"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1973

              the traveler
staff
literary and creative
arts magazine
of
glendale community college
spring. /973
DARRIN STANLEY
EVAN BISHOP
LINDA CARTER
RITA CROTTS
KATHY GRIFFITH
R.CURTIS LUNDY
CHUCK NEFF
SANDY PIZER
BOB WADE
DIANE DELANDER
GARY BOWERS
FARA DARLAND
MILDRED FISCHER
CONRAD BAYLEY
etlitor
associate etlitors
music
cover anti art
atlvisors
© Copyright, The Traveler, GCC, 1973
CONTENTS
steve allnatt quasi-liberal #1:
an exercise in pretension 27
elizabeth barnett the door ajar 18
carol bassett this is just to say 5
i watched the world 26
strange that we... 27
gary bowers drawing 9
drawing 14
"uhll 14
drawing 24
the loss 26
drawing 26
barbara brueker your child 10
maryann cameli pictures on the wall 10
the hands 14
see sandy beaches 19
linda carter why do you cry, child? 6
the snow man 9
up yo yo and down 19
andrea clark reaching out 5
criss-cross 24
the death of old age 29
sandy clayton shut 10
chuck cole photo 17
photo 31
cheryl costello
and pam koll what can i say 10
diane delander now the waiting is through 7
carousel 15
rest easy 30
jan fiakas let sleeping dogs lie 22
k. griffith haiku 10
young harvill ars 28
CONTENTS (continued)
r. curtis lundy or i could give you
monterey 20
a quiet moment 27
i. manning once 5
the anxieties 14
storm 28
chuck neff and the rain comes 16
progression 18
eternal death of a
combat squad leader 25
dave o/neil the forgotten man 11
ron pavlik to have loved a stranger
(for mom) 8
can't see the forest for
the trees 18
soul journey 30
sandy pizer whatever happened ta my
fertile plain 16
waiting, watching and
wondering 19
randy early mourning beach 21
OlJr thoughts will last 25
statues 25
becky smith a stand in time 8
the planets gossip too,
you know 23
clarissa smith i grasped to feel 8
ioel snyder photo 13
brawn 27
nick story if i could ony know 6
a farmer's prayer 17
anita louise swan our lives run ... 18
robert wade photo 23
iohn h. walter photo 4
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
I will not sit and search
the corners of my mind for words that
tell of the seasons
or of men's moods.
I will not attempt to write of
harmonious colors in an evening sky
nor of new life that
awakens to a world
suspended in a universe
I will not try to define life
in all its dimensions.
I am not capable.
This is just to say
I love you.
Carol Bassett
Once, our futures filled the galaxy.
Our young minds could follow
. The course of any cloud
They desired.
So in the crux of silver opportunities
We commenced,
All in different directions.
Now the years have taken the luster
From our glowing eyes.
And though some of the paths we took
were gilded
The miles drank freely of our strength
And alas,
Every time we greet
A stranger voice answers.
J. Manning
REPEATED
A thousand sunsets have I seen
All proposing a single dream,
Of color deep and emotion high
They come together to paint the sky.
Mirrored gleams of tiring beams
Support the reaching fibers of all my schemes.
A thousand sunsets have I seen.
The sagging light relinquishes power everyday
And allows the stronger night to have her way.
Sandy Pizer
reaching out
I touch
the pliant wall
around me
struggling to touch
you for one moment
my fingers slip out
brushing your
how gratifying to know
you acknowledge
my existence
if nothing more.
Andrea Clark
e5
6.
IF I COULD ONLY KNOW
If only I could know today
The things that are yet to be;
What will become of the person I am,
Who am I yet to be?
How many tears will I stop from crying,
How many hearts will I heal,
How many times will I touch someone's hand
And tell them how loneliness feels?
How many times will I turn in sorrow
To think that I could be so cruel;
How many times will I say "I'm sorry"
And admit that I was a fool?
How many times will I act unmanly,
How many times will I die:
Will I have the courage to stand when I have to,
or be human enough to cry?
How many times will I cry out in anger
To a world without feeling or shame;
Will I have a chance to do my part
To ease humanity's pain?
How long will it be till I find the one
Who'll help me along the way,
How many more times will they leave forever,
How many good-byes will I say?
How much time will I spend for nothing,
Fighting a hopeless fight,
How many times will I say "It's hopeless­It's
a wrong that no man can right?"
Before I die, how much will I live,
In the end will I smile or cry;
How will I feel when my eyes are weary,
And it is finally my turn to die?
Nick Story
WHY DO YOU CRY, CHILD?
Because I am foolish and silly,
I want that which I cannot have.
I give that which is not appreciated.
I love the unlovable;
I live the unlivable Hell.
Why do you cry child?
I cry for those who need no tears.
I pray for those who need no prayers.
