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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Bearded Buddha,
sufi, hare krishna,
beatnik, former Jew
swathed in white,
semi lotus position
on the ragged edge
of Sheep's Meadow.

Awestruck hippies
circle round,
listening, bobble headed
to the anaphoric repetition
as the bard recites.

In an acid haze
I listen...
watch the roses grow
from the top of your head
hear the wind howl.

The leaves of grass die,
yet are reborn
at your slippered feet.

I am entranced
by your yellow shadow,
your blood red sash.

Above the birdsong
lilts an ocarina
dulcet and shy,
your finger cymbals
like Tibetan tingsha bells
ringing, singing.

On this crisp
Easter Sunday Morning
Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven,
I too fathom
the interconnectedness of the universe.

Central Park
like an anthill,
teeming with tie-dye,
eusocial creatures.

In the middle of
your Kaddish for Naomi,
the barefoot boy
with flowers
in his blonde
leonine hair and beard
"Wow man, groovy!"

You shoot him
a withering glance
then your eyes meet mine
and for a split second
I see into your soul.

“Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare…Hare,
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare…Hare.”

You give penumbra
a whole new meaning.

For Allen Ginsberg


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