A motorcycle rally.
Motorcycles--something I will never understand.
But it was a great night for people watching. I didn't take my writer's notebook with me, but I sure filled it in with details when I got home!
Anyway, this poem comes from that experience.
The OutlawsGraying,
Long-Haired hippies.
Faces lined with the
Evidence of hard living.
Trying to recapture
What it was like to be
Seventeen again.
Or twenty-one.
Or young.
Dancing in place
To music that resonates with them.
They feel it
Loud and pounding,
Vibrating the ground,
Crashing right to their soul.
And for an hour they are
Young again
With plans to take on the world.
Like all of us.
Do they still have those dreams?
Do they still have those ideals?
Do they still have the reckless abandon
That stereotyped them?
Or
Are they part of the mainstream
In their everyday life?
Regretting choices not made.
Graying,
Long-Haired hippies
Trying to recapture
Their Youth.
You're doing more & more poetry, Deb, & it's full of great wording & thoughtful lines. Isn't it interesting to watch these 'old' bands resurrect themselves again & again onstage, trying a little time travel I guess. I love that early line 'trying to recapture what it was like to be seventeen again, or twenty-one." (I think they'll never be part of the mainstream.)
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