"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1989

              /9',
1989
L1TERAR Y EDITOR: Shirley Bryan; ARTDIRECTOR: Robert Wilder; GRAPHIC DESIGNERS:
Richard Gunn, Scott Schuette; PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR:Wiliiam Patterson; ASSISTANT
PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR: Terry Mills COVER PHOTO: Annette Teresita Lopez; EDITORIAL
STAFF: Enrico Gomez, Rusty Van Patten, Vada Bowers, Robin Zigmant, Martha Schindler;
TYPOGRAPHY: Jeri Walker; ART AND PRODUCTION ADVISOR: Mirta Hamilton;
LITERARY ADVISORS: Joy Wingersky, Jan Boerner; PHOTOGRAPHIC ADVISOR: Dean
Terasaki; PRINTING: Bieryl.
The Traveler staff would like to thank the G. C. C. administration and faculty for their help and
support for this year's publication. Also, although we were unable to publish everything, we wis
to thank all of the contributors for the excellent, diverse material we received.
Published annually by G.c.c. English and Art Departments,
6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
©1989 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
Spring 1989 Volume 22 GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE
Jm walterbacb
/
.I Traveler/)
\.r
/
, wed m~ stepS
1 fedlt tahe\'G(,·)Qmes of the raindroPs.
1 w~s trusting_drenched in living
And 1 did not fall-
1 loved it all.
t /
In the year of our Ford,
saevsemnatyll-nsicnree,en projects airy waves
of happiness
Vicarious entertainment
consuming sleepy people with
plastic promises
Cleaner floors, shinier cars, and
tastier foods.
Truth in packaging.
'{bird place poetn' bY Ste"e Koran
No' ,whi' we defY 'OgorY. The'e is , speci,l providence in. 'he{,'~i
of' sP,rr~w, If it be nOw, ',is not '0 co",e: if no' to co",e,,;' WI e
nOw,. 'I f "'t be not nOw yet it will come-the readIness IHS ,a,,,l.et, V, ".'
III tbe year of our Ford
In the year of our Ford,
seventy-nine,
a neW automobile means more
than a Grecian Urn,
a kitchen appliance more than a
prince's vengeance.
Still, the eye_sparkling enjOyment
of human words
and stories survives.
Creativity cannot be stricken in a
BowkoarnlodvsokfY sameness; there is nO
Security in Silence.
August 1986
In the year of our Ford,
seventy-nine
stimulation is neither spiritual nor
intellectUal.
Soma sleep in small white tablets
mtoaksewsaliltoweastyhe pain of a mother's
death
the lonely ache of failure
and the knowledge of what might
have been.
comfort in illusion.
In the year of our Ford,
seventy-nine
a wrinkled man dies as he
sips a diet pepsi.
A look at the calendar reminds
him to forget the past, require
the present
and hide from crow's feet and
paunches .
History is bunk;
Beauty in Youth.
Art by Paul Kacorozowski
I. .·~.t
..'.\..
.............
~..~\ ..,.,
'\. .'
Traveler/2
Non-Fiction:
Diary of a Grieving Mother
Robin R. Zigmant. 4
An Outstanding Performance
Daisy Hansen.......... 6
My Vigil at the Vietnam Wall
Deanna Shlee. . . . . . . . . . .28
Fiction:
Lilacs and Loneliness
Jody Barton. . . . . .. 15
Herman George the Cat
Shireen Ashurst Eddings. . . 16
Mortality
Steve Koran 22
Poetry:
Raining
Jill Walterbach ..
In the Year of Our Ford
Steve Loran. . . . . . . . . . 2
Grandma's Luncheon Cloth
Daisy Hansen............... 5
Best Friend
Robin R. Zigmant........ 27
Addiction
Carolyn A. Huffman...... 8
Wow! Hey Let's Put the Fear
Nikola Jurkovic........... 9
The Great Pretender
Julie Robinson 13
A Child of Four
Sharon Hrebicek 14
Idle Musings on Robbie
Carolyn A. Huffman 19
A Notable Sir
Nikola Jurkovic 18
We Poets
Sharon Hrebicek 20
Poetry:
Ode to Professors
Kristine Kersting. .21
The Waiting Room
Paul A. Czikora.. . ..... 26
Little Girl
Jill Walterbach........... ..33
Lipstick Shroud
Sasha Aubrey 31
I Never Stopped
Shandine 32
Art, Photography & Illustration:
Scott Schuette................. I
Paul Kacorozowski 2,28
Richard Gunn 3,14,20
Sandy Cessena 4
Pat Ziegler. . 4,30
Annie Cuquel 5
Mary Anne Gibson 6,32
John Falkenberg.. . 27,13
Denise Schrieber- Walter 8
Jane Brown...... . 9
William Patterson 10, II , 12
Roger Mena 10,11,12
Cindy Sigren 15
Robert Wilder 16,17
Robert Garza 19
Laura Gregory 18
Joe Pingleton 21
Lee Springer 22,23,24,25
Ben Ortiz 26
Terry Mills 33
Michael Gohr 7
Kay Brown 31
Traveler/3
" t
I
j
Diary
of a
Grieving
Mother
Second Place Non-Fiction by Robin Zigmant
Watercolors- Top: Sandra Cessena;
Bottom: Pat Ziegler
Tuesday, March 28, 12:05 a.m.
It has been a day of unending pain and
sorrow. I am physically and emotionally
exhausted. I have just completed my eight­hour
vigil, and my muscles ache unbearably.
My son, David, whose body lies motionless
beside me is struggling to breathe. His face
is twisted in pain. Even with a ventilator
breathing for him, every minute is filled with
doubt and fear. The nurses and I take turns
staying with David, making sure that
life-giving oxygen fills his lungs. For two
weeks the battle has raged and time has taken
its toll on us all. My hair hangs in brown
ratted strands, and days of medical tests have
produced bags under my eyes that many
ice-packs could not remove. Black mascara
lines have fallen from my eyes to my chin
forming intricate designs on my t-shirt. How
tired I am.
Tuesday, March 28, 1:50 a.m.
