1971
Ie
-;I\'e el-
A ~rellti,'e Arts ,\\IIIlllzille
Glendale Community College Creative Arts Magazine
Spring 1977
tu-cil iturs
Karen Melot
Daniel Fink
Kathy Briant
St:,"
Vivian Baker
Richard Miller
Calmen Chu
tu,'cr
Nadine Myers
"11,'isurs
Mildred Fischer
Conrad Bayley
Tom Brazie
Darlene Goto
6000 West Olive
Glendale, Arizona 85302
Volume 10
© The Traveler, G.C.C., 1977
McKeon, Jim __ . _ _ _ _ _ _ 23
Melot, Karen __ .. . .__ . . . 31
Sieve, J erry .__.. .__ _ _..__ 5, 17, 26, 45, 48
Zitlau, Bob, Jr. _.._. _ _ _ " 10, 39
Bauer, David . _ __.. __ .. __ 6, 22, 29, 44, 51
Bebb, Michael C. .__. . 11, 21, 38
Block, Susan . . .__ .. . . . .__ . ... 8, 22, 32, 50, 52
Breen, Robert E.. . .__ __.._..__.. 6
Byrn, Jerry __. . .__ . .._.. . . ._..__ 21, 28
Byrne, Tom . __ _._ . . .__..__ . .__.. .. __.__ .. 51
Dennison, Sonny __ __ __ . .. .__ . .__ .__.__. 15
Devine, David A. .__ .._ . __ . .. __.__ . .__ . __ .. . 37
Dillie, Zetta .. __ __. .. . . .__ __ __ _.. 14
Fink, Daniel G. .. . ..__.. .__ 8, 16, 33
Gaffney, Anna ..__ __ .__..__.._..__. .. .. 52
Greco, Debbie .__ . .__ .__ . . ._ .__________ 4
Lane, Lonnie .._ __.. __ .__ ..__ .__.. .. .. 46
Langlois, Diane __ .. ._ __ __ _. .__ .__. _. . . 47
Lee, Mike .--. .__ ._.__. __ .. __ . .. . . .. 15, 25, 46
Mason, Twyla -.._... . . . .. . . . .... ...._.... 12, 24
Oiler, Linda Kay . _.. ..__ . . ... . .__._.. . .. __ 4, 13, 50
PerIman, Jerry . __ _. . . .._. . .. . 9, 34
Rinaldo-Bauer, Debbie __ . .. .__. ... __.. . ..__ ._._ 13, 25, 29, 37, 47
Sosa, Priscilla -- .. __ . ._.. . . __ .__. .. 16, 28, 33
Szeredy, Debby .--.__ .. ._ __ . . . . . . . ... __ 10, 11, 33, 46, 50
Trotter, Sylvia .---.--.__ . ..__ .. .__ .__... .__. . . __.. __.. __. ..__.. .__ 32
2
Benninger, Geraldean 18
Briant, Kathy , 36
Byrn, Jerry 14, 38
Fink, Daniel G. , 40
Lee, Mike 7, 30
Jim McKeon (1st prize) 23
Nadine Myers (2nd prize) Cover
Jerry Sieve (1st prize)
Bob Zitlau, Jr. (2nd prize)
Robert E. Breen (1st prize) 6
Twyla Mason (2nd prize) 12
Mike Lee (3rd prize) 46
Jerry Byrn (1st prize) 14
Mike Lee (2nd prize) 30
Daniel G. Fink (3rd prize) 40
Geraldean Benninger (3rd prize) 18
Prizes will be presented at the April Awards Assembly.
3
4
My walks help me to think
about things I don't understand
or things that trouble me.
To walk and see the sky, the
mountains, trees and birds is
beautiful. It makes me see that
whatever is on my mind can't
be that bad. My sadness seems
to disappear and my happiness
reappears.
My walks are full of solitude, except
for the wildlife, who seem to know
I am different and seem curious
about me. But the wildlife still
get scared and the noises they make
seem to warn the others that I am
rare.
