Growing to Maturity too Late

Just think that fifty years ago you were

Beginning to discover in yourself a sense of power

As words confronted you and you would swear

The language of rebellion and, hour after hour,

Complain against the course and curse of history.

Then half a century flew by it seemed or half

Of that at least and you looked about and laughed

And—all in a flash, the bitterness was photographed

And it would rest, we hoped, an epitaph—

Yet all remains unexplained, a mystery.

We still search for some laughter, a few jokes to calm

The nerves, ease the pain and humiliation

But we can never again sit under that mythical palm

To dream of peace and harmony and liberation,

But always wait poised for the next inevitable catastrophe.