I reach over and touch David's hand. I
curl his tiny fingers around mine and give
them a gentle squeeze. Leaning over, I kiss
his forehead, and returning to his bedside,
hope he will somehow understand how I love
him. As I sit down, I begin stroking his arms
and legs in a feeble attempt to warm his cold
limbs. God! How awful he looks! His small
body is hidden by masses of tubes each con­nected
to a different machine. He is dying,
and there is nothing any specialist, preacher
or parent can do. From the age of six months
we have known David's sickness would do
this, but that never made it easier. David was
usually such an active child, but he suddenly
began sleeping continually through both
night and daytime feedings. His toys
remained silent, and his appetite waned. A
month later found my husband Paul and me
in a hospital, faced with medical terminology
incomprehensible to common man. I was
told he had Leigh's Disease, a rare
neurological disorder, and pr'obably
wouldn't see his third birthday. The
following fifteen months were destructive to
David's body and mind. He lost a great deal
of weight; his growth stopped; he lost his
sight. He lost all but the most fundamental
Traveler/4
muscle control, and his mentality remained
at that of a two-week-old baby. And now his
immune system has relented. He has been
hospitalized many times for respiratory
infections, but this time it's different. God
help me. I think he's just too weak to recover
this time.
Tuesday, March 28, 7:00 a.m.
Paul has convinced me to spend a day up
in Jerome for some rest and relaxation. I
fought him at first, but he's right. The nurses
are quite capable of taking care of David.
My body may be in Jerome this afternoon,
but my heart will remain with my son.
Tuesday, March 28, 8:30 a.m.
We stopped at the hospital to check on
David. No change. I took him in my arms,
wrapped a warm blanket tightly around him,
and sat down in a nearby rocking chair. As
I sat rocking, stroking, and singing to him,
a tiny tear fell from his vacant eyes. He was
trying, in his own way, to tell his mother he
loved her [me]. I laid him back in his bed,
and wiping my own tears from my eyes, left
the room.
Wednesday, March 29, 12:25 a.m.
I believe this is the hardest entry I've had
to make: my son died today. He died while
I was away. The doctors said that his body
just quit. On the phone, they said, "He felt
no pain. He went quickly and peacefully."
Wednesday, March 29, 1:30 a.m.
(I had rushed over to the hospital and
entered David's room). For the first time in
a year and a half he looks peaceful. His body
is chalky white, and he is cold and limp. I've
had plenty of time to think about what I
would do when death came: cry, scream, or
go into shock. It's funny. Now that it's
happened, all I can think about is how ironic
it all is, for today is his second birthday.
Wednesday, April 28, 7:00 a.m.
It's been a month now since David's
death. The loneliness and grief can be over­whelming
at times. Everytime I see pictures
of him, my heart grieves. Will the pain ever
go away? I don't think so.
As I look out my window at the rising sun,
I realise that I must learn to let go of one
already gone. Simply to let go ........ one day
at a time.
Grandma's Luncheon Cloth
(
J
Drawing by Annie Cuquel
T here's a picture in my memory
of a luncheon cloth and pride.
There's a memory in the picture
of me at Gramma's side.
Just the right color I must choose
for the flowers in the corner.
Pull one of the many strands
and thread the needle for her.
Nimble fingers of years gone by
still able to stitch and create.
The beautiful treasures of handiwork
before the unsought fate.
Father Time has taken over
where vibrant youth once ruled.
The nimble fingers now play tricks.
The eyes are sometimes fooled.
But Gramma kept on trying
to finish her flower array.
Now-just unfinished mem'ries ­neatly
folded-tucked away.
Gramma's Luncheon Cloth.
Daisy Hansen
Traveler/5
An Outstanding
Third Place Non-Fiction by Daisy Hansen Photography by Mary Ann Gibson
O ur farm community of Lovilia,
Iowa, was about to present its annual
Christmas program. My thirteen year old
daughter, Sara, and her friend Lila were two
of the eighty girls performing in the chorus
at Lovilia Junior High School. Lila lived
about two miles away, so there were a lot of
conversations on the old crank wall phone.
I was busy preparing supper when I heard
the sound of the phone being cranked. It was
obvious from the giggling and whispering
that the two young ladies were up to
something. I let the conversation continue a
little longer before informing Sara.
"O.K., young lady, time to hang up and
set the table."
As with all thirteen year olds, a slight bit
of encouragement ensued before she
reluctantly hung up.
"Well, what was that conversation all
about?"
"The Christmas program is next month,
Mom, and we have to wear white blouses and
black skirts, so we decided to wear red high
heels. Isn't that neat?"
"No, no! No way are you going to wear
heels. Absolutely not!"
"I'll just die if I'm the only one there
without heels. Come on, Mom, all the other
girls' moms are letting them. Please?"
"You won't die, and you don't need heels.
Thirteen is too young. You'll ruin your feet
for life,"
"Oh, sure, you just want to ruin my life!"
"That will be enough, young lady. The
subject is closed."
"Will you just talk to Lila's Mom? She'll
tell you. Lila's getting heels. Please Mom,
just talk to Lila's Mom."
"I'll think about it, but I won't change my
mind."
Excitement grew with each day. Snow
flurries dotted the scene as bright twinkling
lights sprang up. "Silent Night" was on
everyone's lips, and the loud speakers belted
out Christmas Carols everywhere as we
searched and finally found just the "exactly
right" white blouse, and just the "most
perfect" black skirt.
"Mom, I just have to have a new pair of
shoes. I can't wear these old things," Sara
pleaded.
"Yes, I know. You do need new shoes. I'll
see what I can do."
"Did you talk to Lila's Mom? She's
getting red heels. Please, I really need red
heels so I won't look dumb."
I sighed. "No, I haven't talked to Lila's
Mom. I'll see, but I'm not promising
anything. "
Traveler/6
Sara was bubbling with excitement as she
called Lila. I just shook my head visualizing
this petite little girl, with the size four and
a half foot, tottering around on stage in red
high heels.
The next three weeks were hectic and filled
with decorating the tree, wrapping presents,
and baking goodies. The baby caught a cold
and fussed most of the time, and the matter
of the red high heels remained in focus. I
bundled the baby and went to every store in
Lovilla with no luck. A thirty mile drive to
Albia proved fruitless. About half way to
Ottumwa, fifty miles away, it started spitting
snow. Ottumwa looked like a winter
wonderland as the thermometer took a nose
dive, turning the wet snow to ice. I fought
the shifting blustery north wind, pushing my
way from store to store. I gasped as I looked
up. High on a perch was a pair of red high
heels. I fought the wind to open the door,
glad to be inside the warm store.
"Do you have those red heels in size four
and a half?"
"I think so, let me check."
The clerk returned carrying a box
containing a pair of size four and a half red
high heels. As he wrapped them, I
complimented myself. I had done it! I found
them and had the courage to buy them even
though I still thought she was too young.
Now my daughter wouldn't feel dumb.
The drive home was a stinker. The wind
was blowing the snow straight out, and it
drifted on the road, hiding the sneaky little
icy spots, but the look on Sara's face made
the exhausting trip worth it. She squeeled
with delight, practiced walking, admired
herself in the mirror, and called Lila her
voice filled with excitement. My Christmas
was complete!
