Allan Lake

For Awhile in 1968

A different kind of spring in North America

which had naught to do with assinine astrology.

I never dove in deep, just paddled about.

Lunacy legacy. Old enough to make a baby,

young enough to be one. Suddenly the world

seemed new so I stopped cutting my hair,

trying to fit into anything I’d been into.

The Beatles an exception but I didn’t play

a musical instrument other than kazoo so

no secondment likely. Certain songs and

an unlikely hurdy gurdy were calling.

Rumours. Something siren from West Coast,

Hippiedom. I hit cold highway near coma-

tose prairie town and stuck out a thumb.

Unlike Christendom, Hippiedom lacked:

leadership, armies, capital and shape but

shades of grey did become rainbow with

hallucinogens. More than okay to be happy

and gay, but not like Hamlet or Lear or Elton.

Not in ‘68. Everything was new and pure

because the driven, riven old was falling

to earth like overripe fruit. King and Kennedy

dropped before being ripe but naive belief

in cosmic love broke on through. Wild-

flowers after winter. Cynicism nodded off.

Parallel world only some felt but that ‘some’

recognised one another, would nod, smile,

share bread, bed. Not embarrassed to be

scarecrows, dancing fools. Tet Offensive

didn’t offend but war on Nature did.

On the move without destination and

almost everyone was kind, felt it.

Low expectations melted like ice and

any post school plans I might’ve had.

And then: The Rockies. Revelations

after eternal wheat field prairie.

Confirmation that the world would not be

flat as it had been. Air new, sky new,

I knew and on highway of remade world,

seeing Ma Nature through new eyes,

looking through not for. It was more

than it was and it looked beautiful.

Found places to lay your head.

Some thought they were in Eden,

thought they might be Christ returning,

thought things unthinkable before renewal.

Some went mad, lashed out, made a mess.

Lovers felt free to be naked on beaches,

make love on park lawns, write poetry,

like that mattered. Whole new holy 

with fruit aplenty. God and snake reconciled.

On west coast cities we congregated and

waited, ate dates and dated. I spent summer

embracing Susan who embraced heroin

after that. We happily marched against war

or for the joy of walking together as drummers

drummed. A girl from Saskatoon who wasn’t

at Woodstock, wrote a song called Woodstock,

inspired worse Woodstocks. Some reached

the moon but nothing coalesced into new age.

Babies and cults, art and ideas were born;

some even stumbled to maturity.

1968 lasted a couple years but by 1970

it began to smell. Beatles disbanded.

Memories – not long after – consigned to

WTF Dept of slightly altered brains.

Sure of nothing, I became a teacher, on

whim bought a one-way ticket to Tasmania.

Flying primate promoting the imaginary.

Many could never get home even if they

wanted – I didn’t – and like lost moons,

had the rest of their lives to quietly drift

and reflect.