My walks are full of contentment
because I feel at peace with the
world and myself. No one can hurt
me and no one can make me sad
or mad because I am at ease and
free.
My walks are a part of me, and
if you ever know me you will see
that I like to get away and let
my thoughts be free.
Debbie Greco
Ohio-poem
I am not good
merely because you are
beside me,
but I'm better
when you're here.
And you are good
two thousand miles away,
but you smile more
when I touch you.
Linda Kay Oiler
6
Those sky muscles tense
Dark flexing ever upward
Now the rain has come.
David Bauer
I preach courage,
Yet I am filled with doubt;
Though my eyes have vision,
I cannot see.
I move, but I go nowhere;
I can touch, but I do not feel;
I speak, but I don't hear;
I want love, yet I am unloving.
I want trust, but I suspect;
I preach for peace but practice violence.
I demand truth, but I am deceitful;
I cry out for freedom,
But I deny the rights of others.
Who am I?
I AM MAN!
R.E.B.
Wann Reception
mite olee
The devil put my paperwork aside, looked up at me, and smiled encouragingly.
"I see you lived in Phoenix, Arizona, most of your life. You
should be right at home here. Have a seat," he said.
I dropped down into a comfortable-looking lounge chair and arose
immediately. It was hot. I finally sat down on the floor.
He gave me a sympathetic look. "It does take some getting used to, but
be it ever so humble, it's home. Now what do you do?" he asked.
I replied I was a writer.
"No, no. What are your talents? Do you eat babies, push women in
front of cars, trip old ladies, or what?"
"Nothing like that," I replied.
"Then what are you doing here?" he asked.
I said I really didn't know, and that it was probably some kind of
clerical error. You know how hard it is to get good office help these days.
"No," he replied, "HE doesn't make mistakes. If you were sent here
there had to be a reason."
I thought and thought, but the only thing I could picture was a line of
cold glasses of Coors stretching as far as the eye could see. I just couldn't
come up with any reason for being routed downstairs. Finally, something
glimmered in back of my mind. "I remember when I was a little boy saving
my Canadian pennies and throwing them into the collection basket at
church on Sundays. None of the local candy stores would take Canadian
pennies, but I didn't figure that the church would mind. I mean, after all,
HE operates in Canada, right? And HE can do anything, right? So I figured
it wouldn't be any problem to take the money from His American pocket
and put it in His Canadian pocket."
The devil beamed at me. "That's it," he said. "This calls for a celebration.
Let's have a drink." He went to the water fountain and pressed the
button. Steam shot out, and hot water splashed on the ceiling. The devil
jumped back and gave the fountain a kick. He sat down again, muttering
about the quality of plumbers and holding his sore hoof.
"God, it's hot," I said.
"Never, never say HIS name again," the devil chastised me. "Me and
HE have not been on speaking terms for several hundred thousand years.
Meanwhile, I'll see what I can do to make you more comfortable." He went
to the air conditioner and fiddled with the knobs. More hot air poured out.
I yelled across the loud whine of the air conditioner, "Doesn't anything
around here work right? This is one hell of a place."
"It sure is," he replied.
7
8
(-A Sonnet)
When I took Jesus as my friend,
When I gave my life to His plan
I found my troubles, not at an end.
I still felt distressed like every man.
After letting God's love fill my heart,
I still had burdens to bear. I found
Perplexities and I could not part,
And that problems still would abound.
But when troubles come, I have a friend.
Jesus is there in the midst of night.
When I am burdened down, I can depend
On God to ease the load and give light.
Troubles around me will never cease.
But Jesus, my friend, will give me peace.
Daniel G. Fink
The time has come for me to say
I've found a peace of mind
Just sitting here to talk with you
And waste away the time
But time cannot be wasting
If it is life that we are tasting
And everything is warm when I laugh
So save me a smile when I am blue
And when you're sad I'll give it back to you
Can we be friends?
Susan Block
Freely in Him can we see
Passing of life itself.
Lifting of burdens He made free,
Not thinking of self.