The big night finally came. It was snowing
as we entered and took our seats in the
auditorium. The girls marched in with their
neatly coiffured hair, crisp white blouses,
and neat black skirts. They took their place
and the auditorium grew still. The music
teacher stood, raised her hand, and the music
started. There wasn't a dry eye in the
auditorium as the chorus of sweet innocent
girls gleefully caroled their way into our
hearts. I was so proud, watching my
daughter up there singing her heart out!
At the conclusion, the whole audiorium
stood in endless applause. The girls were a
delight because they had given an
outstanding performance! Even more
outstanding was the one and only pair of
high heels on stage-red high heels.
First Place Photography by Michael D. Gohr
Travelerl7
sestina
Drawing by Denise Schreiber Walter
.·irsl Place Poelry by Carolyn A. Huffman
ADDICTION', a
Under the pounding beat of the raging sun,
We simmer, our bodies hot with oil.
The heat bleaches all; even our eyes
Are weatherbeaten, pale irises of white.
In a sluggish paralysis we watch the palms
Waving, waving. We dream of water,
We melt, we drown, in the cracks of summer.
Hypnotized by the grasping palms,
We lie on tiles of stonewashed white.
The sprinkler shoots stinging nettles of water
That dance on the ground like hot bubbling oil.
Our bones are steeped in the molasses of summer,
Made warm by the enveloping arms of the sun
That burns a red haze behind our eyes.
We roll over, slowly, burning our palms,
Not heeding the hot vengeance of the sun.
We mindlessly flex in our thick coats of oil,
Flinching from sunspots in our hallucinating eyes.
We have white hazy thoughts of distant water.
All color is baked away by the omniscient summer;
We are invisible in this bleached world of white.
We lick our dry lips and shade our eyes,
Our bones crackling on the griddle of summer.
Only the smeary grease of coconut oil
Keeps our skin from rasping like dead dry palms.
We sift in sand, ancient statues of white,
Our hardened features telling of eternal sun.
We know our sweat, and cannot recall water.
A trickle of hot liquid slips from our eyes,
Beads, separates in a trap of oil.
We are pressed to the earth by the grinding sun
And we bare our teeth, hissing white.
Sharp scales curl up the swaying palms.
We live forever without need of water,
For are we not the gods of summer?
A sudden cool breeze pushes at the palms
And caresses our squinting, blinking eyes.
Then a pale cool child, untouched and white,
Dashes near, free of the weights of the sun,
Grasping a triumphant bucket of water.
A thunderous shrieking splash dissipates the oil.
We leap up, dripping with prisms of summer.
Awash in summer, eyes laughing in the sun,
We instinctively sway like palms into the cold splash of
the pool,
And leave a filmy white cloud of oil on the water.
Traveler/8
Dear brothers, righteous men,
Please, in the name of God, send all you can!
We need to finish this tower which we start.
So please, bretheren, come through and give from the heart.
So we, in turn, can send you this, this blinding ducat.
Give and you'll receive nothing less, but this-a ceramic
throne to sit on.
Listen brothers-oh yes, and sisters, listen to this about our
golden kingdom.
Listen to what it is we'll let you in on!
It is true that we do use the name of this, our Christ our
Lord.
And use it, we do, to put the fear of God into an elderly
sinner's class hoard.
So they may repent of ·what they can't afford
And come and know our God our Lord
by sending him their checks, through us,
his elected governing board.
AMEN
Watercolor by Jane Brown
Traveler/9
I id IiIth
WORKSHOP IN
Dr. Bendel, a professor of art at
Northern Arizona University in
Flagstaff and a nationally acclaimed
ceramicist, gave a hands-on workshop
for the Maricopa Community College
District. Dr. Bendel has recently been
experimenting with building life size
pots. Using live models, he draws nude
figures directly on the clay pots. This
method was the subject of the workshop
which was held at Glendale Community
College.
Top left: Community pot-workshop
students sign and illustrate one piece.
Center left: Chris Myers puts finishing
art on a bowl. Bottom left: The drawing
is chiseled in clay and then color glazes
are applied. Top right: Joseph
McWilliams completing the figure on
the side of a life-size pot. Center
right: Life-size finished figure is
ready for firing. Bottom right: Dr.
Bendel discusses a bowl with Mirta
Hamilton.
'f"
AND FIGURE
DESIGN
--
Mirta Hamilton, professor of art at
Glendale Community College, created
the project and submitted a grant that
was funded by the district as part of the
Vibrant Arts Program. This program
was designed to enable art students to
experience art forms that the college
curriculum cannot accommodate.
On the first day of the workshop, Dr.
Bendel demonstrated his technique for
making the pots, showing the students
how they could mold the clay into any
form that they desired. During the
remammg time, he had the students
work on their own pots. Some of the
students made large curved pots or egg­shaped
pots. Others preferred to have
their clay flat with a slight curve to it.
As the students worked, Dr. Bendel
related how he prefers to mold large
forms. He stated, "Some of the pots
may never get fired because they are so
big, but they sure are fun to do."
On the second day of the workshop,
the students began to draw on their pots.
A live model was present for the
Traveler/t 1
students to observe and draw. Dr.
Bendel emphasized that the drawing
should fit the pot rather than having the
pot fit the drawing. This way the figure
will flow as if the pot and the figure were
one and inseparable. Some of the
students, as they sketched the model
onto the clay, wrapped the figure
around the pot, giving it a three
dimensional effect. Others who chose to
work on the flat pieces of clay let their
sketch of the woman take advantage of
the slight curve in the clay to obtain a
different aspect; others chose to do a
Top: Life drawing
student, Kay Brown,
expresses her enthusiasm
for this new art form.
Center: Students take a
break before closing the
workshop. Bottom:
Students drawing during
the workshop.
Traveler/12
very modernistic form. The students
later used different paints to enhance
their figures. Dr. Bendel explained how
at specific stages of the clay's drying, the
students can experiment with various
types of tools to obtain different effects.
By the time the workshop ended, Dr.
Bendel's enthusiasm for this unusual
form of art had inspired the students.
Their enjoyment and pleasure in the art
that they were creating showed in their
faces and was heard in their voices.
Written by
Shirley Bryan
Traveler/13
Poem by Julie Robinson
Her life flashed before her eyes,
And for the very first time she cried.
This time there was no pretense.
In her mothers arms, she died.
Third Place Photography by John Falkenberg
The day came when she strapped her arm,
But wasn't too alert.
The needle struck, bearing far too much.
She pretended not to hurt.
Years flew by and rumors grew,
People stopped to stare.
