August 28, 2005
the waves are high today
(the season’s set to change)
six feet or more from shore
they break
rear back
like prancing stallions
barely held in check
leaping transformed
to curling peaks of foam
and roll on in
they just keep coming
(like the years)
while we play on the sand
dance in the surf
and sometimes (if we’re lucky)
ride one in to shore
gleeful as children
blissfully unaware
they do not have forever
arlo
—woody guthrie’s boy
for those of you who fail to recognize the name–
is here tonight
the atmosphere electric
highly charged
as the amplified guitars,
foot-stomping fiddle
of the young folks traveling with him
(one’s his son)
older now
(the waves just keep on coming)
then he was forty years ago
when he wrote the song
they’ve come to do:
YOU CAN GET ANYTHING YOU WANT
AT ALICE’S RESTAURANT
and we’re here too
the wide-eyed dropped-out kids
(we’ve dropped back in)
who wore ideals
as carelessly
as tie-dye and patchouli
disguised tonight
as gimpy, grumpy
all too conventional appearing
old folk
refugees
from a time of dreams
now lost
and truly mourned
who once believed
we really did: i know it sounds absurd
our love was strong enough
to stop the bombs
and that together
we would change the world.
tonight that dream stirs once again
like a hibernating woodchuck
in the spring
although of course we know
locations, leaders change
but the lies continue
as the death toll climbs
and the war
the fucking war: country joe was right
its body bags not words that are obscene
the war goes on.
the music fills the hall
the setting simple, perfect
rows of folding chairs
each connected to the ones
on either side
as we are joined to all
but mainly fail to notice.
arlo
waves of white hair
rippling to his shoulders
appears to lead the charge
telling stories
reminiscing
laughing at the lies
inviting us to come again with him
as we did forty years ago
–or was it yesterday
into los angeleeez
bringing in a couple of keys
to board the train
they call the city of new orleans
to join the massacree
on thanksgiving day
at alice’s
get arrested for littering
and be rejected for the draft.
then far too soon
the lighting dims
all hands on deck
guitars keyboard
and a sprightly (female!) fiddler
launching full-throttle
into woody’s love song
to the country that he roamed
until his roaming days were done
and never left off loving.
as the strains
of a wildly energetic version
of THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
fill the air
i notice with surprise
that tears
are streaming down my cheeks.
the waves were high tonight
six feet or more from shore
they broke
reared back
and surged to towering peaks of feeling
while on the boardwalk
behind the clouds banked
to the south
a bright spot struggled
to break through:
the hope that forty years from now
another season set to change
(the waves just keep on coming)
when arlo, i and all of us
who shared the dream
are part of sea and sky
there will be other children
playing on the sand
dancing in the waves
and daring to believe
their love is strong enough to stop the bombs
and that together they can change the world
kblenz
october 2005