You will find me reading this at the bottom of the post.
Literature of life was learned on trains.
Poetry to the beat of the rail seam,
In the trickle of rain,
The rising steam rhythms from summer heat;
Crackles of ice off long cold station gutters under strains
From winter snow piled deep upon the roof.
These teaching me all the beauty and pain nature sows
From which reap pleasure and vice.
In my life of change in a time of change
The streets were colorful as flowers bloomed.
Posters swirled and glowed while
New music boomed with meaning, with cause. Cool,
But laced with care, Accepting all the people in full rage
Against the bloody pool of war and hate.
And I struggled to paint upon the page each hero
And each fool I met while there.
In the park in the dark passing shadows
Change with the changing hour and the seasons.
In ragged second store dress,
Stocking runs, bell-bottom denim, dour
Pea Jacket blue. The men who love men; Druggies on their prowls;
Hippie girls with flowers in their tresses;
Poets and writers and actors and pals adding to
The bowers where my words grew.
Changes came into the city of change.
The nightlife shifted streets. Head shops went dark.
Psychedelic posters dimmed to new art.
As Hippies came from Beats, they went to Goths.
Rittenhouse square is where now old men range.
They occupy the seats and sing no songs.
So though I trod old walks and find them strange, Memory’s
Glow entreats their tales like moths