Her mother's heart bled for her,
Sh~ pretended not to care.
One night a man burst into her room.
It all seemed so unreal.
He raped her as her mother screamed.
She pretended not to feel.
She started school that summer.
Her mother made her go.
The teacher asked her questions.
She pretended not to know.
Visitors came often.
They all seemed to have a key.
Her mother's face was black and blue.
She pretended not to see.
This AREA
She was skipping stones across the road.
The dinner hour was near.
Her mother called her into the house.
She pretended not to hear.
OFF LiM"IT
Go'~ C r; - A 1
TH
E
G
R
E
AT
PR
E
TE
NoE
R
S
How could God take this child of four
That used to laugh and sing
And leave fingerprints on the kitchen door
That would kiss his father's cheek
And cuddle a stuffed bear when nights were cold
He, who never had a chance to grow old
It was he, who would brighten my day
When darkened by the earth
He, that I loved since birth
He'd turn my pots and pans into rhythm and sound
And leave toy cars and trucks scattered on the ground
He'd bring in strays with a loving heart
And adorn my refrigerator with pictures of art
Now, that he's gone, I pace the floor
And at night I sleep no more
I wonder, how could God take
My child of four
Sharon Hrebicek
A CHILD F
FOUR
Design by Richard Gunn
Traveler114
She would have been noticed in the
early afternoon commuter bus. It wasn't
just that she stood outside the opened
door asking directions from the
somewhat impatient driver, not the fact
that climbing the stairs seemed to take
her an eternity. She just wasn't one of
us. She hadn't put in a long day with
constantly ringing telephones and
unending deadlines. Her day for that
had long since passed.
As she stopped to pay the fare, the
driver hurriedly pulled into a tight break
in the traffic causing her to topple
slightly into the meter stand. Her slender
hand flew from beneath her tightly
knitted shawl to grasp for anything that
might break her fall. She clutched the
railing nearby to steady herself and then
carefully slipped her gnarled, veiny hand
into her once shiny but now worn-dull
coin purse.
We might have returned to our
reading of the afternoon edition if we
hadn't been so perturbed at her
slowness. With total deliberation, she
carefully counted out each coin and
dropped it slowly into the meter from
her tightly pinched fingers. Would she
ever sit down, we were beginning to ask
ourselves when we noticed the small
glistening droplets of water on her
heavily powdered
face.
Tears. Old people
cry too we thought
to ourselves with
indifference. She
finally shuffled her
heavy feet down the
aisle and curling her
spotted hands
around the seat
railing in front, she
slowly lowered
herself into the seat
beside me.
Almost
immediately 1 felt
overwhelmed by her
presence. It might
have been her over­powering
fragrance
of inexpensive lilac
toilet water mixed
with the faint hint
of a morning
application of
Ben-Gay or it could
have been the way
her shoulders
drooped towards
me as though she
was crying our for
support and comfort, but 1 felt trapped.
She didn't talk to me right away. It
almost seemed as though she would fall
asleep before we arrived at her stop.
Suddenly, 1 began to feel tiny jerks of
movement. Slowly at first, then closer
together. 1 finally turned towards her
and noticed the translucent tears
creeping up over the strawberry-colored
bottom eyelid and careening their way
down over the deeply etched lines
wrinkling her face. Her accompanying
stifled sobs racked her entire depressed
body, and it was then that she spoke in
a hushed whisper.
"I don't usually ride this bus," she
confided and continued, "I had to come
down here to .. to .. ," She faltered and
paused.
As she contin ued her story, stopping
often to catch short breaths, she
nervously twisted her hand-embroidered
laced-edged handkerchief between her
yellowed index fingers. She stopped
occasionally to dab her puffy eyes.
When we came to the corner where
she would catch her transfer run, she
lifted her burdened body out of the seat
and shuffled down the aisle towards the
door. She paused, and turning her
drooped shoulder towards me, she
pulled some of those hardened lines in-to
a hint of a smile
as if to say,
"Thanks, I feel
better now that I' ve
talked about it."
She then continued
down the stairs and
finally onto the cold
cement curb.
As we pulled
away, 1 turned my
attention to my own
thoughts and only
once, when
planning dinner and
evening chores, did
1 reflect about the
old woman who
had put her favorite
pet to sleep that
day.
Jody Barton
First Place Fiction
Drawing by Cindy Sigren
Traveler/15
(_..~
/
/
I
i.~~ .•,H
Second Place Fiction by Shireen Ashurst Eddings
H erman George is just a cat, but no
one wants to be the one to tell him,
for anyone can tell he has grand ideas
about who he is and what he is going to
do in Ii fe.
He took his family home to live with
him in the spring.
They had gone to buy groceries, but
before they knew it, they were over
looking at these cute little kittens and
were choosing him out of a box sitting
outside the supermarket.
First, he convinced Jenny because
Mother had no intention of getting a
kitten that day, or anytime soon. But
when Jenny pleaded, she agreed they
would pick him up on their way out of
the store. Herman George knows what
he wants.
That first trip he rode in the car's
back window but then climbed over the
seat to the front window. He watched
the other cars go by and watched the
scenery to make sure they were going to
the right house. It was OK, he decided.
At home he had his work cut out for
him. They had gone to the store for milk
and cereal and apples and not a cat. Dad
was sure to notice the difference. But
Herman George won dad over, very fast.
Then he adopted Jason and started
collecting names. Jason came up with
the first one, Mo. And he took to Mo
right off.
Mo is a fine name. But Mo just
seemed to be short for Moses, important
and wise. Moses sounded good too.
Then he seemed to need more names that
just fit. So it became Moses Joel, Mo Jo
for short, Moses Joel Mo Jo for long.
Moses Joel Mo Jo takes care of Mom.
He makes sure she feeds him, and then
she can eat if she wants.
He helps Dad read the newspapers too
or has Dad rub his back while they
watch TV together.
He plays hide and seek with Jenny to
make sure she gets her exercise.
Sometimes he get rough with her, but he
figures she has to learn about tough guys
sometime and needs to learn to defend
Traveler/16
r
/
) \
1(1 /'
J
herself.
He makes sure Jason gets up early.
Mo stands in the hall by the bedroom
door and meows until Jason opens the
door. If Jason looks too tired, then he
lets him sleep a little longer. But he
makes sure he doesn't sleep too late.
He does have quite a job around here,
running things. Such a responsible cat
as Moses Joel Mo Jo needs a last name.
Important names sort of fit; maybe he
could use two. Moses Joel Mo Jo Rem­ington
Eisenhower sounds good to him.
