Woodstock Revisited
A time capsule swallowed whole but never digested properly
W O O D S T O C K<><> R E V I S I T E D .
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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?
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Those who knew a Woodstock
not of rifles but of a
peaceful coalition massed.
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Weaving poems and soft music
into the famished ears
of a nation ripped by war.
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Yasgur's farm lies empty now,
music tinkles in some distant,
laughter on endless August days.
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Harmony exists there in two clouds,
floating side by side, and forming a bridge
below a rainbow hung over fields
where only butterflies dance.
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Are they sighing now f
or all that was
but can never be again?
Do they find themselves exchanging
sorrows over Vietnam
for Iraq and Afghanistan?
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Do they have flashbacks every time
they hold up two fingers
for a table at a restaurant?
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Did they ever find real peace beyond
the mud and tie-dye spattered hopes
of a youth long spent?
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Isn't there a daisy chain somewhere
that can secure me snugly
and sprout me back to 1969?
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Many might be happy to see me go...
I can't seem to find much of the old,
amidst the apathetic new.
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Because soldiers are still dying
while the ecology and
the economy are in dire straits,
but few are singing their blues.
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My lips hum softly
in a single poetic sigh
blended with ink.
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Where are all the
voices in the streets,
the songs of protest,
the solidarity shouted
in bell bottoms of freedom
as billy clubs swing?
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Have they become just memories
pressed between time's pages,
faded daisy petals and concert tickets
offering only rain-checks of tears?
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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.
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We must as a people, once again
lend whatever we can spare to
those who are not spared.
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Spread love like mayonnaise,
and damn the calories,
it moistens the dry bland
of our planet in peril.
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Leap over the graves
of your inhibitions,
dust off an old cause
and make it purposeful again.
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Set your forsaken dreams free
in a world that might
once again be held captivated.
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Where did they all go
tall hose flower children
of yesteryears?
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They are now your neighbors,
your trustees, your teachers,
doctors, lawyers and preachers
they are editors, civil servants,
your volunteers and your grandparents.
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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.
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This poem then is
my single shout out,
awaiting what hopefully will
reply in many echoes to come.
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Resounding from the masses
of all who have clung to
a hibernation of thier dreams. "Peace to you and yours always."
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© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III