A time capsule swallowed whole.
W O O D S T O C K<><> R E V I S I T E D .
Where did they go, from those Summers of love,
all the peaceful, hippie children who frequented Haight Ashbury
hoping to bury the ashes of hate?
Those who knew a Woodstock
not of rifles but of a peaceful coalition massed.
Weaving poems and soft music
into the fabric of a nation ripped by war.
Yasgur's farm lies empty now,
music tinkles in some distant
laughter on endless August days.
Harmony exists there in two clouds,
floating side by side, and forming a bridge
below a rainbow hung over fields
where only butterflies dance.
Are they sighing for all that was
but can never be again?
Do they find themselves exchanging
Vietnam for Iraq and Afghanistan?
Do they have flashbacks every time
they hold up two fingers for a table at a restaurant?
Did they ever find real peace beyond
the mud and tie-dye spattered hopes
of a youth long spent?
Isn't there a daisy chain somewhere
that can secure me snugly
and sprout me back to 1969?
Many might be happy to see me go...
I can't seem to find much of the old,
amidst the apathetic new.
Soldiers are still dying
while the ecology and
the economy are in dire straits,
but few are singing their blues.
My lips hum softly
in a single poetic sigh
blended with ink.
Where are all the voices in the streets,
the songs of protest, the solidarity shouted
in bell bottoms of freedom as billy clubs swing?
Have they become just memories
pressed between time's pages,
faded daisy petals and concert tickets
offering only rain-checks of tears?
I would give up my twelve string,
round bodied, Ovation guitar
just to spend one more weekend
immersed in that magical time
when peace was believable,
and love was a half a million strong.
We must as a people once again
lend whatever we can spare to
those who are not spared.
Spread love like mayonnaise,
and damn the calories,
it moistens the dry bland
of our planet in peril.
Leap over the graves
of your inhibitions,
dust off an old cause
and make it purposeful again.
Set your forsaken dreams free
in a world that might
once again be held captivated.
Where did they all go
those flower children of yesteryear?
They are now your neighbors, your trustees,
your teachers, doctors, lawyers,
they are editors and civil servants,
your volunteers and your grandparents.
They are a vast force to be reckoned with,
a silent majority in a time when voices
need to truly be united as one for change.
This poem then is my single shout out,
awaiting what hopefully will be,
the many echoes to come.
Resounding from the masses
of all who have clung to
a hibernation of dreams.
(c)- Artwhimsically Yours Studio- MFBIII
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