Owed to the Sixties triptych

Love Song to a Lost Generation


In 1967 when the world was young in bloom,
we died a’borning.
Aspiring specter left to weep
a burial parade to the new morning
that dreamed us in our dreams, but never wakened.
Oh yes, there was a time brave psyches frolicked
open, free to wander.
Oh yes, there was a time electrifying, expansive
paradise to squander.
Oh yes, there was a time when nothing seemed
beyond a new direction.
Oh yes, there was a time, but that moment died
bereft of resurrection.
It’s a sad song I’m singing
of Eden we might have realized
if only . . .
A sad song.
Bright leaves blown from dozing trees
discover they are lonely,
but winter’s coming
& there’s no returning down that road
once the snows have rearranged it.
What happened to our plans for peace,
for sharing bount beyond belief
for blazoning the dawn with youthful fire . . .
This birthing era deems us old
withered spider webs of gold
spun so fine that none would think to see us.
Our voice is gone.
Our flame denied.
Music that echoed deep inside, our corps
to march eternal, now eludes us.
In spiraling we’ve lost our thread.
Faded ink, inept message.
Like this last poem, we soon are dead,
I weep for the child almost born.
She showed a promise now unfulfilled.
Perhaps someday again may she find us.



She sits in an old rocking chair
and questions the silence of night.
As the waves blow, the winds flow,
the sands sift with sea
and faraway stars shine in soft mystery,
her eyes shine with starlight and stare at
the sea,
asking questions as ancient as night,
expecting no sign to appear.

In the village, at noon, on the square,
beneath the near blinding day light,
sits a man with a plan he’s no means to play,
wondering how he will get through his day,
and just where, this night, he will finally lay
(Yes, beneath which exit light?)
expecting no sign to appear.

I questioned myself on a dare
Tell me: What’s wrong and what’s right?
Have I caught a new thought that God has no mind?
We search for salvation that’s nowhere to find?
Or merely grown tired of life’s daily grind,
not caring to search for the light,
expecting no sign to appear.

We children of flowers and light,
have we turned to dour-faced fear,
our dreams sacrificed to the night,
expecting no sign to appear?



The Secret to Happiness ~ We Are Happening!
Find what brings you alive; and do it.
(not what “I should” to prove that “I’m good,” or good
at being bad)
Look to meet people enjoying it too;
layer texture to our view,
expand our field of play.
Lather, rinse, repeat
as necessary.
Take it out to the street when necessary.
Do what you need to be
what you wish to see.
Do what only you can.
Make this happening grand!
Do it today.

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