r,,,...„ ...... ( ~,, ...,i..k , ...-....c.i., ~.... \ H , c:- ........_ (4 - ' > ' ) 4,. '"--- ce ( 4 , 0-1 "Alone" Harlk .'.gone and sad I sit T. my chair And stare Au the tree that towers High in the sky Not alive Eut dead My loneliness is deeply rooted In my mind I find I cannot shake th. fer.aing 7hy Ilm this way Today So Alone My life is tramped all over Like the floor More and more Ly depression is chronic 1 1 11 never bend Then it will end Ml die. "Sadness" Hank A sad heart at the break of day An empty soul that wants to cry I wish I knew why I►nl this way Oh, why? My heart would like to soar and wing in the ice—blue sky My soul would like to shout and sing why? Life is so dreary, sad and blue With conflicts mounting high I never know what I should do The following poem, written by John Wiansro, is an example of some o, the fine pieces of poetry written by students at Highacres. We welcome contributions like this: "Impression" John Wanyo A cellar is my pad, With jazz in the mist. A cellar is my pad A picture of this: Jazz being played Progressive and wild. Tea being smoked. (find why not?) Life is not, existence, thatts all Oblivion sought, no other call. Time passes slow --- Time is not there Damn time. It is there. Even our generation will pass. Even we will adhere to the mass. We cannot survive, our ways will We cannot fight; exist, that is I am alone in a crowd, Mine is the lobt generation The sounds of life are about me, I hear them not. tudible are the beatniks, Intangible items Unaudiabl,F; by the common thought. Bird is my interperator But he WRB not my God But Bird no longer is: The reed is dry, the valves are sti The sound is dead, his name off the Why do you listen? What do you want to hair? Bop in the night; The pitch of a junky; Wails from a jazzman, baring a monke Beatniks chmting, poets reciting Negroes shuffling, always shuffling. If not shuffling, always fighting. These are the sounds of my generatio I hear them, how about you?
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers