Young And Inspired - Poem by Ken Baker
I talked the best lines.
read TS Elliot – Pound - H.D.
– oh those very dry lilacs and Madame Sosostris.
(even now- by candlelight) .
the books, the politics, the schooling –
rebellious shop talk -good and bad -
mean hippie me
socialize me-make me the man of the people,
I lived and died and loved Pablo-
on protest lines, with big guitars and famous voices.
we stood up and marched.
got kicked in the ass.
I sang a good Dylan song each night.
ate cookies on the floor at the Fillmore.
wore splattered eye-catching tie dyes -
purple pants –
half red, half green, half blue-
that’s right - half of everything.
beautiful - delicate - soft-
a painful bad habit
I’d call them.
Alice and her dark poetry,
Barbara and her music.
in the blood juice and sweet dreams of youth,
I wandered some that Northern California land.
at times stumbling through narrow alleys,
one car lanes,
calling out names of past torments,
reaching moon-filled deserted western beaches,
watching the Elephant Seals
screaming over the waves,
wandering through the half moon bay graveyards.
read the old pioneer stones.
death by drowning-
read about shipwrecks.
and Pequod-like sailors.
walked the sharp-rocked shore,
squeezed sponges and sea urchins.
I heard jazz, played jazz, talked jazz, bought jazz.
I bought a car with a bed
and headed north towards
ate American thick dripping hamburgers
in lonely small town cafes
backed by the oceans spoiled wrath.
chatted with waitresses
down from Montana.
the wind blew winter's hard rain like sauce over my body.
it battered the trees.
it battled my fingers and toes,
it washed hillsides
and muddied my stride.
I worked cutting up crab.
in came the boats.
on conveyor belts all night.
I loved it.
I watched the squawking gulls
fight for their food.
ate hazel nuts
and sat on driftwood downing week old Twinkies.
mother Earth talked to me -
in little town America.
Bandon, Coos Bay and Cannon Beach.
to me - a lonely hunter,
me - a seeker of joy always,
a grappling champion,
a young arrogant warrior,
many times a fool,
loving the treachery,
a thousand times growing up,
like bad flesh leaving the bone,
right before my eyes.
© Ken Baker 2010
All rights Reserved
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