I see the things that others see,
But somehow they mean much more to me,
Or much less.
I understand the uncomprehensible.
The simplest things are mysteries.
Why do you cry child?
I am growing up.
Linda Carter
NOW THE WAITING IS THROUGH
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.7
TO HAVE LOVED A STRANGER
(FOR MOM)
I have never seen the color of those eyes
Yet my eyes are heavy with tears
I have never felt the touch of those lips
Yet my lips tremble at the thought
I have never known her feminine ways
Yet I somehow remember them as soft and gentle
I can't recall sharing one another's heart
Yet my heart aches with the emptiness she has left me
Words which come to me now, will never be told
For though my heart surges wildly .
Her heart lies quiet and cold
Ron Pavlik
A STAND IN TIME
8 •
I stand in time, limbo...
wondering?
Where is it?
What am I, how be I?
How can I grasp it?
Why am I here?
For what purpose?
They say,
"You are still young."
"You have time, plenty!"
But will time have me?
How long-how much?
Will it be worth anything?
Questions, more questions,
all unanswered.
I stand in time...
lost in its vastness.
Becky Smith
I grasped to feel your hand
to touch, to hear, to see
and understand.
Why is it life
must be continued
alone
In another land?
Clarissa Smith
THE SNOW MAN
Once when I was little
I built a snowman.
He was way-high.
He had arms and
a hat and
a scarf that was red.
It took me all day to make him,
But he was big, and I knew that
He would stay the whole winter long.
Every morning I went into the woods
just to make sure
that he was
still there.
The sun could not melt him away
And the wind could not blow him down.
He would stay the whole winter long.
Billie and Tommy made a snow fort.
I helped.
They let me live in the fort for a while too,
Because I helped.
I did not go into the woods for a while.
When I went into the wods
just to make sure
that he was
still there,
He was gone.
I think that the sun
must have melted him away,
or maybe
The wind blew him down.
But I ran everywhere,
looking for him.
Gary Bowers
All I could find was
a dirty mound of snow
and a hat.
I couldn't even find the scarf
that was red
that he wore.
I just sat in the woods
and cried.
I thought it was because
he was gone,
But I cried because
I had let
him go.
I sat in the woods for a long time,
And I wished that I was grownup.
Grown-tips don't cry
when snow-men die.
Linda Carter
e9
10 •
What
can I say,
Far out
and
Solid
Love
is not
infatuation,
Like
is not
forever.
Sorrow
is Man's
own
invention.
Nice
is a word
I
regret knowing.
Cheryl Costello
Pam Koll
Pictures on the wall
Reminiscent of ourselves
Shadows in our past.
Mary Ann Cameli
Collect best lived days.
Line them on a dustless shelf.
Study them yourself.
k. griffith
shut.
the mind that couldn't be stopped
now clicked off:
where there were flowing thoughts
vivid images.
these are dusty, dark cupboards
that fell.
they have never been opened.
Sandy Clayton
Your child
is the daughter of my mind
blessed among the sunshine hours
pouring brightness into darkness
filling drawing books with line
taking her time
My mind
is the daughter of your child
what was it Wordsworth said?
from glory we have come
so far yet so close
the child, the man
The birth
will concede to death
taken lightly, unshared
you are here-speak your truth
dream and aspire, my child
listen to others
experience yourself
Barbara Brueker
THE FORGOTTEN MAN
by Dave O'Neil
In a forgotten corner of a forgotten land lived
a forgotten man who spent his time doing things
he liked to do the best. Most people would have
said he didn't actually do much of anything, but
the things he did had a meaning to him that most
people would not be able to see. Not that there
were many people who had a chance to see what
he did; in fact there was only one, the only visitor
the old man ever had. It was an interesting story
of how the visitor came to him, and it was partly
interesting because of the special day he came.
It was a special day that the old man didn't know
about. This was the first day since the man had
come to his forgotten home a long time ago when
he was just a young man. At first he came to be
close to God, but then after a time he just stayed
because of the special way that he loved other
people. And ever since he first lived there he
waited for the day that someone would come to
visit him. But, as you see, when the day finally
came, it had slipped out of the old man's mind
completely.
The old man was doing a little bit of work in
his garden on the hill when the visitor came up
carrying a big bundle on his back and all red­faced
and puffing. He was quite startled when he
saw the old man, and did not know what to
think, for he had been sure that he had left the
last people far behind him. The old man was
naturally surprised too, but he remembered his
manners, and knew he ought to try and make
the stranger feel as comfortable and welcome as
he could.
The visitor was quite content to be quietly
led around by the old man as he went around
doing the little things he had to fill up his day.
The stranger was awed with the presence of the
old man; he was sure the old man's business
must be very important, and asked no questions
to avoid looking like a nosey child.
