1967

It was 1967
when you wandered into my life.
The Beatles were on
a “Magical Mystery Tour”,
but you were my mystery.
Your red hair taunted my sensitivities
and for the longest time
I couldn’t understand
why “P.S. I Love You” played
when you walked in the room.
It was awhile before I realized
my eyes followed the
wishful sway of your hips,
and the slight upward turn of your lips
would ignite a fanciful beat
in my heart,
with a dream of their soft taste.
One of your girlfriends told me once,
you did it just to see my smile.

It was 1967,
the Red Guard rebels had seized back Shanghai
in a January Storm,
the whole world was in joyous celebration
turning everything right side up
and everyone wanted
to kiss the skies.
And you kissed me.

It was Fall,
Autumn's orange and browns ruled
but that kiss felt like
wild, red roses,
blue bells, daffodils
and green smelling air.
That kiss pulled us into world events
and tasted like more.

In 1967
I began to write poetry
and picked up my paint brushes again.
Mostly because of you,
your red hair hue,
how everyone smiled with you,
and the way you made me feel
like I was human.
In 1967 the whole world was changing.
We both felt it
as it affected the way we saw each other.
Lovers yes, but more, standing
in the thick of all the social rebellion.
We wanted a better world.
Hand in hand
we traveled together
for a little while.
I wish I would have loved you better,
more equally,
with more respect.
But I was a typical male,
not yet ready to give up my privilege.

It was 1967
we loved with the passion
of a changing world.
Five years later you left.
Yet I still see your taunting red hair,
can taste your Spring-like kiss,
feel your warm skin next to mine,
and be inspired by the slight upward turn of your lips.
While I put down my paint brush long ago,
my pen still spills ink for you,
still calls you ‘Amber’.

10.16.12