Long Hippy Poems
Long Hippy Poems. Below are the most popular long Hippy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hippy poems by poem length and keyword.
What if God isn't a he or a she but a he she
eating quiche in a teepee with a toupee
in the company of a grumpy hippy
seeking to unleash a fart storm our way
solar gusts of gigantic proportions
across intergalactic star systems
unholy guffing crushing our sun
with radiation to our extinction
anything is possible it's all unknown
take a guess at the probable fart tone
all we ever do is disbelieve and joke
open up minds after cannabis toke
some believe he's a vengeful bastard
out to punish us thereafter
in a world seeing many disaster
these people couldn't be dafter
so maybe God really is a he she
toupee wearing and living in a teepee
perving on a world of birds and bees
with an irritable bowel about to let free
My crushes are so numerable, it is crazy to try to remember them all.
When I love you it’s in a full blown puppy way, in your lap with Tarzan’s call.
Sky King, Mighty Mouse, Bugs Bunny, The Pink Panther, Howdy Doody.
Yes, I know it is dating me. I also crush on things sweet and fruity.
Cobbler, filled donuts, eclairs, turnovers, any kind of pie especially cherry.
I loved being outside picking fruit, peas, beans, and all kinds of berry.
I crushed on mushrooms fresh from the woods full of tiny ants.
When I got a bit older I crushed on bell bottoms, the hippy pants.
Crush on Elvis, Johnny Cash, John Wayne, Maureen Sullivan and others.
Cannot get enough of Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and Agatha Christie.
Love all things shiny dazzling – rhinestones, aluminum foil, names like Trixie.
Attracted beyond belief to Tina Turner, Cher, Bette Midler and Adam Lambert.
A hippie throwback with a green thumb; I love to wear a three tiered skirt.
TV is not my thing at all, but I love to paint, swim, dance, play racquetball.
I love what I love, and I mean for the rest of my life, flat out in a puppy way.
So if you want to be my friend, make sure it’s forever because I don’t play.
“My Cousin Joan’s going to let Danny stay with her in Toronto, Honey.”
“Toronto? What the holy hell are you talkin’ about, June? Danny’s just finished college. He’s not going anywhere. What--he’s a draft dodger now?"
“It’s all arranged, Sam. Our son’s going to be drafted. He’ll be sent to Viet Nam. He might get himself killed!"
“Damn it all to hell! I raised a draft dodger. He’s going to be some pot head hippy in Canada. Over my dead body he is! Did that pansy friend of his, Lester-that long-haired loser brainwash him? What’s going on here?”
“Don’t scream at me, Honey. It’s his decision. His lottery number’s 38. The cut-off was 100!"
“He can get the holy hell out of this house and never come back, as far as I’m concerned, that commie coward!”
“Stop, Sam, please. You’ll wake up Bobby. You’ll scare him."
“Let Bobby wake up! Let him learn what a loser his brother is. And what are you crying about?"
“It’s the holidays. All the Christmas songs and the lights. This ruins everything. I feel ill!”
“Then Merry Christmas—Feel better now?”
12/9/22
THIRD RUNNER UP!
Dialogue Proficiency Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
How glad I could be if, like the teaching of the Gita
I can renounce the fruits of each of my tireless labour.
Being a long way from the perfection of Lord Krishna
Midst lost gifts, I'd seek my son's note that I value greater
As boyish, buoyant naughtiness navigated his road
Fun and frolic outwitted his fervour for true wisdom.
Roaming carefree, like a hippy, his youthful trails he trod
My hopes for him were hushed like the glows of a broken prism.
He grew up with his mother dead; I was his all in all.
My chides pierced his heart, which, I know, might be like a knife.
Like a gipsy, with a note, he left; didn't write or call.
That precious note is lost; I feel as though I've lost my life.
Silver, gold, or gems would never match a paternal bond.
Though in the travails of time, bonds tend to fly far beyond
In these colors, do you see red out there?
And in red, do you need strength?
Are you someone needed to be mightier?
In these colors, do you feel green somewhere in?
Do you believe in warmth, grass-root progression?
Or, one day closer in, to fade in within the horizon?
In these colors, will you ever prefer brown?
Skin-colored divine codes, still arrogant in denial?
The huge Carpe-Diem, calling you and me, to chime in.
In these colors, will you ever supplicate for the gray one?
White and black, black and white, color mixing hippy lives...
An utter failure or, an anonymously gray one.
In these colors, do you see a color, for you and me, and a moon?
The cosmic terrain, crawling in into laughter, festoon and religious boons?
Reaching for your hands there, farther down to start within.
Eid Mubarak
I climb in Suzanne,
She ain't no hippy van,
She's rusty and forgotten
Her soul is slightly rotten
But I believe she's grand.
I turn the key and roar her
Then I beg her like a schnorrer
Won't you let me live inside you
If not own you then to ride you
With life becoming more.
They tell me you're a clunker
And a worn out useless junker
I want you fixed and waxed
With my refund income tax
And life will be so good.
Sleeping in the back
Of my rusty Cadillac
She promises me a meal
in Gorst's finest diner
And a ride o'er the sea
to a place she loves in China
And that's the way to feel.
But I died asphyxiated
From this life liberated
When Suzanne turned herself on
Ran exhaust until the air's gone
And I smiled in my sleep
Eternal and so deep
For only Death is real.
How would I have any idea what I think, if I couldn’t read my own poetry?
When I sit to write poetry, my mind transforms the blank screen into a flurry of words and then sometimes a story that I had never heard before emerges.
The Hippy era in the 60's was rife with poets, and songwriters and public speakers all voicing their thoughts, their feelings, their dreams and their protests, and I was one of them. Through the life of a married woman, poetry was practically a forgotten art. Oh I still loved reading it and had a huge collection of poetry books by the greats, but rarely ever wrote a poem.
Then came a thing called COPD. Forced into retirement at 63, and within four years I was spending most of my time in a wheelchair. Little or no voice left, could only walk about 10 steps without gasping for breath.
Recently I found SOUP. I tried my hand at poetry again. Its become an obsession. It wasn’t only the poetry, it was the companionship of like minded people who were willing to encourage and praise others. Not working creates a doubt of self worth. Writing poetry restores that feeling. You can create something pleasurable for others. It’s a confidence booster. it’s a big part of my life now. I cant participate in activities, but I can write poetry.
I can sit by a lake or jump from a plane or climb a mountain, all from the safety of my wheelchair. I can fill a sleepless night by creating or just chatting to a mate. It feels like I am still alive.
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.
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
Day and night, I trip time while crossing datelines.
Slicing between stars, my ride purrs with speed turbines.
To Walden’s Pond, I frequently, eagerly go
for chats with my hero, the first hippy, Thoreau.
I journey to philosophize with Abe Lincoln
who inspires me with his profound, wise opinions.
Endless destinations light my fertile, bright mind.
Each person or place, my traveling ways will find.
I do not believe God, my Father, is bitter
that I trekked far to kill a real young Hitler.
I rushed my yell to tell Native Americans,
unite tribe might to defeat white-greed veterans.
That past and future melds are firm in my grip,
I take no suitcase for private day travel trips.
Seeing John Lennon sates my rock n’ roll dream whim -
always I bring warning attempts to leave with him.
With sway, I journey to stay with Helen Keller
And talk of all her accomplishments, so stellar!
Inside my wander-compass, wanderings commune
to gift my roaming feet a light trippy-travel, tune.