The day passed quickly; they sat under a tree
to eat dinner, and the visitor spoke to the old man.
"It seems very pleasant up in the mountains
here. Do you like it?"
The old man nodded and smiled, "I don't
think I would care to change anything about it.
I am not exclusively happy, but different textures
of satisfaction and disappointment and the happy
sadness all fit together very nicely. Nice patterns."
"Oh, ah well, is it hard to live here?"
"No, not really." The old man was clearly not
interested in conversation. "The honey, the fruit,
the grain for bread all are close by. The milk
comes from my goat."
"Nice, very nice."
The rest of the meal and the rest of the even­ing
passed in silence.
The next day the old man and the VISItor
worked together most of the day. The old man
seemed much more friendly and he laughed and
joked about every little thing. It seemed that
after some consideration he had found himself
quite pleased to have a guest. The visitor was
rather confused as to how long the old man
expected him to stay, and just how long would
be polite. He had some plans he considered quite
important, and he thought then that it would be
very bad for the plans to be upset.
But the old man never spoke about his leaving,
and the time slipped away until the visitor became
the one who stayed.
It was some time later that the old man opened
up in conversation. He said, "When I was very
young, as far back as the time when I still lived
with my parents, I hoped to be a person who did
great things. The painters and writers and invent­ors
and statesmen I read about all made me long
to follow in their footsteps. It was not importal1t
to me what field I might find myself in, what I
cared about was leaving some great thing for
humanity. But time went on, and I discovered
that I did not have the talents to match my
aspirations. My drawing and painting were
• 11
12.
poor, and my writing was worse. 1 never mastered
any complicated studies. Mathematics eluded me
and the only language 1 ever spoke was the one
my parents taught me. Chemistry and physics
were beyond my grasp. 1 never learned how to
playa musical instrument.
"I finally turned away from these more refined
pursuits and tried to learn to be a watchmaker,
and when 1 failed at that, 1 tried to learn to make
shoes. Some time after, I became an apprentice
carpenter, but before long 1 found that my skills
more aptly suited me to work as a hod carrier.
1 did my work well, but it didn't give me the
satisfaction I had hoped for.
"Now there have been some years between
my time and your time, but 1 don't feel as things
have changed too much. In my time my society
was in danger of dying. The signs were all around,
but people were all so blind to them. There were
so few who saw beyond the day-to-day affairs,
so few who saw that our society was anything
but eternal.
"I told you the trouble 1 had with my various
pursuits, and of the talents 1 lacked, but 1 did
feel that 1 have two things-patience, and a kind
of love for the people around me. And I thought
that a patient, loving person had a special place
in a dying society, so 1 came out here where I
have waited ever since. For 1 cared enough about
our times to not let it pass unmarked, and 1 felt
that 1 would be able to do something about it.
So, as the embers turn to ash, it will be my work
to try and leave some sign, not for those who arc
gone, but for those who are to follow.
"Well, do 1 know how long it may be before
the ones who follow will be in a position to
appreciate what 1 have done. 1 am taking that
into consideration as 1 work. 1 also realize that
what I do will probably have very little effect
on the ones who are coming. There is no matter
about that; my intention is not to end this cycle
of events mankind is involved with, but only to
put a little light on it. If there are some few who
become a little more thoughtful about the circum­stances
of their times, then 1 will be satisfied."
With that, the old man fell silent, and he did
not speak again all night.
The old man's guest was quite touched by
what had been said, and he found himself in
sympathy with the old man's feelings. He thought
for a long time about what he said.
The days went on, and the guest became more
and more comfortable, until one day he looked
around and was quite surprised to see how com­pletely
he had taken over the old man's duties.
The old man was aware of it too, and seemingly
was quite pleased about it. For some time the
old man had been a little anxious over whether
or not he would complete his work, as it had
gotten away from him to the point where he was
not able to manage it.
The old man still spends his time puttering
aroung with his work, his little effort for whoever
might be destined to follow, but more and more
the guest has taken charge of things. 1 know,
and 1 am able to speak about these things, be­cause
1 am the stranger who came so long ago to
find the old man and his work. 1 think 1 was
meant to come here. I'm sure there are not many
people who could appreciate as 1 have what the
old man had to offer. His work is not important
to most, but 1 believe there are some who will
have the reverence for the gentle flow of life and
the continuity of all things, that will measure up
to the love the old man has for the ones who are
to follow.
And so, you see, I've finally come to love the
life I'm learning.
Gary Bowers
"UH"
in philosophy class
God lost.
in sociology class
people lost.
in psychology class
rats lost.
I tried to get a job today.
I tried to get a job today.
I tried to get a job today.
I can't find my cat.
Gary Bowers
The hands creep forward
Steadily unwinding then ­They
run out of spring.
14.