We don't want to embarrass Moses
Joel Mo Jo Remington Eisenhower, but
some things he doesn't run too well, like
the dog, Fancy. She gets in his way when
he wants outside. She isn't pushy. She
just won't move.
Other dogs, like the dogs over the
back fence, he handles in his own way.
He just sits on the top rail and teases
them. They go wild barking at him, but
he's not afraid of those dogs.
Once Mother helped him over the rail
with a push, and the dogs went yelping
and running for cover. But Moses Joel
Mo Jo Remington Eisenhower let them
go and jumped back on his side of the
fence real fast. He said he didn't want
to scare them too bad.
Though Moses Joel Mo J 0
Remington Eisenhower works real hard,
First Place Illustration by Robert Wilder
in his spare time he sleeps. That's where
his best name comes in. He is just old
Herman George when he lies around.
But so everyone will remember how
important he is, if he is going to have
such a humble name as Herman George,
he has to have a title. So His Highness
is officially Herman George Moses Joel
Mo Jo Remington Eisenhower the Third
Duke of Chester. He was plain old
Herman George to those close to him.
And that suits him just fine. But for
now he is off to stalk a few birds or a
lizard or two or whatever has carelessly
entered his kingdom today.
Traveler/17
A Notable Sir to Decide Upon a Decision
PhOtograpbY by Laura Gregory
Whistling while walking up a narrow street,
A leaning man I noticed eyeing me from head to feet.
"Good daY," to me he said, "this day to you."
To him I said the same, hoping his words would come as few.
"I've seen and I see," he started, "on yoU the same pants every
dTaeyll. me, trUe sir, why the same pants, will yoU not say1"
But then he said "I knoW nO reason to knoW you're poor!"
"Noble sid" I spoke. "My pants to yOU of nO thoUght should bel
WhY is it yoU have nO greater care nor worry than the pants on
m"Ne?a"y to that, brother, but I only wonder, I mean yoU make me
think,
To decide the same, even as today. Expain me, please. I miss this
l"inAkh. "hI If this the case then be, to yOU, sir, I must tell:
These pants have the pockets that hold my stuff so welL"
Traveler/IS
Idle Musings on Robbie
I like things about him.
Immediately I like his eyes,
chocolate-brown riches of gentility.
I like the quick, shy glances darting from them
as much as the deep penetrating probes.
And then I like his humor-
A naughty child, impishly mischievous,
a scalawag tickling peals of laughter out of me.
And his carefree, boisterous little-boy laugh
Coaxes me into his ring of delight.
I like that.
I like his strong hands,
scratched and nailhung from the scrapes
and klutzes he ever gets himself into.
I liken to his soft brown skin,
bronzed with the lore of ancient peoples,
casting my fairness into a ghostly
semi-existence.
Once, I abhorred simpering poetry.
Now, he's got me writing it myself.
I like that.
Traveler/19
We Poets
We poets are locked inside
Or rather we lock inside
The stars
Imagine that the universe entrapped
We learn to tame the wild
Give only mild connotations with ink and quill
We rehearse the actor, charlatan
Making the untrue, true
Living at all times the notorious
All slructures are innocent and milky except for the
eye, inner eye
We make love to make love to men, women and
the paper
With mastery we learn that poelry has little to do
with literature
And finally
In lhe end
When it ends
We die of broken hearts
Traveler/20
Poem by Sharon Hrebicek
Second Place Illustration by Richard Gunn
It came to pass one night of fancy
When visions to me came all a dancy
And standing in a field was I
With a thousand professors about knee-high.
They grew from the ground and waved like grain.
All seemed to shout, "Have you no brain?!"
"Mid-terms, finals, homework galore!"
"Write a trillion words about the cracks in your door!"
They chanted these words all around me, you see,
So J. had no choice but to say pleasantly, .
"'It is' way past the hour; you should be in your beds!"
They proceeded to happily dance on thei.r he,ads..
I stomped~' lrotnped,
I gfggleq with glee, \
;.. " While ,~I! ~ro~nd,·a thou~'and profes'sor~: ',. \ . ~
, Turned'tall to: £lee. ' " '.
" ',-'
MORTALI
Third Place Fiction by Steve Koran
Traveler122
TY M y grampa died today. Mom and
Dad are kinda sad, but not really.
They keep saying some stuff about living
too long anyway. I guess there must be a
law saying how old you can be. Then
you've gotta die. My grampa was 76, so
he must've gone way over the law. Maybe
that's why mom and dad put him in the
old people's home.
I don't remember much about that day
we took grampa to the Sidewater Haven
old people's home, but what I do
remember seems kinda weird now. I
remember lots of yelling and my grampa
swearing and saying bad things to my dad
and my mom crying. I didn't hear
everything 'cause my grampa's friend
Eddie-a real neat guy-took me to get
an ice cream right after my grampa started
cursing. Anyway, when we got back, it
wasn't too bad. My mom stopped crying,
and I got to push grampa to his new room.
It was fun pushing the wheelchair through
those tiny halls-real neat. Funny thing
about the walls, though-they were tiny
and gray, and the windows were all the
way up on top and so dirty so you couldn't
see out of them. But it was O.K., 'cause
I saw a lot of old people, and they didn't
say a word to complain.
That's all I remember about that first
day. But I went to see grampa lots, most
of the time with Eddie. Like I said, he's
a real neat guy. He's lots of fun to be
around 'cause he tells me a bunch of great
stories about his old days as a big-league
ballplayer. I think he's joshing me though.
He says he used to play for the St. Louis
Browns. Everybody knows there's no such
team! He's tall and strong. Smart too.
One time he came over and helped me
build a radio from some parts we found
at a garage sale. I couldn't believe it when
my dad told me that he was as old as
grampa.
Eddie even lets me come over to his
house sometimes. We watch ballgames
and play catch and stuff. Once in a while,
his ladyfriend-he calls her that-his
lady friend Samantha makes dinner for us.
Samantha is neat, too, and pretty. Eddie
and her are always talking, taking walks
and laughing, and even dancing! It's
funny-they really like each other, and
they're not even married!
Anyway, like I said, Eddie and me used
to go and see grampa a lot. That was fun
'cause Eddie would always tell me stuff
about things him and grampa did when
they were kids. I liked that 'cause my mom
and dad never said much about grampa
except when they talked about gramma
and how she died too young. She must
have broken that law the other way.
Eddie would tell me lots of stories while
he drove us out to the home, like the time
he and grampa went fishing with two of
grampa's dad's best poles. They left their
poles propped up on sticks, and a big
monstrous carp came along and dragged
one of the poles into the water. Eddie
jumped after it, but it was too late. They
never found the pole again. Eddie said
grampa yelled at him for the next two
weeks probably 'cause grampa got a good
whipping when he got home-if his dad
was anything like he was.
