachments,
lacking courage of vulnerable dyadic and polypathic relationships.
But, in this post-millennial time
in global school of hard
multiplying
degenerative climate trends,
our crisis looms in intimately private
and transcendent public infamy,
internationally
globally transparent climates
of fear,
anger,
hate,
detachment and cynical degeneration,
mendacity and commodification,
win/lose business as usual
and capitalistic might makes winged patriarchs Right
with kleptocratic unhealthy privilege.
Forgetful
that each individual identity
born of EarthMother womb
and egg
began in win/win organically cooperative integrity;
Just as each individual multigenerational seed
was produced as some plant's future sanctuary of hope.
The trusting faith of a mustard seed
is active hope for climates of win/win health care,
giving outside
and receiving inside.
Neither the Vietnam War
nor the inhumane and sacrilegious
kleptocratic War against ClimateHealth
could be Lose/Lose possible
with the Win/Win mountainous faith
of this liberal in love
mustard conserving-seed.
Sadly,
most of the Hippies I knew
were more into ketchup
on their fries
while counting body bags
and lies.
February second - requires one
with acute hearing to cock, and ear
turnips tickling the nose nostrils
delicate hairs (instagram ideal outlook) subtly,
markedly, lively..., yet gently flair
soon harkening shrieks
of delightful analogous funfair
no stranger to Renaissance Faire
of pitch perfect gamesomeness
will seem as... otherworldly pleasant
ah heaven sent giftware,
where all creatures great and small
sing psalms, upon arrival when hardware
trappings of winter shucked witnessing
unrolled welcome Scottish mat so hare
and tortoise can race,
cuz vernal equinox, sports a linkedin
improvisational, ebulliently
educational, cerebral, audiological...
twittering melange I will hear,
and grateful no defect doth impair
ability to revel silence, slake, soak...
insatiable thirst even prodding junketeer,
panhandler, vendor...
the last named,
perhaps selling kitchenware
knicknacks, keepsakes...
to hippies (think yours truly)
with long wavy hair
interwoven with Kahila
Garden Lily, Laurel, Maidenhair...
profusion of sensual delight
brings Mother Earth near,
the body, mind, and soul
espying frolicsome *****sapiens
donned with minimal outerwear
infusing all living things
common native plants and animals
in conjunction with resident outlier
particularly those pining
to answer call of the wild overdare
ring and bee zee lee court'n prepare
ring to beget young as
singular requisite quintessential profiteer
fluttering, instagramming emoji,
sans shutterfly puppeteer
as audience visually already reddit
regarding acting entire scenes,
viz Biblical Genesis answering prayer
particularly if gnostic, heterodox, *****...,
finally relieved, sans polar vortex
albeit somewhat rare
atmospheric phenomena, how ideal
if said rabid Jack Frost
would sink icy bite - part
and parcel green gang
at much more favorably time reappear
during oppressive heat spell during
sweltering triple digits temperature
summer re: time of year.
My living room is full of brown furniture,
but you do not notice it
because my paintings have
exploded onto the walls.
My paintings are not landscapes,
or faces. They are cartoons, and they
are gloriously a part of twenty whimsical
themes. They are hippies, faeries, art deco,
warrior women, pirate women, or dragons.
My husband says I might be a lesbian,
and I cannot say that he is wrong.
I used to paint in regular colors, but they
got as boring as the couches, so now I
paint in neons. Neon red, neon orange, neon pink,
neon yellow, neon green, neon purple. On my walls
are neon paintings of Steampunk women, gardens, flowers,
unicorns, cats, woodland creatures, Christmas, and Halloween.
I have gone painting to painting to see if I have given you
a clear picture, and yes, they all fit into these categories, as long
as you add butterflies, bees, and owls. I have no idea what my family
will do upon my death with these glorious paintings. I am enjoying them
now, and this is enough.
Towers stabbing tall into the sky,
Broadway plays that catch the eye,
finance’s center, here it lies…
Manhattan is a city that works
(but it’s filled with loud, self-important jerks).
Sun-bathed coat and silver screens,
glitz and glamour and action scenes,
the city of lights, the city of dreams…
You should come by and stay a while
(especially if a rapist or pedophile).
Maple-tappers working in spring,
hordes of tourists gone skiing,
small, quaint towns, so relaxing…
Green Mountains, pleasant to the eye
(this is where old hippies go to die).