Mary Ann Cameli
The anxieties of those around me
Who search for their plastic worlds
In caravans of lies,
Often blank out my complacency
With red hues of contempt
And hatred.
In my quest for truth and consolation
I have found a refuge,
And my tormented ego longs
For the inviting sheath
Of your warm arms.
J. Manning
CAROUSEL
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• 15
16.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MY
FERTILE PLAIN?
Oh whatever happened to my fertile plain?
Where it once was is desolation and pain.
My green grasses died today.
Oh whatever happened to my fertile plain?
The rain came in torrents, God it did pour.
Where once was richness, is terror and horror.
My two big oxen won't plow it no more.
Oh whatever happened to the labor I bore?
The fields that were fallow, were plain nourishment,
For rabbits and small things, but they were too spent.
Now the beasts and coyotes grew hungry and vent,
Their anger at me, and the law that I bent.
I can hear them taunting, as they grow near.
As they lunge and scratch, at the deer I peer.
And my friend I can tell you, I'm trembling in fear.
Oh what's gonna happen to the life I held dear?
S. Pizer
AND THE RAIN COMES
Parched and dry where nothing grows.
No blooms show, no seeds last, eternally
desolate.
A world of death never knowing life.
A world destroyed before it began.
Serving no one, generating nothing.
A vast desert of emptiness where
dreams me non-existent.
And the rain comes.
What was parched and dry is now
saturated.
What was desolate is now fertile.
The spores grow and the blooms enhance
A world of death now spawns life
Generating thousands of dreams
Millions of questions
All because the rains came.
Chuck Neff
A FARMER'S PRAYER
Well, dear Lord, another day is done.
I just seen the last of the setting sun,
And for my blessings one by one,
Dear Lord, I thank yeo
I got a letter from Bill today.
You know my son who had to go away?
Said the war's so bad, his hair's turned gray.
But he's alive!
Dear Lord, I thank yeo
I listened to the news at noon.
Hear tell more fellows are going to' the moon.
It seems much too early; much too soon.
But that's progress!
Dear Lord, I thank yeo
I studied the paper and read and read.
But all I saw was "God is dead".
And when He died, not a tear was shed.
But you're not dead!
Dear Lord, I thank yeo
Nick Story
• 17
18 •
PROGRESSION
God's work was all things Beautiful
This world He gave us,
and we added:
disorganization
disruption
perdition
suppression
abolition
subversion
revolution
extraction
extirpation
abrogation
destruction
nullification
dilapidation
deterioration
execut,ion
eradication
devastation
desolation
annihilation
extinction
obliteration
We call it production.
This is our progression.
Chuck Neff
THE DOOR AJAR
I can see far
Through the door that stands ajar.
I can see the sky
And the white cloud drifting by,
And I can see you .
Elizabeth Barnett
Our lives run in parallel
Sometimes they run close,
Sometimes far apart
But they never meet.
We are alone, even together .....
A nita Louise Swan
CAN'T SEE THE FOREST FOR
THE TREES
We all touch
But do we feel
Is what we give
More than we steal
To conquer love
What must one seize
To find the forest
Look for the trees
We bind our love
Then break each stitch
A life together
Why must we switch
Though love is warm
There's those that freeze
To find the forest
Look for the trees
We build on truths
And break on lies
In love you're living
Or the heart; it dies
So in the end
Who will you please
To find the forest
Look for the trees!
Ron Pavlik
UP YO YO AND DOWN
yo yo's up and down,
yo yo's up and down,
yo yo's up and down,
yo yo's around and around
yo yo's are fun
constant motion machines
excitement on a
s
t
r
n
g
yo yo's are sparkling
white and red
pretty circles
in your hand
yo yo's make smiles
and
miles away in corners lay
pretty yo yo's never make
memories
and Tommy has
a new truck
Linda Carter
SEE SANDY BEACHES
See sandy beaches
White-winged waves, rocky ridges
Fathom distant caves.
Wing across the globe
Country-hopping hurriedly
Europe in twelve days.
Mary Ann Cameli
WAITING, WATCHING AND
WONDERING
In summer days it would rain
and we would sit and wait.
Watching by the window,
We could see the drops fall from trees.
Rain is a. precious thing;
It is never there when you need it,
And always when you don't.
Thinking now,
I remember the sound
Of droplets in abound,
Falling on the roof.
The roof being wood,
Burned sq good,
But at the time,
I thought on only
The sound, sand and lonely,
And I wondered why.
Sandy Pizer
• 19
OR I COULD GIVE YOU MONTEREY
by r curtis lundy
20.
IN March of any year when the
sardine season finishes and the
weather is wet and cold with the
. winds that come off the ocean
pushing grey clouds that lie across
the peninsula like a freshly washed
blanket, you can stand at Fisherman's
Wharf at Monterey Bay and watch
the small fleets of purse-seiners
as they pass into the calmer
waters in baCK of the breakwater.
