I walked along Young St. when old hippies yearned openly for the music of Leary's pretended waves:
Some shook old beads betrayed by love;
Some carried grey plastic in their hair;
Others blinked weary eyes; with skin worn like rivulets of dried blood;
Others spoke acid words and sang songs of peace with strings of wind and symbols of drifting sand
We are only a few years apart, me and old hippy friends;
But these feet have never worn sandals;
Instead I walk with heavy army boots,
Not that I make a political stand
I seek peace, too
But thick souls are good for my gait
Strong leather takes time to break in,
But once they are shaped by your feet,
a walk is easy and free;
Please forgive me, when I say farewell;
It is now, and I have to walk in this unearthed home,
I have no roof over my head
Each cloud is my address,
Every blue sky is my ceiling
The sun is my neighbor
The brother moon is my friend
I got thick soles on my boots,
Heavy leather fits snugly on my feet
I have an old canvas backpack,
But no tin pot on my head.
Have I the spirit of a Johnny Appleseed?
Am I as wishful as a benefactor of a wandering heart should be?
I stand on a street corner, waiting for a Young light to change:
green to red, and yellow in between.
Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank
1 hour ago