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confessions of a fool

i believed in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)
the thought that what a wind could bend was not to be
derided for its weakness but known to draw its calm
from a corporate sense of self (its many-ed history)
that tyranny (in the long blow) lacked the will to break

that heaped-up suffering gave to sufferers a balm
and through such evolution (such dog-eared mystery)
there would grow an end to the strong is right mystique
and that ordinariness unarmed (however weak its knee)
could hymn its own upstanding (as honoured as a psalm)

i believed in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)
though evidence was mocking (less song than threnody)
i savoured the impossible without a qualm

and sought to make it practical – to bed worn earth
with a seed that tried to answer those dire conundrums
(making of every longed-for scene a landscape bleak)
to bring exciting prospects to a life of humdrums
reveal the spirit-ordinary in its dancing worth

yet the visions my dreams gave voice to failed to speak
they fell foul (inevitably) of panjamdrums
but even amongst those who grasped a notion of their girth
not one could get the fullest beatings of these sun-drums
the simple clarity the dreams had turned opaque

and after thirty years (too frayed to fight such dearth)
who should know better (so much beaten by life’s tantrums)
i believe in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)

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