Coal mines fueling this great land,
hollows, moonshine, and deer stands,
a place where work makes the man…
Where you can still find an old homestead,
(just ignore the opioids and meth heads).
Monuments tall, for heroes past,
Potomac waters, well-manicured grass,
elected folk of wisdom and class…
working hard for freedom and good,
(they’d put us all in camps, if they could).
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
("Eye of God", 2018, original encaustic mixed media - wax, pigments and mirror)
Clearly God Grades On a Curve
After several hours of working hard
finishing up siding a small sheep shed,
before winter comes and the cold winds blow,
I lay in the warm bath, seduced
to the edge of sleep by two sips of beer.
I’m roused by a rousing motivational speech
delivered apparently to all the minions
within my body-mind.
And like Whitman, it seems the multitudes
I contain are vast.
Workers, common laborers and skilled,
designers, engineers, and inspectors,
critics, loafers, the assorted homeless bums
and burnt out hippies fried by one too many trips
to who knows where, seeking who knows what…
Anyway, the speech I remember,
the part that woke me,
was the simple affirmation
that they’d all earned,
“An A for effort!”
And laying there half submerged
nursing my sore joints and tired limbs,
I realized with the calm assurance
of the mystic, that clearly
God grades on a curve.
(9/9/23)
Unicorns, witches, hippies, faerie pirates too.
Interspersed among dragons, bunnies, a castle of blue.
Ghostly apparitions that say how do you do?
Strewn around the living room, my art so woo-woo.
Psychedelic colors amazing, and I don’t mean a few.
Come see for yourself. They are such a fancy coup.
Cartoon cats, so lovely, you can almost hear them mew.
Flower power peace signs from nineteen seventy-two.
When I think of painting it turns my heart to goo.
I am looking at my artwork as I stir my own beef stew.
Halloween witches practice a very sexy boo.
Birds among the roses, flutter as they coo.
Many of my women have the exact same hairdo.
Thank goodness my grandchildren number ten in pew.
They will be taking them home when my life if finally through.
Wearing whirls, swirls, paisley too.
A jazzy, snazzy, bell bottomed you.
Slinky hip huggers with large chunky belts in style.
White Go Go boots that never walk a country mile.
Faux fringed jackets, fake fur vests, tall high boots too.
Gypsy skirts with mismatched patterns of every hue.
Please let your belly button show, my dear.
Wear the tightest jeans to accent your rear.
As long as your jeans flare out as wide as a skirt
And drag along enticingly in Woodstock’s dirt.
Homemade embroidery on blouses, and dainty braids.
Unless you deem to do an Afro, beautifully made.
Tight mini-skirts that show off your thighs.
Nehru jackets with high necks are a prize.
Headbands made to match every outfit.
The 70’s was strutted. Don’t you doubt it!
Vietnam War in black and white, every night on TV
Burning bras seemed okay for everybody but me.
Hippies and flower children seemed pretty wild.
To me in the Midwest, pregnant with child.
Glowing bright ball of light
More like golf ball in the night
Full moon inspires teal tide
And good witch's broom ride
I like the good witch who
Gives to her neighbors
Who loves chocolate kids
Fruity frogs any flavor
She's a violet volunteer
At the public library
She has a yellow skill
A gift at will to teach
But her cooking class
Is always full of warlocks
It fills up fuchsia fast
They're hippies with dreadlocks
It's a nice caramel crowd
Especially on Halloween
You're not allowed to shout
And certainly not to scream
I tried a dish of her's
It looked kind of yum
Ingredients were stirred
Sticking to my tongue
The witch winked her eye
Said this is what you try
To cook for your friend
Woman or man to turn into husband or wife!
The Vietnam War came immediately into my mind
And how sad it was, because so many young men died
They were innocent, many between eighteen and twenty
The rest of us lost our innocence too as they were returned
in flag-draped coffins.
I was a teenager when I became aware of the Vietnam War
My boyfriend had to sign up for the draft; there was no choice
Unless you had a congressman or a senator in your family.
It was a sad time. Folk music was slow and dreamy.
We were talking about flower power, wearing bell bottoms.
The hippies developed as a protest against the establishment.
We were singing folk songs that reflected our sadness.
Where have all the flowers gone to me represented our innocence.
We were never innocent again after the Viet Nam War.