Nostalgia aside…

Our grandparents were
men and women of strength and stature,
I’ve been told.
I never knew mine.
They died too soon, but
they all passed their stories on to the
next generation.

My parents were cut from the same cloth...
hard-working, daylight to sunset, at first
fearing, and then smiling
into the future.

Then my generation boomed onto the scene.
We were given, by our post-war parents, all the
toys they never had.
We grew into flower children, acting out the
license to chase self, and
imitate on-screen rebels.

We rolled in the mud of Woodstock and
shouted for ‘freedom’ while
spitting in the faces of
those who birthed us.
We got it right sometimes, but not enough to
turn us into saints.

Nostalgia aside…

We huffed and puffed until our brains spoke in
hieroglyphs, the
unknown tongue of the 60s, lyrics that
only made sense to the
inner love-child sniffing daisies and
spewing self-serving sentiments.

We impressed ourselves as
we railed against the ‘pigs’ …not realizing we
were swine, …pampered piglets with
playthings bought by
our parents’ 9 to 5s plus.

When we threw our tantrums, the cameras
caught it all, stroking us with
the attention of the
media moguls and shocked public.

We laughed and poster-ed our love notes to
one another in long-hair and paisley bell bottom sass.
The latest technology puffed us and blew our
insipid messages across the miles in split second
entertainment. We made the news…every night.

History repeats itself, they say, and
I suppose that’s true.
Pampered piglets come in varying decades and
degrees.
Pig tales can curl in every direction.