I liked that story, but I thought it was
kinda strange. I mean, if grampa yelled at
him so much, why did Eddie stay his
friend? I asked Eddie once, and he just
said some goofy stuff about him and
grampa lying in the tall grass by a creek,
looking up in the sky and talking about
what they would see and do-just dream­ing,
Eddie called it, and he said that
grampa had some "damn fine dreams."
Some damn fine dreams is all he would
say. He always got choked up then,
especially when we were going out to the
old people's home.
The last trip to see grampa at the home
was two weeks ago. This trip was gonna
be somethin' special 'cause it was his
birthday. Eddie brought Samantha, and
she baked a great big cake, just like she
always does for my birthday. Mom and
dad even came too. They always came on
grampa's birthday, and they bought him
another big box of cigars, even though the
doctor said grampa wasn't supposed to
smoke anymore. Dad said that an old man
should enjoy his day even if it killed him.
Mom said he was just hoping. She laughed
when I said I hoped he would enjoy his
day too.
W e left on the trip to the home right
after the sun came up. It was a real
bright neat day, and I was pretty excited.
Mom and dad let me drive with Samantha
and Eddie. I liked that 'cause we played
some good games, and we even heard a
ball game on the radio. I wonder why Ed­die
smiled when the announcer said
"Orioles"? Anyway, it was fun. Eddie
even told me and Samantha some more
neat stories about him and grampa when
they were young. Then we got to the old
people's home.
Finding grampa was the first thing. His
room had changed since the last time we
were there. Now he was in the cardiac care
unit. Dad said that was a place for people
with weak hearts. It was a long walk up
to that cardiac place, but that was all right
'cause I got to see a new part of the home
that I had never seen before. The new part
was like the old part, all gray and narrow,
Traveler/23
with high ceilings and little windows. It
even smelled the same, just like my school
does after the first day back from summer
vacation. But something was different, I
think, in the way that this part sounded.
I heard lots of moans and stuff. One time
I heard a real low scraping sound, so I
walked over to see where it was coming
from. I saw a skinny old man in a crib.
He looked lots older than grampa. That
scraping sound was him just trying to
breathe! And they had a million machines
all with tubes stuck all around him. I was
real sad. It must not be much fun to live
any more if it gets that hard.
The saddest was when Mom and Dad
were ahead, and a wrinkly woman came
up and hugged me. I went along with her.
She seemed real happy. Then mom came
back and grabbed me away. Mom looked
real scared, but I wasn't, so I laughed real
hard. Then I looked back and saw a nurse
helping the wrinkly woman off her knees.
She was crying and calling for her Johnny.
I wonder why she thought my name was
Johnny? My mom had hold of my arm so
tight that I couldn't go back and tell her
I was sorry.
A fter that, we were in grampa's
room. It was gloomy and dark in
there too 'cause it was still kinda early,
and even though the room had a window,
it was on the wrong side of the building.
Grampa looked gloomy, too. He was
pretty skinny and white. Compared to
him, the wheelchair he sat in glowed. For
the first time, I saw his legs uncovered.
They were like sticks! They never looked
that way in his old blue work overalls. No
wonder he couldn't walk any more. When
we came in, Father Wagner was there,
sitting on the edge of the bed and talking
to grampa, but grampa didn't seem to be
talking back. I could tell 'cause he had his
eyes closed. He only opened them when
my dad made a joke and asked him where
all of his friends were.
"Dead," grampa snapped. Even that
seemed to take a lot of work.
"Well, I'm still here, Ozzie," Eddie
answered and smiled. He was the only one
who could call grampa that. It was a
nickname from when they played ball
together. Anyway, grampa just sighed and
looked the other way through the dark
window.
"I want to go out there." He nodded
his head toward the window. I didn't
know why he wanted to go out there,
'cause all I saw was a field full of dried
grass and two big, dead oak trees. It
wasn't pretty or nothin'. I think that's why
nobody said anything for the longest time.
Or maybe they wanted grampa to go out,
Traveler124
too. He was hooked up to some machines
and stuff though. I wanted to say
something, but Mom spoke first.
"Today's a beautiful day, isn't it,
Dad?" Grampa kept staring out the
window. It looked like he was sleeping
with his eyes open, but he wasn't. I could
tell because after a minute he turned his
head and said "Why?"
Mom stammered and stuttered like she's
always telling me not to do. "Why, it's
your birthday!"
G rampa closed his eyes and looked
up at the ceiling like he was praying.
Everybody else looked at each other like
they were mad. Even Father Wagner
didn't look too happy. Then Grampa
opened his eyes again, and dad made
another joke. This one was about how he
looked almost dead. Everyone laughed
and was happy again. Grampa almost
smiled, too.
"Now that's what I remember, Ozzie,"
Eddie said. "I haven't seen that old hal f­smile
since the day you smashed up your
old man's car racing, and you told him
you were gettin' outa the way of a puppy
dog. "
That really started it. For a whole hour
grampa and Eddie told stories from when
they were young. Some of the things they
told about were pretty bad, and a couple
of times mom told me to cover my ears.
I didn't. Father Wagner was still in the
room, and if he could listen, I could too.
Anyway, they talked about girls and
baseball and pranks they pulled on people,
but especially they talked about years. I
mean, everything they said was years and
years ago. Still, that was good 'cause
everyone-even grampa-was listening
and really having fun. I got antsy after a
while, though, and I was hungry too; that
birthday cake that Samantha made sure
looked good. So I spoke up right in tht
middle of a story.
"What about your birthday, grampa?
" I asked loudly.
G rampa stopped and looked at me like
he was real mad. Then I felt bad. But
Eddie must have wanted some cake too,
'cause he said something about enough old
stories, that it was time for a birthday.
Grampa just sat there all mad and mixed
up together. Samantha thought everything
was O.K. 'cause she walked over by the
cake like she was going to serve it.
A nd then it got pretty weird.
Grampa seemed to lose his madness,
just for a second. His eyes were all squinty
and foggy. He glared at her as she walk­ed
across the room. It was like he was in
a trance that one of those magicians do on
T.V. Well, after that, Eddie went over to
help Samantha. When he put his arm
around her and smiled, Grampa woke up
into his madness again.
"What the heIl did you bring that cake
for?" he exploded to Eddie. Eddie got
mad and started to tell grampa just how
hard Samantha had worked for him-but
Samantha just quieted him up, like she
knew something. It didn't matter anyway,
'cause grampa wasn't listening. He had
turned his chair around so he could watch
out the window. He didn't seem very
happy at all, so I was glad when my dad
decided that it was time for him to enjoy
his birthday.