My soul to Him; pledged
With no thought for mine,
As life had reached its edge
With no concern of time.
Although time has the right to be
A continuous, living thing,
Which in itself there's a mystery,
Is time really an ending?
To many, today was their tomorrow,
But tomorrow will be forever.
If yesterday was lost in sorrow,
Can it be regained? Never!
For now, Christ, is today
And tomorrow belongs to Him.
Yet from salvation many will stray;
They live in a light that is dim.
There are times of uncertainty
Which will bring about doubt.
Life can be destroyed instantly,
Seeing no way out.
What is it to Him we owe
For that Light, that leads a way?
Time, money, fame, or gold;
Who's really to say.
Love, hope, charity, faith;
The Wisdom of the day;
Some Hellenistic Myth;
Who's really to say.
Reasoning comes from the mind.
Gloriously thought out fully,
Shiny as a new dime.
Yet, both will be renewed, annually.
Only in time will any true thing stand.
True lasting value of time
That was given by His hand,
For those who are seeking will find.
Jerry Perlman
9
10
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
Funny I should remember
I like to be alone.
Lost within myself
Not tangled up with someone else
Funny I should remember
I am alone.
Debby Szeredy
To those who never cared
or thought about the past
I'm sure they made it well.
Let's drink to them the survivors
There was nothing inside them to
hold them back.
H's ones like us that feel our past
pulling at our minds.
Drinking to the times that never come back
Drinking to our life that seems so old now.
Debby Szeredy
Sunde!
Old man
who lived long ago
how do you remember
all you've been
and all you've done;
Where do you keep
all your memories
from so long ago
old man?
You sit alone
still and cold
watch the evening come;
and reap your reward
for living all those years;
Like a child you want to cryold
man you need to die.
Old man
alone with your dreams
Together you'll find the sunset
alone you'll feel your past;
and the dreams
inside your heart are glad
they won't see tomorrow's sun;
Old man the evening's come.
Michael C. Bebb
11
12
2)afliJ Ben-(jurion
"I stood all night at the ship's rail
watching the shore of Palestine
until my body ached with anxiety
and the salty humidity of the Mediterranean
flowed down my face
down my chest.
Jaffa was there waiting for me but
she was not as anxious as I,
her one street was complete with
people of many countries they
didn't care about one more Zionist.
Then Jaffa was enough
Today I am no longer satisfied
Because our land
will never be satisfied
and we are one with the land.
Solomon's temple was built without
nails - we, the sons of many
will build together
Eretz Israel.
Our Fathers spoke mystical words and
gave prophecies
I spoke 'next year in Jerusalem'
until my face would turn red, and then
blue
as I repeated it over and over
with my eyes squeezed shut so
I wouldn't
miss a line of my city
You the sons of your Fathers, will
repeat it many times moreuntil
the Negev no longer thirsts
Until the bones of your ancestors no
longer cry out to you from
pioneering border kibbutzes-until
all our people come home."
Twyla Mason
Weep
for the innocent
who are so
wronged in this world.
The beasts who
stood long before man
and now fall
at his command.
Weep
for the injustice
which causes their
suffering and pain.
For their sweet
ignorance which
makes them die in vain.
Weep
for the unselfish
who with uncomprehending
eyes
look searchingly into
the face of his murderer
and in confusion slowly die.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
mountain-Bound
Pack me one sandwich, one apple
and seven smiles,
for I'm going to Camelback Mountain
and I may meet seven people
on my way there.
There are some days as hard to fill
as sieves.
For all I know,
today could be an empty-day.
I seek to fill it with a mountain.
Ask seven people why they are conquering
Camelback.
Six of them will say,
"Because it is there."
One will say, "Because I am here."
I'm off looking for this seventh soul.
Linda Kay Oiler
13
I poured myself another glass of red sorrowful liquid. As it came to my
lips my hands shook and I saw the sweat drip from my wrist. One drop I
followed as it slid down my arm and raced to the end of my elbow. As it
sailed to the floor I heard that horrid whistling sound. With a loud clash it
hit the floor sending waves of cries and screams through my brain.
