Short Beatnik Poems

Beatnik, hippie, free spirit, oh my.
Enjoying their bliss with barely a sigh.
Full of great fun
Enjoying the sun
I like all of them with barely a try...

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Jazzy Cat was playing the beatnik cat blues.
He has lost so much, what else does he have to lose?
There were many comments, about his granny glasses’ hues.
Straight out of the sixties, he was yesterday’s news....

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our quintessential cool cat mushroom was a beatnik rare
he danced with a wiggly butt, his shoulders in the air
there was rhythm in his walk, he acted like he did not care
blatant disinterest in the cool cat mushroom named McDare...

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they are beatnik cats, their house is a bit much I was told.
Their colors were all warm – purples, reds, pinks, all bold.
I love it here I said, sitting down in a cozy sixties beatnik chair.
Of course, by the time I left my rear end was full of cat hair....

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they are beatnik cats, their house is a bit much I was told.
Their colors were all warm – purples, reds, pinks, all bold.
I love it here I said, sitting down in a cozy sixties beatnik chair.
Of course, by the time I left my rear end was full of cat hair....

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The lava lamp glows
in a room that's otherwise dark
while the guitar of Hendrix
slices through the air
listened to by a wanna-be beatnik
getting stoned on weed
pretending not to care
and doesn't know there's a sign above him
that reads "Down with the Establishment"...

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When you hear the poet speak
Raise your hand
Snap your fingers
In the old beatnik tradition

Howl for the poets
Howl for the truth-tellers
In the old beatnik tradition

Snap your fingers and howl
For those who say to evil
No sir,
I will not break bread with you...

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She is confident, she is unsure.
Suspicious, trusting, aware, unaware,
a chameleon without trying
depending on the circumstances, and the company

She is an achiever, a procrastinator
She is a neatnik, a messer,
She is a beatnik, a conservative
She is woman after all....

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a musical trio
livening up the prairie
enthusiastic beatnik dog on bongo drums
terrifically talented tambourine-playing Tomcat
Romanian beauty with flashing eyes with a ukulele
people arrive to sing along and dance
it feels like the seventies
Woodstock sixty years later...

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The cow waltzes around the lamp post three times

MOOOO!

Cow’s milk
Mother’s milk
The milk of human kindness

Why did you not love me mother?
Why did you demean me father?
Why does dusk’s fading aura not bid me good night?

The cow tangos around the lamp post four times

and weeps...

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This frog is straight out of the fifties
How can you tell?
He is a beatnik.
How so?
He plays bongo drums.

He has a lava lamp.
I think they were from the sixties.
And fringed vest jacket.
The seventies, honey

We stared at each other.
How old do you think this frog is?
Unsure, but he is dancing under a disco ball.
Eighties I think.

A well-rounded frog if you ask me....

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Do you remember the Beatnik generation?
Those angry young men with long hair
You could see them playing a guitar in a station
Strumming and singing without a care

Where are they now, that lost generation?
Now, the new generation by comparison
Singing platitudes, a yuppy sensation
Tame, well groomed, without passion

Looking back, I was a beatnik teen
Now I am part of the suburban scene...

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sleek and sneaky, stealthy too wherever they go
sixties cats crawl around sixties beatnik row
their eyes are squinted, they know where it is at
we are careful not to point out their ears are flat

they have a look only seen back in the day
they are always black, never orange, tan or gray
the sixties cats sit in sixties chairs, streamlined and fine
modern we thought back in those olden times...

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sleek and sneaky, stealthy too wherever they go
sixties cats crawl around sixties beatnik row
their eyes are squinted, they know where it is at
we are careful not to point out their ears are flat

they have a look only seen back in the day
they are always black, never orange, tan or gray
the sixties cats sit in sixties chairs, streamlined and fine
modern we thought back in those olden times...

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They were sixties cool, the cool cat gang.
All fliggerty and biggerty, with a big loud bang.
We were twitterpatated by them, amazed for sure.
They were the ultimate cool cats, who made us pure.

If you did not survive the sixties, you do not know
The joy that these cool cats give to our memory glow.
They uplift us and bring us joy with their beatnik beat.
If you understand these words, you are my kind of sweet....

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Beatnik Charley had glowing fingers of soul
When they began tapping a beat, there was never a goal.
They understood people, and had them dancing around.
He had a unique way of drumming.
An incredible sound!

Beatnik Charley brought in women all over New York.
Many were vegetarians, other smelled totally of pork.
They were his groupies, loving him for being who he was.
We began his followers fast.
He was such a cool fuzz!...

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The club members all agreed Max was the coolest cat
“A Bohemian beatnik who knows where it’s at”
He taught Louie Armstrong to play those rhythm blues.
That is why we getting ready to tap with these shoes.

I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not a real cat.
This one was wearing seventies clothes with an old velvet hat.
He nodded my way and swiftly began making love to his sax.
I was intrigued and enthralled, he was an amazing musician, Max....

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Thank You for the Applause.//

Though I think it’s time to pause,
Find space in the mind to reflect,	
Ideas and inspirations floating about to dissect,
Do you feel me yet?
When you know who you are,
Try to manifest each star,
Establish bridges over an ocean,
Before you give yourself the notion,
That poetry isn’t an absorbed emotion,
Just thrive on it,
Feel alive on it,
Get high on it,
And somehow try to rationalize how,
Minds meet at in a smoke ribbon pow wow....

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I carry my elegant pain,
lost in the middle
from the south of
  American continent...
On the night of my destination,
this pain was once my dream...
I left on a southbound train
and I became beatnik,
then I was a hippie,
believed in flower power...
I don't inhale or smoke...
My drug actually is poetry...
My chic pain is  this,
of time traveler, I carry it
as a youth treasure,
 of a million dollars,
not in exchange, not selling,
this pain,
is my piece of art... !...

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