The Sixties--1962 Poem by Sandy Fulton

1962
Hawaii was easy to endure,
bronzed people under a sun never too hot.
As in Camelot, rain fell only during convenient hours.

In my ancient Ford I'd drive
up into the cloud-topped hills of Aiea,
to the windswept backbone of Oahu,
where south and north
the aquamarine waters of the Pacific
gleamed in the sun.
Down the coast and around the island
fields shimmered in smoke
floating on the sweet scent of burning cane.
Between old underwater volcanoes surf curled
and rolled ashore to caress
the greenest grass outside Ireland.

I lived in that green dreamland
carelessly and joyously
until our young president went nose-to-nose
with Uncle Nikita.

I, all of us, expected to vaporize
before the weekend.
We were the ghosts of ghosts,
sleeping, if you could call it that,
at our Navy desks.

After it was over
(surprise! we didn't die!)
most of us were changed forever.
Some turned hedonist,
getting it while they could.

I grew angry.
No one, not even our young President,
should hold that much power
over life and death.