Hippie Love

I was a child of fifty-eight,
a little young, but not too late,
with a peace sign hanging from my heart
and flowers on my sleeve.

A leather sash around my waist,
bell-bottom jeans all patched in place,
every color sewn together
like the world we dreamed could be.

I marched beside my family,
for civil rights and dignity,
against the war, against the fear,
for people to be free.

We carried posters, wore our pins,
believed that peace was bound to win,
and every song became a road
to where the world might be.

We always had a cause,
always had a song,
always stood for something
when we knew that something’s wrong.

With flowers in our hands
and hope held up above—
We thought the cause was justice,
but the cause was always love,
the cause was always love.

Buffy sang and Joan sang too,
Pete and Phil could cut right through,
Dylan asked the questions
blowing restless in the wind.

Peter, Paul and Mary sang,
and every hopeful chorus rang
like a promise that tomorrow
we could start the world again.

The Village Voice came to our door,
and showed us what we marched there for—
before the glowing screens arrived,
we found each other’s names.

There were buttons, there were signs,
there were marches for peace and justice
there were causes all the time,
and a feeling we were standing
in the middle of a change.

We always had a cause,
always had a song,
always stood for something
when we knew that something’s wrong.

With flowers in our hands
and hope held up above—
We thought the cause was freedom,
but the cause was always love,
the cause was always love.

Then somewhere in my later youth,
I lost the path, but not the truth.
My mother took me by the hand
and led me back once more.

At Survival Sunday, beneath the Bowl,
A thousand voices stirred my soul—
so many different roads were winding
toward the same open door.

One small table, one new name,
and nothing after stayed the same:
Summer service led to hunger,
hunger led me on
to a life among nonprofits,
beautiful and strange,
still believing ordinary people
have the power to make change.

I always had a cause,
I always had a song,
I kept standing up for something
when I knew that something’s wrong.

Now the years have made it clear
what I was dreaming of—
under every march for justice,
under every cry for peace,
underneath it all,
the cause was always love,
the cause was always love.

So I’ll wear my love beads and peace symbol,
though the years have turned to gold.
A hippie heart keeps growing—
it doesn’t just grow old.

And if you ask what still remains
when push has come to shove:
Always a cause,
Always a song,
Always hippie love.