Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California
October 2, 2011; revised June 15, 2014
It would be wrong, of course,
to hike up Haight in too new
tie dye, made in Haiti, hauled
to Georgia, bought off 'Hippies'
costume rack, my own creation
(purple bled with golden high-
lights) gone to rags too long
ago.
I caught the Summer of Love
by grace of A.M. rockin' radio
while sweating construction
to finance my physics, and fantasized
Love-Ins were all I could muster
that innocent summer in North
Carolina.
Now here in Haight I haunt the places
free range hippies propagated
seeking *Authenticity* or failing
that, a clever tee to take back
home with burning words declaring
what it is we were, just what we
wanted life to hold, what never was
but still might be, in understated
irony.
From off the other side of Haight
persistent as the backed-up traffic
bold, phlegmatic yogi laughs
though not in mirth, but merely
practice. Blocks from fervor
gentry groom their comely rows
of reclaimed homes, each worth
more than all the flowers worn by
hippies in the Haight back in the
sixties.
With knowing smiles and narrowed
eyes, we've moved beyond the naïve
wise who fought for justice with those
flowers, summoned peace by sharing
song. Go gentle, people, after all
it’s every generation’s fate to re-enact
the Fall. Last call before we’re ushered
out.
At the end of Haight the 'Golden Arches'
sits across from Whole Food Market
hard by parkland, pulsing, pulsing
tribal drums beat about the edge of awareness
from somewhere deep within the great long golden park
that stretches out to the end of America
where sea fog gathers cleansing chill
close underground raw forces build
and the late day breeze drifts so gently
about my face, I cannot say which way
it blows.
It would be wrong, of course,
to hike up Haight in too new
tie dye, made in Haiti, hauled
to Georgia, bought off 'Hippies'
costume rack, my own creation
(purple bled with golden high-
lights) gone to rags too long
ago.
I caught the Summer of Love
by grace of A.M. rockin' radio
while sweating construction
to finance my physics, and fantasized
Love-Ins were all I could muster
that innocent summer in North
Carolina.
Now here in Haight I haunt the places
free range hippies propagated
seeking *Authenticity* or failing
that, a clever tee to take back
home with burning words declaring
what it is we were, just what we
wanted life to hold, what never was
but still might be, in understated
irony.
From off the other side of Haight
persistent as the backed-up traffic
bold, phlegmatic yogi laughs
though not in mirth, but merely
practice. Blocks from fervor
gentry groom their comely rows
of reclaimed homes, each worth
more than all the flowers worn by
hippies in the Haight back in the
sixties.
With knowing smiles and narrowed
eyes, we've moved beyond the naïve
wise who fought for justice with those
flowers, summoned peace by sharing
song. Go gentle, people, after all
it’s every generation’s fate to re-enact
the Fall. Last call before we’re ushered
out.
At the end of Haight the 'Golden Arches'
sits across from Whole Food Market
hard by parkland, pulsing, pulsing
tribal drums beat about the edge of awareness
from somewhere deep within the great long golden park
that stretches out to the end of America
where sea fog gathers cleansing chill
close underground raw forces build
and the late day breeze drifts so gently
about my face, I cannot say which way
it blows.
I can dig it! I never imagined free range hippies but I expect many went the way of the ivory bill. Now all I see are "Damn Hippies"; defined as those in 70's dress, born 20 or so years ago that shower each day. I liked it all but especially the last part. Trying hard to interpret the last sentence..
ReplyDelete"Right on" Bob! Steve P.