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Woodstock Revisited.

Updated on February 7, 2013
In another time...another face.
In another time...another face.

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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