Dropping my glass of wine as I jumped to my feet, I uttered that which
was trapped inside me. "I have killed."
For minutes I cried like a baby. My hands covered my face while my
conscience tried to cover the guilt. My country was the greatest on earth.
I enlisted with this thought and many others. I could be a hero. I could be
a leader. Laughter flooded me for an instant at the thought of me being a
leader. I continued to contemplate the weight on my mind.
Even while training for flight command the thought of killing people
never really disturbed me. I studied and worked like a dog to pass my tests
and flight training. Finally I was a certified weapon of my country. This
and this alone justified my job and the peril which was to overcome me.
I felt grand flying my first mission. Our cargo was that of death and
agony, bombs. A power was in me as I was told over my earphone that we
were near our target. "Die, you evil people," I said. Oh! I felt grand!
Finally the order came, "Open bomb-bay doors!" and with a simple pull of
a lever I had killed hundreds of people. Suddenly I was overcome by the
power of the bombs hitting the ground. I searched for places that were not
hit, hoping for the chance of survivors. It was then I remembered the pictures
seen while training. I remembered the crying children. I remembered
the burnt bodies. I remembered the horror of missing limbs. I remembered
the masses of dead bodies, the children . . . Oh, God, I remembered the
children!
I began to cry again. Why do you cry so, I asked myself? I should be
glad for our safe return. I will get over it soon! All I need do is rest here in
my room. I will get over the feeling ... and the guilt.
I poured myself another glass of red sorrowful liquid. As it came to my
lips my hands shook and I felt a teardrop slide down my cheek and I
watched it as it sailed to the floor.
Swept clean by wind of ending
Leafless trees forever bending
Coldest night of winter sending
Year end and new year blending
Zetta Dillie
14
The tires were not burning
For the pitcrew crowd that night,
They were struggling with an AMX
With no chance of luck in sight.
So when G.T.a. came out smoking,
And Mopar blew a Mill,
The dudes were not too happy;
They hadn't done their fill.
The pro-stockers, cleaned of parts,
Were retreating from the strip.
But the faithful dudes stayed on,
And prayed the Ford would dip.
Then suddenly, a guy cried out
And another nearly lost his grip,
For Chevy, mighty Chevy,
Was advancing to the strip!
The polished mags shone brightly
In the Arizona sun . . .
And upon those wheels sat Chevy,
Preparing for its run.
That mighty motor roars to life
That 4-speed rips the gears
And now the ground is shaking,
And the dudes must hold their ears.
The pitcrew now is full of joy,
And a cold beer is a man's best friend,
For that little car is running good,
And Chevy wins again!
Sonny Dennison
A shadow glittered, skipped, flittered
on a dreary winter night.
All sound was dead,
Sky's gray as lead
until a bit of light
picked up a shape
so clearly showing
that outside it was snowing,
covering all with a white cape.
Mike Lee
15
16
Over my chapped face the wind blows, mild,
As I stand and cry above the body of my child.
I stand and look o'er my vast lands,
And then a tremble comes to my hands.
Once when blue was the sky and white the cloud,
My people roamed this land, being very proud.
This land was ours from hill to dome.
My people were farmers and this our home.
But then white man came from far and near,
And brought with him rifles, whiskey, and fear.
When the soldiers came it was time to cry,
For soon all the Cherokees were to die.
Over the purple mountains comes the light.
But for my people, it's still the night.
The soldiers' hearts our arrows have missed.
And while they killed our men, our women they kissed.
Daniel G. Fink
Like the sparrow in the sky
and the hurried passerby;
Like the tide that rushes in,
and the everlasting wind;
Like the endless desert sands,
and the countless, roving lands;
Like the myriad of stars,
and the never-ending wars;
Like the bursting of the sun,
and the youth on the run;
Like the grandeur of the world,
and the life yet not unfurled;
I, too, along with so much more,
have the need to be.
