The Hippie Museum

HIP POETRY Allen Cohen Hammond Guthrie Bright Eyes Tom Lance Mark Hebard Tomas Diaz Mordechai Vanunu Emmanuel Ortiz Poetseers Web-Site The World is a Butterfly's Wing A Vision For The New Millennium by Allen Cohen The World Is A Butterfly's Wing An awareness arises from within the mind where God hides waiting to be called, whispering hauntingly "Come deeper, find me! The world is a butterfly's wing. Be gentle and come deeper." Decoding Spring by Allen Cohen There is an intelligence that impels flowers to bud encoded in every cell of the tree. The code says, "I will flower- I will leaf. I will fruit. I will seed and I will create more of me. I will breathe C02. I will use the light and heat of the sun and I will be. I will provide the nectar of the flower, the sweet fruit and the shade of my leaves. I will breathe out Oxygen and countless beings will be created and flourish and they will be healed and nourished by me. They will help spread my essence and preserve me - my plan is perfect. Through this giving with this constant beauty through these endless creations in the hidden world of my seed nesting in the dark passivity of the earth there will be a paradise." An awareness arises from within the mind where God hides waiting to be called, whispering hauntingly "Come deeper, find me! The world is a butterfly's wing. Be gentle and come deeper." UP ..................................................................................... BUTTERFLY BEAT Cuplets by Daniel Francis Eggink I wake up every morning with my butterfly mind. Awake to the wonder of butterfly time. As I bless my pretty baby with a butterfly kiss I know there's coming troubles my baby's sure to miss. Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to our sky. As the sunrise brings the morning and your beauty fills our eye Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to my mind. I hear your dreamy message and I know it is the time. There's a song I keep on hearing as I'm' walking down the street. It's the flower children dancing to the Butterfly Beat. No matter what the season their singing makes me glad. It's time we all be changing, not the time for being sad. Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to our sky. As the sunrise brings the morning and your beauty fills our eye. Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to my mind. I hear your dreamy message and I know it is the time. There's a Butterfly cloud on a Mexican Mountain. Rising up to heaven like a golden fountain. Monarch wings fly a thousand mile course. Then we watch them land from our white sand porch. Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to our sky. As the sunrise brings the morning and your beauty fills our eye. Welcome Monarch butterfly. Welcome to my mind. I hear your dreamy message and I know it is the time. California sunshine is a butterfly dream. With their arms in the air, hear the flower children sing. California sunshine gives the butterfly power. Flower children ready for the butterfly hour. Awake to the rhythm of the butterfly beat. Dance with the children on Butterfly Street. Old self drops as the weather turns to spring. New self flies when the Flower Children sing. UP Another Drafted Moment in Time Hammond Guthrie FAITH-BASEMENT RAFFLE And the Lord appeared before the Bush "I am the Lord thy God so march forth preeminently before me by faith alone." And the Bush drew near to utter: "Can I march and dominate my way to Teheran, Damascus, and the beyond?" Soon after whispering to the Bush the Lord [his] God went away. No one who believes in Democracy need worry that the Pentagon doesn't have editorial control of visions immediately leaked to the media: "George Bush has been anointed by God." Just why is this man in the White House? Because "God" put him there to fight endless principalities of darkness, and this is the axis of the problem. He intends to go all the way, right the way to to the end, taking us right along with him. Tickets anyone? Money Virus Attached Hammond Guthrie Money has been contaminated with a virus; placed over $250,000 dollars sealed in plastic driven from Columbus was hospitalized with symptoms. revealing toxins derived from staphylococcus. "This is under investigation no information is available to the public at this time." "Please wear protective masks when handling suspected money now more than ever." Life is traveling faster than sound displaced tectonic plates shifting the planet under gaseous states ad "Peace" is however you define it. The last vestige bent on consumption will be excavated - once and for all exposing the state of deterioration to the eye of future indeterminacies pixilating this prefrontal brainstorm: REGRETTABLY TODAY.... by Hammond Guthrie I can imagine mankind as liquid crystal living amid pixilated Eden scenery and mega-drives set to Creation . ................................................ "Two Works from NowHere" By Hammond Guthrie Then & Now (Again) Then we had: Zen inspired Beatitudes & Now we have: Wanna-be-Attitudes Then we had: FM - rock & roll and hot rods & Now we have: AM - talk radio and road rage Then we had: intellectual discovery & Now we have: video poker machines Then we had: free speech & Now we have: cell phones Then we had: insight and dreams & Now we have: incubus and schemes Then we had: "Be Here Now..." & Now we have: "What Ever..." And though.. I have plied myself and trade(s) to the country politically at large it appears to me that 'She' and I have become largely incompatible. I disapprove of monarchies, yet I can not help but wont to ponder what might have happened had we lost the war. Just what might a greater Britain have accomplished in our stead to what should have been the Queen Mother of colonies. And had we, the festering spawn become loyally subjective to 'his or her' majesties domination(s) what might have ensued upon this soil? A much higher degree of education? A freely given national health plan? A