“Hippies surviving Woodstock”

Beneath a sodden summer sky,  
Where peace signs wove through rain and mud,  
A sea of colors, spirits high,  
The hopeful bloom of brotherhood.  

Old Bethel’s fields, alive with sound—  
The Grateful Dead, Santana’s fire—  
Where barefoot dancers spun around  
And music built a world entire.  

The thunder rolled, the heavens wept,  
Yet laughter bubbled in the haze.  
From tents and tarps, the dreamers crept  
With flowers bright and tie-dye blaze.  

The scent of patchouli and song—  
A golden haze of sharing bread;  
No fences stopped that swelling throng,  
The fields became one endless bed.  

They muddied jeans and outstretched hands,  
Passed apples, peace, and borrowed coats,  
Believed in love, ignored the bans,  
And music rose in gleaming notes.  

They weathered storms, they sang, they kissed,  
In throngs that felt as one great soul.  
In every drop of morning mist,  
The spirit lingered, brave and whole.  

Years later still, the tales survive—  
Of harmony through thunder’s shock;  
Of how the hippies stayed alive,  
And left their footprints deep in rock.

Create Your Own Poem | Recent Poems