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"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?