You can stand there leaning against
the damp wooden rails watching
the waves lick at the barnacle
covered pillars and feeling that
soft kind of drizzle on your face.
You can go into Monterey when
the fishermen are finished
anchoring their boats, because
there will be a lot of drinking
being done at the end of the
sardine season. You can have
dinner and wait until night and
wearing something warm and waterproof
you can go from bar to bar and
meet and talk to many fishermen
who are all very willing to get
you drunk. It would be sure to
rain all night while you were drinking,
and the bars would be crowded with
people standing, singing and talking,
and the tables would be filled
and it would be very smoky and
sticky hot with the humidity. You
can drink your favorite beer or
wine. Then when your head begins
to swim, you can walk to another
bar in the cold drizzle and when
you get to another bar you are
ready to begin again.
But if you came to Monterey
in hopes of finding part-time
work, you would be smart not to
outdrink the fishermen. You
would have a good time and a good,
small drunk and in the morning
you would awake very early with
only a smaH headache. You would
dress in your dirtiest clothes and
try to look like a very hard worker
and a well-experienced worker, too.
You would find a small all-night
cafe and buy breakfast, so that
you are eating at the same
time the sun is coming over the
pine mountains and the morning
light is flooding almost purple
over the damp streets. If it is
still raining, as it might be, then
there would be no sun, but there
is nothing that can stop that
purple morning as night departs
and day begins and the droplets
of water will shine like diamonds.
You can watch the street change
as you eat a light breakfast and
regret having had such a good time
the night before.
After your breakfast, you
can then walk on down to the
wharfs and piers and pick out a
boat that looks in extra bad
shape. There is where the work
will be during March and April
at the end of the sardine season.
EARLY MOURNING BEACH
A thousand thoughts ran through my head
as I walked the early morning beach,
but none so urgent to stop the flow,
none within my reach.
I met a young woman that morning
and thought how lonely she must be,
to have to walk the beach alone,
her only friend the sea.
We spoke quietly in the darkness
as if the world we might wake,
fearful of the morning sun
and the silence it would take.
I kissed her softly as I left
and walked slowly cross the sand,
thinking how good it feels
reaching out your hand.
I climbed the weathered wooden steps
of a lonely deserted pier,
and walked across the moaning planks
crying softly in my ear.
An old beaten man lay before me
the splintering planks his bed,
and, wondering when his last meal was,
laid a dollar by his head.
As I turned from him to leave
a tear fell from my cheek,
and the mighty ocean roared
laughing at the weak.
I cried softly on my way back home,
for even a man does cry,
thinking how lonely people are
and how lonely people die.
As I reached the door of my room
I saw the sun's first ray of light,
soon people will be starting a new day
but to me,
it will be a lonesome night.
by RANDY
.21
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE
by Jan Fiakas
If beauty is skin deep then John Doe's body
has no flesh at all, just blood and bones, but
blood is thicker than water. Really, John's face
alone could force a train to take a dirt road.
But, every rose has its thorn and every dog has
his day.
John's parents' attitude was it's too late to
lock the barn after the horse is gone and that all
is fair in love and war. They knew that all good
things must come to an end; besides, he who
dances must pay the fiddler and nothing ventured
is nothing gained.
Now, John's parents wanted more children and
they knew that it was never too late to learn. So,
since at first they didn't succeed they would try
and try again. It's easier said than done even
though experience is the best teacher, but practice
makes perfect so they made hay while the sun
shined. Well, two wrongs don't make a right and it
looked as though one rotten apple had spoiled
the whole barrel.
History marches on and since that was when
John was just a shot high to a bourbon bottle
there's no reason in crying over spilled milk.
Now, misery loves company and John was looking
for some because he knew that two heads were
better than one. He believed that it took two to
make a bargain, but with John it was more like
armed robbery. So, to be safe rather than sorry
he always dated girls in his caliber-girls that
looked like they were run over by the train John's
face had made take a detour, but one man's
meat is another man's poison. John was a beggar
so he couldn't be choosy and the two girls he
dated weren't exactly U.S.D.A. choice.
22.
Kate was the tall, skinny one whose personality
could be best described as the empty wagon
rattles the loudest. On the other hand, Edith's phi­losophy
was laugh and grow fat. John had dated
both Kate and Edith for some time and since
we know a man is known by the company he
keeps, it isn't hard to figure out that John wasn't
the Rudolph Valentino of his day. But, he tried
harder and where there's smoke, there's fire and
John had been smoldering for some time now.
He finally decided to throw another log on
Kate to increase their flickering flame. But, there
are two sides to every question and John shouldn't
have counted his chickens before they were hatch­ed,
because all that glitters is not gold and a
miss is as good as a mile. What John didn't know
was that Kate knew about Edith. So, Kate went
as easily as she came.
