Summer of Love

We ready ourselves for Woodstock
(now that a man has landed on the moon),
this summer of ’69.  An Aquarian Exposition
of Peace and Music—sounds all right to us.
We untuck the day-to-day, prepare for all
good bands and singers who commit
to this festival; we hear Hendrix and
Fogerty have signed the deal, yet
are not sure about Dylan.  Tie-
dye tee shirts, Levi Jeans… 
we wear bandanas
‘round our brow, sing
as if to teach the world
to sing, in perfect harmony.
Is is our thing which we will do;
Max Yasgur’s dairy farm mid-August
heat, and rumor has it the National Guard!
Free love is someone’s bag okay, but we
don’t weed that flower bed, or hippies
massing cheek-to-cheek looking 
silly, dazed itching with need.
We choose to be a part of
peace among the far-off
sounds of war, jungle
mayhem, Vietnam.
Our sandals on,
a cooling rain
and squishing
in the mud abets
revival.  Perhaps the 
Beatles and the Stones
will show, but why should we
carry hope so high; our hope is
to be part of it, to love this summer
experience, the music—let it stream like
rays of warmth, smiles aside dissatisfaction.
Now ready for the Woodstock experience,
we do our thing, like so many others
do, because want remains a force,
and beauty a spark.

40 Lines 
Writer’s Cramp 
7-3-19