"Dad! It's your birthday! Here, I've got
some cigars-" Before he could finish,
Grampa whipped his chair around. He
started in with some of the worst words
I have ever heard in my life.
"I don't want any of your damn cigars!
I don't want anything from you! From
any of you! Since when have you given me
anything I ever wanted?" He stopped and
pointed toward the window. "I want to
go out there!" His voice got real soft.
"I'm just a damn old man. I don't want
your birthday. Can't you see that?"
I 'm not exactly sure why my dad stood
there with his head down. My mom was
crying too. The only one who wasn't sad
was Father Wagner, and I guess that's
'cause he was real mad at grampa's swear
words. Father got up from his chair and
said some pretty neat religious stuff to
grampa about how he should count his
blessings to have such a fine and caring
family. He told grampa that he should be
ashamed to mistreat the Lord's gift of love
like he was doing and that if he didn't
stop, he would burn in heIl after the final
adjustment. I didn't understand that last
stuff, but I knew that grampa did.
But grampa didn't seem to care. He had
this funny look on his face like Mom says
I get when she teIls me to do stuff.
"Blessings? Don't you dare to talk about
blessings! I'm seventy-six, Father, seventy­six.
I can't walk, and all I have in this
world is a stale birthday cake and a box
of cigars I can't smoke." He stopped for
a second and looked down. Then he
brought his head up real slow. It looked
like he was trying to cry, but the tears
wouldn't come. "Besides"-his voice was
pretty shaky-"besides, what good are
things in this deathtrap? I've trusted in the
Lord all my life ... "
His voice got real weak then, and he
looked up at Father Wagner with the
saddest face I ever saw in my life, kinda
like that picture of Jesus that I saw at the
entrance of the old people's home, you
know, the one with the thorns and blood
running down his face and stuff.
Father Wagner just shook his head.
"I'll pray for you, Oswald." Then he
walked out.
"Son of a ... "
That was one curse too many for my
mom. She turned on her heels and ordered
me out of the room. I didn't mind 'cause
I felt a big argument coming on, like the
one when we first brought grampa to the
old people's home. So I started to leave,
but before I went two steps-
"No!" grampa rasped in an ugly voice.
"No, he'll stay right here." He squinted
at me. "Come here," he demanded. I
looked at Eddie. He nodded his head. I
walked up to the old man real slow.
"Listen," he said. "Do you know what
I do everyday?" I shook my head.
"Nothing. As much as I try to live, I go
right on dying. But it's funny, you know.
I look ahead to it. Then I'll have no more
time to wonder about-"
He stopped and looked at the ground.
When he looked up again, he had the
meanest look on his face. His forehead
was twisted, and his nose was opened up.
When he smiled, his teeth were still
mashed together. He just stared at me like
that for a long time. Then, with a sudden
jerk, he snapped his finger at the window
and yelled, "I am going out there!" With
the same quick motion, he tore off all of
the machines holding him back and
struggled his wheelchair past me. Just
before he got to the door, he turned my
way and sat up straight. "Don't ever get
old, boy," he said. "Ever!" Then he was
gone.
He wheeled himself outside the window.
We could see him, but just barely 'cause
the sun was over his shoulder. The last
thing I ever saw of my grampa was
through that window. He sat all by himself
in that brown summer field, just looking
at those oak trees a far way away. I turned
around, away from the window and
toward the little corner of the room. Eddie
was there, crying. It was the first time I
had ever seen him cry.
H e and Samantha were the only ones
who cried today, too. My mom and
dad didn't cry. They said it was kinda
good that he died because he had a bad
aneurism. I never heard of that before, so
I asked Eddie. He told me that an
aneurism is a broken heart. That didn't tell
me much, so I asked him how grampa got
one. "It was those damn fine dreams," he
said, "Those damn fine dreams." That's
all he would say.
Photography by Lee Springer
Traveler/25
THE WAITINO ROOM
Tranquil lights
Ringing phones
High ceilings
Chairs of stone
Drawn faces
Sterile minds
Wrinkled shirts
Crumpled newspapers
Spewing ashtrays
Smoke signals
Tired eyes
Cold stares
Hot drinks
Rolling beds
Oxygen tents
Green clad saviors
Exhort the oath
Feast of friends
Table dance
Happiness
Sadness
Life
Or
Death
Soul's roulette
Lose to win
Heaven's door
Paul A. Czikora
Traveler/26
Photograph by Ben Ortiz
B
E
S
T
F
R
1\ E\=:'
N
D
When the tears came down,
You were there to wipe them dry.
When my heart was heavY,
you'd joke away my frown.
When life seemed sO unfair,
You greeted me with song.
You shared a smile with me
and told me nothing could go wrong.
What is a friend?
Someone who listens, who understands?
Is a friend someone who cares?
Someone with whom to laugh and share?
If this can an be true,
Then I've found a friend in you.
Today and many days ahead,
May I lead others the way YOU have.
Best of friends, yOU and I ....
poem by Robin R. Zigma
nt
Photograph by John Falkenberg
Traveler127
Traveler/28
My Vigil at the Vietnam Wall
Second Place Drawing by Paul Karzorowski
In March of last year, I went with
other members of Phi Theta Kappa
from Glendale Community College to
Wasington, D.C., for the fraternity's
national convention. At the opening
afternoon session, the president of a
Tucson, Arizona, chapter of P.T.K.
challenged the other chapters to an all
night vigil at the Vietnam War Memorial
(The Wall) to bring notice to the
handicapped-not only veterans, but all
disabled. Feeling that I was doing
something worthwhile, I decided to go;
and, as I had never been to Washington,
D.C., I was anxious to see the memorial.
When the evening session ended, I met
the Tucson president, herself disabled by
the loss of a leg in a motorcycle
accident, at the entrance of the motel
where the convention was being held
and where we were staying. Another
woman joined us , and I learned she was
an advisor to a P.T.K. chapter in
Oklahoma and had been a nurse in
Vietnam. The three of us took a taxi to
the Constitution Gardens where the
memorial stands. The time was close to
10:30 p.m. when we arrived, and there
were already other people there from the
convention from other chapters.