Parliamentary procedure worth its starch, Big Ben, and clotted cream as appetizers? And all the while North American indians might have prospered into stewardship instead of fending off the foreign disease preceding their inevitable massacre. UP ............................................................................................... "When The President Talks To God" by Bright Eyes When the president talks to God Are the conversations brief or long? Does he ask to rape our women’s' rights And send poor farm kids off to die? Does God suggest an oil hike When the president talks to God? When the president talks to God Are the continents all hard or soft? Is he resolute all down the line? Is every issue black or white? Does what God say ever change his mind When the president talks to God? When the president talks to God Does he fake that drawl or merely nod? Agree which convicts should be killed? Where prisons should be built and filled? Which voter fraud must be concealed When the president talks to God? When the president talks to God I wonder which one plays the better cop We should find some jobs. the ghetto's broke No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't Just give 'em more liquor stores and dirty coke That's what God recommends When the president talks to God Do they drink near beer and go play golf While they pick which countries to invade Which Muslim souls still can be saved? I guess god just calls a spade a spade When the president talks to God When the president talks to God Does he ever think that maybe he's not? That that voice is just inside his head When he kneels next to the presidential bed Does he ever smell his own bullshit When the president talks to God? I doubt it I doubt it ...................................................UP Picture Your Parents Tom Lance picture your parents with leave it to beaver john cameron swazee pushing timex to you doing your homework and petting the dog seemed for all the world was made just for you but sputnik and monkey's travelling outward and upward brought satallite feedback en masse instant reality presdents shot things started passing by fast then came the beatles with lucy in jewlery and all of a sudden your head starts to grow all you can think is to ask gary moore what's my line anyway anyhow anymore your physical limits seemed fragile at best towering over your head massive overload started the spin colors shooting out far ahead now time and attrition's depleting those rushes we're feeling the loss and some brain overload but filtering processes and natural choices are making the best of what we were told if zappa and garraway want to combine i'll be ready to be taken away i've riden the wind and dumpster dived then so what's left is a wonderful day burma shave Remember? by Tom Lance Remember the daze when sleep was precious and you couldn't even blink? Remember the hazy lazy dazy days of summer with pretzels and acid and beer? Remember those creatures and saints that floated in front of you, through you, and beyond you leaving only the faintest trace of having been there? Remember doing one hit, waiting, doing another, waiting, and just as you did number three, ping pong balls started falling out of the ceiling? Dale Carnegie eat your heart out. Cause you can't take that away from us. Your unraveling correspondents from KWPN the window pane network, Hal & Lucy Nations UP ............................................................. Communique from Behind the Couch Vol 1 Issue 4 by Mark Hebard Dear Ndugu, From the Department of the Hairy Spiritual Quagmire When I felt like James Dean, did I look like Dobie Gillis? When I felt like Marlon Brando, did I look like Eric Von Zipper? When I felt like Sal Paradise, did I look like Klem Kadiddlehopper? When I felt like Bob Dylan, did I look like Bobby Vinton? When I felt like Stokley Carmichael, did I look like Bobby Vinton again? When I felt like Jim Morrison, did I look like Barney Fife? When I felt like Captain Beefheart, did I look like Captain Beefheart? When I die, will I feel like Buddha, but look like Willy Loman? .......................................................................... UP ..............................................................................UP Dumbing Down Our World by Tomas Diaz Dumbing down our world by calling environmentalist alarmists. Some more gray haze to blanket our mind. The Bush administration is slowly cutting the pie by trying to pass the Clear Skies Act. The propaganda machine is running full bore creating rifts between environmentalists. If you love the earth stand your ground. I send messages to my congressmen and keep pollution out of my acre of land. Do your thing. And remember what the Bush administration wants. I Am Your Spy by Mordechai Vanunu I am the clerk, the technician, the mechanic, the driver. They said, Do this, do that, don't look left or right, don't read the text. Don't look at the whole machine. You are only responsible for this one bolt. For this one rubber-stamp. This is your only concern. Don't bother with what is above you. Don't try to think for us. Go on, drive. Keep going. On, on. So they thought, the big ones, the smart ones, the futurologists. There is nothing to fear. Not to worry. Everything's ticking just fine. Our little clerk is a diligent worker. He's a simple mechanic. He's a little man. Little men's ears don't hear, their eyes don't see. We have heads, they don't. Answer them, said he to himself, said the little man, the man with a head of his own. Who is in charge? Who knows where this train is going? Where is their head? I too have a head. Why do I see the whole engine, Why do I see the precipice-- is there a driver on this train? The clerk driver technician mechanic looked up. He stepped back and saw -- what a monster. Can't believe it. Rubbed his eyes and -- yes, it's there all right. I'm all right. I do see the monster. I'm part of the system. I signed this form. Only now I am