By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

I
Never saw you as a ghost,
a wreck cast to the coast.

Like waves to sand
You say, "Swing from the ropes"

I don't know why,
everything exists at all.

But I try,
when I see you walking down the hall

But I try,
not to ask why.

My Feminine divine

i am not a helpless girl
drowning is a sea
of her own sadness
but i have been holding my breath
for too many years
my eyes sting
my ears are popping
my lungs are collapsing from the pressure

please
let me breath

s.s

You don’t decide who
Will make your heart race.
The corners of your lips just
Upturn so suddenly
That you only notice your smile
When you step forward and feel
The cement  pieces
Of a shattered frown
On the ground beneath your feet.