At Shag Phelps' birthday bash,
in a small dark bedroom
on the far end of Alan's trailer,
we found ourselves laughing and naked,
doing the dirty dance to a drum solo,
and strains of electric mystic Iron Butterfly
'In-A-Godda-Da-Vida, baby…'
Flashes of strobe and heady weed
streamed through a carelessly ajar door.
The earth swirled and tilted
when I arched backward,
just to hear you swear as my hair
tickled the bare tops of your thighs.
'Oh won't you come with me...'
Thirty years later, a soft country ballad
is mingled with snoring before
the first verse leads to pause.
In still darkness I walk
through this big house alone,
while ghosts taunt from shadows.
'and walk this land…'
I put the album carefully in place,
turn the volume to an unfamiliar low,
and close my eyes to drink the music.
If I lean way back in a younger woman's arch,
I can almost feel the hair that is no longer there
tickle the skin of my bare and lonely waist.
'Please take my hand…'
Shirley Alexander
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
From an old hippy, my regards for bringing those times back to life...10