Now John was left with Edith and necessity
is the mother of invention. He knew that God
helps those who help themselves and time and
tide wait for no man. He moved in on Edith
with the grace of a gazelle. One night, while
they were cooing and wooing on the couch, the
phone rang. John being the suave and debonair
man he was said, "Edith, you're a girl I just
can't get over-so get up and answer the phone!"
Hearing this Edith took off like a bat out of hell,
never to return. John had finally realized that
you don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Now
alone and lonely, he knew that there is no fool
like an old fool.
Now the moral of this story is that birds of a
feather flock together and you can't have you
Kate and Edith too.
criss-<::ross
i miss moss
that used to grow
where i used to go
before
the war
Andrea Clark
ETERNAL DEATH OF A
COMBAT SQUAD LEADER
Tranquility
laughter
smiling faces;
Explosions
machineguns;
blood
vital organs
fragments of once human bodies,
screams of the wounded,
horror on the face of the dying
cold, fixed faces of the dead.
Scenes of mourners,
tears of my own,
More letters to write,
A lump in my throat,
Always in my thoughts
always in my memory,
Always in my dreams,
Thank God. I now awaken!
Chuck Neff
STATUES
Statues are erected
by societies infected,
statues are inspected by you and me.
Some are carved of wood
and some are not so good,
statues for all the world to see.
Whenever we feel guilt
another statue's built,
we've carved ourselves a little piece of mind.
The men of Iwo Jima,
the unknown soldiers tomb,
and more and more day by day,
soon we'll have no room.
Randy
OUR THOUGHTS WILL LAST
Though black horses draw Hag-draped cofflns,
even as procession after procession
is led through our streets,
man's thoughts live on.
Our thoughts linger on
still after the living are gone
and the earth burn't up,
still our thoughts linger on.
And, they are ours,
our thoughts.
They are the part which cannot be killed,
they are ours, our thoughts.
Though shots ring out
and people may scream,
the assassins' bullets
can't silence our dreams.
Our thoughts ar~ armies
built from the past,
our thoughts are free,
our thoughts willast.
Randy
26.
THE LOSS
by Gary Bowers
Mark's head had never been more thoroughly
populated. Besides his "regulars" (the disc jockey,
the Council of Elders, et. al.), and the usual
stray thoughts, he had inadvertently created and
nurtured a new character, only just noticed; it
was a wizened Rumplestiltskin type whose only
function was to sit on a stool and say "sheeit"
at appropriate times. Just what he needed.
Mark was being tormented by the disc jockey,
whose favor was fickle indeed. The deleterious
DJ had been playing "Happiest Girl in the Whole
U.S.A." for the past twenty minutes. Finally the
station manager came in. "Give him a break,
why don'cha," muttered the kindred spirit. "Beat
it, Bub, you don't even exist yet," the Inquisitor
replied, and cackled with sadistic glee as the
hopeless Samaritan winked out.
(Jesus, thought Mark, now it's getting theolo­gical.
)
The little man said "sheeit."
Gandalf was making fireworks with chemicals
in his brain fluid (Mark's that is), causing violent
headache (Mark's, that is.).
Henry David was making his usual babbling
noises, as Mark's tricky unconscious had long
since sent the errant cetoplasm on a useless quest
to simplify the word "simplify."
The Marquis deJay renewed his attacks with
a Buck Owens version of "Yore Cheatin' Hart,"
causing Mark and the little man to harmonize on
"sheeit."
Mark had had Goddamn near enough.
Extensions of the personality or no, "whence
sentience?" problem notwithstanding, interesting
schizoid self-analysis, Mark's "old buddies up
these", el cetera, OR NOT - they had to be
destroyed.
For the first time Mark consciously created a
character. It was Buck Rogers armed with a
laser beam and a this-above-all sense of purpose:
to annihilate every last one of Mark's charges.
Presently the job was done.
Except for Buck himself, who had just enough
Impressive Mathematics to off this gem:
"A set is a subset of itself."
The deadly laser burned again, and Mark's
essence was struck a fatal blow.
His lives flashed before his eyes.
The disgusted little man in all of us mouthed
a final "sheeit."
It was all over.
What a loss.
I have watched the world
from behind the reeds -
a perpetual movie
locked in there.
Sightless eyes -
only feeling
Who knows better than I
the beauty they see
the faces they meet
when my mind leaves to touch
alien lands
for eons.
Carol Bassett
Gary Bowers
A QUIET MOMENT
WHEN a man is pleased by what he is and cares
very much for the woman that he is with and the
place where they are, he has found the true peace.
There are many tricks which a man can use
to reach peace. But he will know that he is using
tricks and that the peace is not true.
