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The last hippy poet of the woodstock generation
Excerpt-12: As I am a performance poet, I'd like to do a performance piece for my final excerpt presentation. It is from Part 2 of the book.
my stuff is rough
it’s bare bones
I hate to answer
telephones
I want to look you
in the eyes
when we speak
but it ain’t no use
in this fast-paced world
to ride a horse
or court a girl
if you take your time
to get there
she’s just moved on
and what becomes
of the alley cat
on the night
of the hard driving rain
when the lightning speaks loud
and everyone crowds
in the shelter
of warm window panes
I live my life
in a pot-bellied stove
I’m an oak tree
with ages to tell
I’m the earthquake commander
a green salamander
a salesman
with nothing to sell
but did you see me
on the night of the new
when everything changed
in an instant
the air was so clean
and the grass was so green
that a new age
did not seem so distant
in the quiet
an angel calls
—awakened
by the engine stalls
of the inner city
pondering its sleep
the dream is a draftsman
a hill-dwelling craftsman
a step in a puddle
on the road to forever
and life is a boat
in a great castle moat
we all circle
yet must row together
now is then
and yesterday’s tomorrow
but how can we live it
like we mean it
when we’re running so fast
that the race cannot last
and the space in between
lies unseen
or is that to lay
in a meadow and ponder
the meaning of
the wild blue yonder
the stars at night
or a daffodil
the momentum is great
as it rolls down the hill
of imagination
gone to seed
—I’m a wildweed!
why do I feel
so safe in the rain
and long to sit
behind waterfalls
I gaze at blue crystal
I tell tattered tales
and listen . . .
when eternity calls
maybe this just goes
on and on
or maybe the hunger
can’t fathom the dawn
it’s the spark in the dark
behind your eyes
when you sleep just the moment
and then it is gone
—and you weep
sheltering skies
pour forth from your eyes
and germinate the seed
of my fast growing need
—I’m a wildweed!
"Wildweed" - © C. Steven Blue 12/6/1997
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