Baby Boomer Ballad

Safe inside my latest womb,
I’d left behind my thousandth tomb
and sworn to gods I’d get it right this next time.

Then I was born; they took a sword—
They struck my back, they cut the cord,
and I forgot again where I arose from.

I cried confusion’s scared behest
but soon found latest mother’s breast.
Her love and warmth and milk and care consoled me.

She teased me, laughed, sang mother’s songs,
and soon came dad to sing along.
They taught me walk and talk, “behave, obey me.”

They took me to the house of God,
where fun is sin; don’t bug the Lord—
‘cause Santa knows your sins; he reads God’s spreadsheets.

So I stole a mask, I chose a name,
I picked a role, I faked the game,
and once again pretended to be some one.

But by grade twelve, I frowned in school,
I hitchhiked off and to be cool,
I got in cliques and fights and broke the rules.

Then new vibrations filled the air:
I wore bright flowers in my hair,
found love and peace in friends and sugar cubes.

The emperors of state and god,
they had no clothes; they reigned in fog.
But I saw colored coils of paisley music…

The mountains spoke, the angels smiled,
my visions woke a saintly child.
I saw the dance of god-galactic clusters.

But gentle peace became protests
‘gainst Nam and straights and other pests,
and powdered poisons pushed out insight panes.

Our love sank chakra four to two,
the scene became a children’s zoo,
our clothes and music canned and sold to labels.

Then I was taught a secret sound.
I closed my eyes and soon I found
the truth: the formless, absolute, the No Thing.

So keen, I went to learn some more.
I trained to teach, I joined the corps;
to change the world—so sure that we could do it.

Great luck, I joined my master’s clan:
a perfect, kind, enlightened man.
I saw the world, I learned the ancient wisdom.

That happy life was surely blessed,
but wandering fancies still will test,
and feelings fate and fortune may surprise you.

Thus, later on in usual ways,
I fogged back in the ancient maze,
where I got lost but tried to tangle through it.

The years then rolled, the corps got cold,
my master left and I got old.
I cry, “It’s late. When do I get it right, Lord?”

There goes my tale; I’ve traveled far.
I’m still beneath a lucky star,
but now the stars are blinking at my winter…

One backup thought recurs again
lest lessons learned seem learned in vain:

I swore to gods I’d get it right this lifetime.