It is no easy thing finding peace. It is a quiet
moment given by fate and taken away by life.
Time sips the moment away like a man drinking
a vintage wine. If a man is wise, he will know this.
He will not hold onto his moment, but savor it
as time will. If a man is very wise, he will forget
the memory and work for another quiet moment
of peace.
by r curtis lundy
Quasi-liberal # 1:
An Exercise In Pretension
1 may look like a honkle brother,
but oh man can I boogie (woogie?).
Steve A llnatt
BRAWN
Acting, Acting, always faking
We all knew you were
Joking, Poking, never lying
There was no admission fee
Giving, Giving, asking little
For all your love and smiling
Giggle, laugh, I never thought
Till you cried.
Joel Snyder
Strange that we do not learn
from irrational wishes
that never cease
like the eternal waves
in their eagerness
to clutch you with icy,
dripping fingers
on shores where
seagulls fly, screeching
through the bloodstreams of the mind.
But still we continue
to wish on burnt-out
stars in galaxies that
died eons ago.
Carol Bassett
.27
28.
ARS
by
Young Harvill
In the town where I live there is a museum;
in this museum is a glass case holding a collection
of Chinese ivory carvings. Each piece has been
executed with amazing skill and considerable
forethought. There are carvings of all the minor
deities, each carrying the proper seals and fix­tures
appropriate to his office. There are larger
pieces depicting the major gods, all bent at an
angle, the last vestige of the tusk of ivory from
which they were cut, all bearing his own unique
countenance, varying from flawless impassive
features to a figure alive with wickedness. Also
included in this collection is a carving of a perfect
sphere, patterned with an intricate lace design.
Upon first glance the piece seems to be no more
than just that, a sphere with a pattern of holes
meticulously cut in its surface; however, as one
peers down through the pattern, it is possible to
see a second sphere inscribed with lace enclosed
by the first sphere.
The artist has carefully set free this second
globe by working through the holes in the design
of the outer sphere, and so he continued, for as
one looks more deeply into this amazing piece
there is such a large number of enclosed spheres
that it is difficult to say how many orbs are
contained in the outer sphere of ivory.
Of all the people who have had the pleasure
of looking upon or owning this sphere it is possible
only a very few ever caught sight of the innermost
orb, for to do so one must line up all of the
patterns of holes carved in each sphere until the
proper relationships are reached, as planets must
be in favorable conjunctions for the sowing or
rea pings of crops or the birth of a prophet, so too
it is neccessary for each of the orbs to be aligned
before one can glimpse the center sphere.
Beyond this point the course this narrative
takes is pure conjecture, for it is no longer based
in the concrete. There are those who have peered
down through the design and structures and say
there is an inscription carved deeply in the center
of things. And some of these people, being artists
and poets have tried to describe what is written
there, some are a bit more lyric than others, and
a few are gifted with a remarkable clarity and
directness; still others are content with defining
the existence of the orders within orders and have
let it go at that. At this moment and all other
moments the spheres are turning and following
their own movements and cycles. Soon we will
find ourselves sifting down to the center of things.
STORM
by
J. Manning
It may begin softly, so subtly you may not
notice. Perhaps some grass will move in anticipa­tion
or maybe the small leaves on the ends of trees
will get edgy and flitter.
When the light fingers of the wind move, its
cousins in nature come alive. In the still of the
tired afternoon you may suddenly look up to find
yourself immersed in a world of fascinating life.
In the horizon the clear blue of midday turns
darker, then gray. Like an ominous monster the
storm swallows more and more in its great, wet
mouth, as it approaches. Once lazy fields ripple
in its wake, and quiet trees speak of their excit­ment
in soft rustles. The warm air turns chill and
runs shocks up and down your spine.
The wind curls past your face in a caressing
sinew. It rubs the hairs of your neck and runs its
long fingers through your hair. Pulling and beck­oning
your soul to flee with it forever-travel high
in the ecstasy of life.
You can smell the damp air. Not the air that
has been withered and dried by the desert then
thrown against the mountains and parched. No,
this air is heavy with memories. It knew the
moist grass of spring mornings and the kind
shade of green trees. It rolled along rich valleys
and floated in the heavens. Its ancestor was the
ocean, so it knows many secrets. It holds the
sorrow of tears on lonely days and the magic
thoughts of lovers enjoying romantic evenings.
Breathe in, if only your lungs were as large as
the sky. Breathe deep and catch as much of life
as you can.
The violent and relentless storm reaches into
us and grasps the very beat of our hearts. We are
reminded of that from which we came.
On goes the storm, into the evening and through
the night beating its unmistakable songs of living,
creating a euphoria that engulfs the deepest
thoughts and dreams of your nocturnal bliss.
