A Beatnik’s Ode to Life

You harsh substance,
You pleasurable joy,
You make the seething throngs
Seek what they seek.

Cold is what they get.
For their troubles; this they get: Fear—Haunting fear
Of hunger,
Of the Bomb,
But not so much the Bomb
For the Bomb would extinguish their fears. Forever.

The obsessions you bring
The cruel actualities and realities
Brought by your stinging hand.
About the next meal.
Or the drink or smoke coming next.
You bring all.

(a first and last attempt at writing poetry!…Ken, 1966 English Class)

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