As I walked up to the memorial, I
was very surprised to find it starting
beneath my feet and consisting of two
sides. It stands to one side and behind
the Lincoln Memorial and faces the
Washington Monument. The panels are
upright and laid against the cut out earth
forming two long walls that meet at an
angle of 125 degrees. Starting at the end
of each wall, the panels are only inches
in height, but they rise to over ten feet
where the two walls meet. Its smooth,
mirror-like finish reflects the lighted
monuments nearby, the trees and lawn,
and the people who came to search its
face. At the end of the other side is a
larger-than-life sculpture of three
soldiers in fighting field uniforms,
equipped with weapons, looking into the
memorial. A large flag flies over them
continually from a high staff. I was
struck by how young the faces appeared
and the look of apprehension but
readiness recorded thereon. There are
stands by this sculpture that list the
names that are on The Wall in
alphabetical order and on what panel
and what line they can be found. I
learned from the Tucson president that
her husband had served in Vietnam, and
between them, they knew twenty-five
names inscribed on those dark granite
walls. She had brought paper and pencil
to get "rubbings" of them for herself
and her husband; he, as yet, could not
bring himself to visit this site.
I noticed a young woman sitting on
the ground before a panel of names. She
was crying and would get up now and
then to lean against the panel as if trying
to embrace it. At first, I thought she had
someone dear listed there. Then I heard
her say, "I feel so alone-so left out-I
know no one here" .... (The Wall does
that to you.) The Tucson president
turned to me and said, "She does not
know how lucky she is."
The other woman, a woman who had
ridden with us from the hotel, the nurse,
was standing away from the memorial,
clutching the "rubbing" paper in her
hand with tears sliding down her face.
She could not bring herself to walk
down and take the imprint of the one
she knew from its immortal place. (The
Wall does that to you, too.) I wondered
if it was another nurse or a soldier she
had known; I could not bring myself to
ask. Later in this vigil, I saw her by
herself against a panel with her paper
and pencil. I hope somehow that
helped-that The Wall could do that,
too.
As the night passed, groups of people
came and went. Some were from the
convention; some we did not know.
Candles had been passed out and placed
before the panels. Their bright glow
brought reverence to the memorial and
some quiet for my troubled thoughts. At
about 3:00 a.m., the Tucson president
and I were alone, and to keep warm, we
sat on the lights in the ground that
illuminate The Wall.
Suddenly something called my
attention to the beginning of the
memorial where the sculpture of the
three soldiers stood. As I was looking
up into the lights surrounding the
sculpture from the relative darkness
from where we sat, all that was visible
to me was the dark outline of a figure
standing very still in this still hour. I was
startled as I could feel his gaze upon us,
and he seemed to suspend his movement
as if deciding what to do. Then he slowly
came down the brick path with what
seemed to be a halting gait. Then as he
came closer, I could see that he was
wearing a black beret and some sort of
big military jacket. His features came
within our candlelight, and I saw a
strong face with a full salt and pepper
beard. He asked if he could join us, and
the Tucson president said, "Sure." With
some difficulty, he stretched out on the
path beside us. He had been drinking­he
said he had to, to be able to come
here. (I imagine The Wall does that a
lot.) He started to shake and cry and
curse The Wall; he felt if he had only
done more-just a little bit more- it
would have made a difference, that
some of those names would not be there.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that
I was sure he had done all he could. But
I could not speak, and somehow I knew
it wouldn't do any good. (I prayed The
Wall would give him peace.)
We learned that he had been a
Marine, had done three tours of duty­and
had been hit three times. He felt he
should have been up on The Wall with
the rest-I knew he should not. He was
with Wisconsin's First Chapter of
Vietnam Vets, The Black Berets, and
very proud of it. His conversation
slowly changed to wife and kids, and
present things. His speech grew steady;
even laughter came. We all were talking
to each other now, and he said this was
easier than the first time he came-the
year the memorial opened. He had come
during the day then; maybe that is why
he had come so late at night-to be
alone. I was glad he hadn't been alone.
(Maybe The Wall arranged that.)
He finally left, and the Tucson
president and I were alone the rest of the
night. Around 5:30 a.m., we walked out
of the park and took a taxi back to our
hotel. We entered the quiet lobby just
stirring with employees getting ready for
the morning activities. I went to the
hotel restaurant and brought back two
cups of coffee. We sat without talking,
sipping our coffee, each to her own
thoughts. I had gone to help bring
awareness to the disabled and had
carried away with me more than I had
anticipated. I finally rose, said my
good-bye, and went up to my room.
This experience has been constantly
on my mind since my return. Before I
left, I knew no one directly connected
with the Vietnam War. I had not lost a
relative or friend; I can remember no
close family or friend who had. I do not
know the true politics or meaning of this
war; if I did, what would it change­what
would it undo? But I do know,
now, some of the names on The Wall,
some of the people who come to The
Wall. And these are things of
importance: to lead others to respect
those names, to understand those
living-touched by sorrow and a good
measure from Hell. That's what The
Wall did to me.
Donna Shlee
First Place Non-Fiction
Traveler/29
Firsl Place Fine Arl b)' Pal Ziegler
Traveler/3D
Poem by Sasha Aubrey
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Third Place Art by Kay Brown
Traveler/31
Poem by Shandine
Photography by
Mary Anne Gibson
Traveler/32
Slowly yesterday fades darkly like
the dying breath of an old, sad nun.
I see it now-your smile has always been
tense, always hindered by some
un forgiven passion. Your knees are
calloused and your clasping
knuckles holy white. I am
left in the shadows of reality with
your pre-conceived light surrounding
me and nothing
but a prayer to say and a Jesus-hand to
hold onto.
I watch yesterday wane sadly like
the last struggle of a fallen, infant
bird. I open my mouth for the sake of
objection, but your red leather-bound
interpretation is regurgitated into
my response. My explanation is
strangled by satin ribbons attached to
metal crosses marking your poignant
passage. Those verses were
deafened by your words.
I am lost in the tears of yesterday like
an ant captured in a child's jar.
I am startled by the fact I can
only be your daughter,
never your friend.
Yesterday fades, but
your words still tremor in my ears.
Sometimes, I want to be a little girl­To
read stories of princes
Who kiss sleeping maidens
And live happily ever after.
Sometimes, I want to be a little girl­To
eat chocolate cake and ice cream,
Play baseball in the street
Without thought of tomorrow's pain.
Sometimes, I want to be a little girl­To
rock stuffed animals
And myself to sleep
In the big rocking chair.
Sometimes, I want to be a little girl­To
wear blue flannel pajamas
And cuddle 'neath the featherbed,
Hiding from thunder and rain.
Sometimes, I want to be your little girl­To
touch my cheek lightly;
Play with my hair;
Stroke me gently
Without passion or grabbing,
Without expectations.
Because sometimes I am a little girl.
L·I·T·T·L·E • G·I·R·L
Second Place Poetry by Jill WaIterbach
Second Place Photography by Terry Mills