THE DEATH OF OLD AGE
by
Andrea Clark
The shadow of age leaked slowly from the
corner of his eye. His brow was etched with the
worries of his life. The wrinkles rose and fell as
the memori:::s slipped through the antiquated
mind. His small room also creaked with remem­brances.
The dingy walls still wore the same coat
of paint. The paint that laughed with him at his
children and wept with him when they were gone.
He slowly put his rusty joints into motion and
rose. Across the room his hazy gaze touched a
rottend frame and its yellowed contents. Though
the photograph was blurred he could still envision
his wife. His smile lines deepened as he recalled
their love and youthfulness. They were so happy.
He so strong and unerring, she an innocent belle,
he remembered. He turned for a final glance and
slowly closed the heavy door.
Today the stairs seemed steeper as he strained
to reach the street level. His feet followd the
well-known route without disturbing his thuoghts.
Still reminiscing, he turned each page of his life
slowly and lovingly. Though his eyes were misty,
he knew the way, besides there was nothing to
see. The dimly lit cafe was still the same. Almost
as soon as he was seated there was a cup of steam­ing
coffee before him.
"You always remember," his vOice echoed
roughly.
"Yes, sir, every day," she smiled a smile that
reminded him of his wife again. He sat sipping
as the drink warmed him. He seemed to get
cold more easily now. He thought about this
again as the man handed him a paper in exchange
for his cold coin. The man remarked that he
looked fine, but the words stuck in his mind like
tiny burrs because he knew they weren't true.
He shuffled along slowly not noticing the
bustling city around him. The children played
and he was oblivious to them, but not to the
memories they jostled from the cobwebbed cor­ners
of his mind. He sat on the bench that he had
come to know so well. Noiselessly the paper told
him of things that happen now, all around him,
that he doesn't see. His daily newspaper was his
only reality. The rest of his day was spent within
the shadows of his past, a time long gone when
his life was filled with the laughter of his children
and the sweetness of his youth. And his wife. Her
gentle touch and kindness to everyone were too
dear to lose. They were gone now. Everything
was gone, except in his mind from which they
would never escape. He kept each thought captive
in a tiny vubicle of his brain, releasing it for
only a second to savor again. Too long he had
tasted them now, and his eyes were blurred as
he strained to read his paper.
As he shifted his weight the bench creaked and
sighed with him, flaunting an air of oldness
surrounding the two. This aged man was easily
unnoticed. The greyness of his well-worn clothes
blended well with the moist fog surrounding
everything. And the light was very poor. It was
hard to know when he was there and when he
was gone. He rose to leave now and the bench
squeaked a farewell.
At the cafe, the waitress had no words for
him. There were many others and she was busy.
He ate slowly at a meal that had no distinguishable
taste. He paid his bill and closed the door quietly
behind him. On the street it was dark and the
soft yellow street lights did little to lessen the
density of the fog. He did not need to see though,
he knew his way well enough. Since he didn't
need to watch, his eyes turned to inward things
and he again visited with his sleepy thoughts of
times long past.
The si!1gle lamp barely created a single shadow
as the old man readied himself for sleep, a
sleep that he knew would come easily. He lower­ed
his head to the waiting pollow, and in the
darkness his memories became more vivid. The
smiles of youth creased his face. The tears of
age leaked slowly down. The man started to sleep
with knowledge that death would come slowly,
painless~y as he slept.
The sun rose again though its only indication
was a slight pink tint on the east side of the fog.
His cup of coffee waited patiently, though it
would never be sipped. His paper lay folded.
Waiting. The bench sighed with emptiness. But
you couldn't really tell when he was there and
when he was gone. The light was very poor.
• 29
30.
SOUL JOURNEY
From chained and humble
to proud and free
For as I look
So shall I be
I've stood so tall
Yet bent so low
And though I came
I too must go
In death again
To pass on by
But I the soul
shall never die
I've been the pauper
I've been the king
Spilled my tears
and learned to sing
In this outer world
I've reached and clutched
My inner world
I've just now touched
In death again
I pass on by
But I the soul
Shall never die
Ron Pavlik
REST EASY
Rest easy, morning,
When nigh comes to stay.
Soon you'll be dawning
Into a new day.
Rest easy, summer,
Though you fade into fall.
Through winter you'll slumber,
Then wake to spring's call.
Rest easy; Be assured
Of vows that came from above.
Remember - I'll keep my word.
Rest easy,
Rest easy,
My love.
Diane Delander
C. Cole
32.
WE THANK THOSE PEOPLE
WHO GAVE THEIR WORK
FOR THIS MAGAZINE OF THOUGHT
AND APOLOGIZE FOR THOSE NOT USED
FOR SPACE WE HAD NOT.
THE LITERARY MAGAZINE STAFF
the traveler
GLEND'ALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
GLENDALE, ARIZONA, 85302