WHERE ARE THE HIPPIES OF YESTERDAY?
Where are the hippies of yesterday
who burned their draft cards
and chained themselves to the gates of the White House?
Where are those longhaired, dope smoking demonstrators
who shouted "Hell No! We won't go!"?
Where is the "counter culture"
who sought peace and brotherhood
and raised the level of hope for the rest of us?
What happened to the brotherhood, the sisterhood,
the activism that brought us all into the streets
to protest an unjust, uncalled for, disastrous war?
Have they all gone back to the fold?
Do they march again to the drummer's beat?
Are they selling real estate? Insurance?
Margin buying on the stock exchange?
I call upon you, hippies of the sixties and seventies
to rise again from your long sleep,
go down into the streets
and shake the establishment once more to its senses
that peace may have its day
and, with hope renewed,
we can all live our lives without shaking.
THEY ARE OUT THERE
They're out there you know.
They're still out there
on Wall Street, on Madison Avenue,
walking around in business suits
white shirts and ties,
carrying executive briefcases.
They're still out there
in offices, in board rooms,
around conference tables
making deals, making money,
making mudpies
with their head in the sand.
They're out there in first class
playing games on the stock market,
gambling their lives without knowing it.
Better still, knowing somewhere deep inside
that they're on the Titanic
and it has already struck
the iceberg of their overindulgence.
Don't wake them up!
They don't want to know.
The boat is sinking.
THE BUS
I got on this bus when I was still in diapers.
I didn't know anybody
only the woman who carried me on.
I grew into a boy on her lap
looking at the other passengers
and the scenery out the window.
The bus made several short stops
and I nearly fell off my seat.
When I got a little bigger
I got a seat of my own and held on
as the bus careened around corners
and several passengers fell to the floor.
There was no clear destination
but the bus made a number of stops
and some people got on and others got off.
When I got to be 25
I shared a seat with a lovely young lady
who sat on my lap when the bus got crowded.
And crowded it got.
What started out to be a peaceful ride
through the countryside
turned into a donnybrook
with passengers fighting over seats,
pushing people into the isle
and sometimes off the bus.
The scenery changed
and the pastures turned to concrete,
the trees to skyscrapers
and the sun was hidding above the smog.
By the time I reached middle age
the space I was occupying was less than one seat
and I was pushed and shoved on all sides
by angry passengers who were jealous of their space.
The woman who brought me on
got off at a truck stop
and I struggled to keep my composure
in the crush of the crowd.