reading the rest of it. This bolt is part of a bomb. This bolt is me. How did I fail to see, and how do the others go on fitting bolts. Who else knows? Who has seen? Who has heard? -- The emperor really is naked. I see him. Why me? It's not for me. It's too big. Rise and cry out. Rise and tell the people. You can. I, the bolt, the technician, mechanic? -- Yes, you. You are the secret agent of the people. You are the eyes of the nation. Agent-spy, tell us what you've seen. Tell us what the insiders, the clever ones, have hidden from us. Without you, there is only the precipice. Only catastrophe. I have no choice. I'm a little man, a citizen, one of the people, but I'll do what I have to. I've heard the voice of my conscience and there's nowhere to hide. The world is small, small for Big Brother. I'm on your mission. I'm doing my duty. Take it from me. Come and see for yourselves. Lighten my burden. Stop the train. Get off the train. The next stop -- nuclear disaster. The next book, the next machine. No. There is no such thing. -1987, Ashkelon Prison ................................................................................................UP Moment Of Silence Emmanuel Ortiz - September 11, 2002 Before I start this poem, I'd like to ask you to join me In a moment of silence In honour of those who died in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon last September 11th. I would also like to ask you To offer up a moment of silence For all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, For the victims in both Afghanistan and the US And if I could just add one more thing... A full day of silence For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the hands of US-backed Israeli forces over decades of occupation. Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly children, who have died of malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year US embargo against the country. Before I begin this poem, Two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa, Where homeland security made them aliens in their own country. Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Where death rained down and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin And the survivors went on as if alive. A year of silence for the millions of dead in Vietnam - a people, not a war - for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their relatives' bones buried in it, their babies born of it. A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of a secret war .... ssssshhhhh.... Say nothing ... we don't want them to learn that they are dead. Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia, Whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have piled up and slipped off our tongues. Before I begin this poem. An hour of silence for El Salvador ... An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua ... Two days of silence for the Guatemaltecos ... None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years. 45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas 25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky. There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains. And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west... 100 years of silence... For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half of right here, Whose land and lives were stolen, In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears. Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness ... So you want a moment of silence? And we are all left speechless Our tongues snatched from our mouths Our eyes stapled shut A moment of silence And the poets have all been laid to rest The drums disintegrating into dust. Before I begin this poem, You want a moment of silence You mourn now as if the world will never be the same And the rest of us hope to hell it won't be. Not like it always has been. Because this is not a 9/11 poem. This is a 9/10 poem, It is a 9/9 poem, A 9/8 poem, A 9/7 poem This is a 1492 poem. This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written. And if this is a 9/11 poem, then: This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971. This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977. This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York, 1971. This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992. This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks The 110 stories that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored. This is a poem for interrupting this program. And still you want a moment of silence for your dead? We could give you lifetimes of empty: The unmarked graves The lost languages The uprooted trees and histories The dead stares on the faces of nameless children Before I start this poem we could be silent forever Or just long enough to hunger, For the dust to bury us And you would still ask us For more of our silence. If you want a moment of silence Then stop the oil pumps Turn off the engines and the televisions Sink the cruise ships Crash the stock markets Unplug the marquee lights, Delete the instant messages, Derail the trains, the light rail transit. If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of Taco Bell, And pay the workers for wages lost. Tear down the liquor stores, The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and the Playboys. If you want a moment of silence, Then take it On Super Bowl Sunday, The Fourth of July During Dayton's 13 hour sale Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful people have gathered. You want a moment of silence Then take it NOW, Before this poem begins. Here, in the echo of my voice, In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand, In the space between bodies in embrace, Here is your silence. Take it. But take it all... Don't cut in line. Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime. But we, Tonight we will keep right on singing... For our dead.

The Hippie Museum

Onwards and Upwards!