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Four Transcendental Grandmothers
I had just got my hands
on the new ‘Sergeant Pepper’ album.
The four girls that lived above my pad
were notified by jungle drums.
Soon we were six, Roger
with his blonde Mexican mustache
and shoulder length hair came over.
We sat about a portable record player,
passing the album cover around
and swaying to the music
filling the room with prayerful smoke.
By and by,
Roger took Diane to her room.
Michelle led me behind the curtained alcove,
Isobel and Maggie got it on together.
When we had done with the music
we had long disbanded
the lonely-hearts club band.
Later, Roger died from the hole he had dug
in the London drug scene. My mate.
One grandmother lived to see Lennon shot.
One lived on long enough
to hear of Harrisons stabbing.
Michelle. the last grandmother
she who broken heartedly adored Paul,
died peacefully
listening to her signature tune.
I know this because the Maharishi Yogi
came to me in a dream.
He was seated on top of a multicolored
Rolls Royce surrounded by
happy, nubile grandmothers.
None of them seemed old,
the girls were playing with lots of children,
and looked just as cool as ever.
I could have called this poem, Love,
but we all know:
Love Is All You Need.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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