Priscilla Sosa
"Saguaro Sunset" Jerry Sieve
(fera/Jean Benninger
I'm not sure on the details of everything that built up to what happened
on Monday but I know what really happened that day. The newspaper only
got half the story and most of that was wrong. Let me tell you what Miss
Parker actually did in class that day.
I was sitting there reading The Origin of Life, a chapter about DNA,
how it unzips and collects new nucleotides from surrounding molecules in
the cell to form a new, complete replica. I've got everything ready for doing
Stanley Miller's experiment except that I need to be in high school for the
lab facilities so I can change the hydrogen, ammonia and methane liquids
Daddy got for me into gases and for setting up the glass bowl.
I sit at my desk reading mostly and wishing my Mom would let the
school officials put me into high school like they, and I, want. You can't
believe what a bore sixth grade is and the kids don't understand things.
Angie Yazzie, she's my best friend in this whole world, thinks the school
board is the paddle they make in high school shop so that the teachers can
scare kids who don't behave just right or whack them. I tried to explain
about it being a joke among the teachers to call the paddle that, a pun on
the real elected school board but she couldn't see it no matter how hard
I tried.
"Paula," my Mom says to me, "don't explain things to the other kids
but just be friends because what you feel is as much a part of being a person
as what you know. Intellect and education aren't everything," she says.
That's why she won't let me go on to high school. At least here the kids are
my same age. Mom 'thinks that's better than being where I'd have nothing
at all in common with the other students. If there were a special program
for advanced sixth graders I could go but this is the only school and there's
no kind of program like that. I want to be with grown-ups though, because
they'd understand better and be more interesting than just Angie Yazzie
and her brother Joe and the rest of the kids.
Mom says don't ever talk like that. Learning easily is a gift but so is
being a twelve-year-old girl and doesn't Angie always beat me in footracing
and Kick-the-Can and doesn't she always pick me on her team when the
others won't because I'm the only white eyes and they're jealous because
school is easy for me? And didn't Joe teach me how to ride horses and make
moccasins when the Yazzies invited me to stay last year at their Grandma's
summer hogan?
I know she's right but lately the kids, especially Joe, have been teasing
me about being teacher's pet. He pulls my hair and makes fun in Navajo
because Miss Parker's hair is the same color red. I don't speak Navajo very
well but Angie tells me. She thinks my hair is really darker, more brown
than old ugly White Bear's. That's what everybody calls Miss Parker, shash
igai, because she's close to three hundred pounds and her skin is clear,
drained out white like a corpse in the movies. Angie says Joe just likes me.
That's why he lets only me use his beading loom and that's why he teases
me, too.
Angie knows my secret crush on her brother but she'd never tell. I've
liked Joe a long time. He's almost fifteen, taller and cuter than the other
boys. He started school late and then got held back in fourth grade and
18
again in fifth because his English isn't very good. I used to help him, and
with math, but Miss Parker doesn't let me this year. After school, if the
weather isn't nice, Joe only wants to learn how to win at Monopoly so I'm
helping him with that game now.
Anyway, I'm sitting there reading while Miss Parker is squeezing in
and out behind her desk, then hurrying sideways up and down the rows to
the closet at the back of the room. She's always looking for some important
something she can't ever find but can't go on teaching without. The lessons
are pretty boring, but they're usually better than watching her hunt around
the room like a very fat rat caught in a very small maze. The book isn't
boring at all and I'm concentrating when something catches the corner of
my ear.
"Angela Yazzie, get up here this minute," Miss Parker screams and I
know Angie is in for another spanking. She's scared because Miss Parker
hit her good and hard last time. The whole room is extra quiet. Waiting.
Angie just stands by her desk. Then as her eyes pass around the room
searching for some way out, she gives the secret signal meaning I should go
along with whatever she says. She whips her long, long black hair over one
shoulder but doesn't move toward the front of the room.
"You wouldn't have to be spanked anymore if you'd do as I say."
"But I was doing what you said, Miss Parker."
"No, Miss Yazzie, you were not minding me. You were giggling behind
your hand. A reading of history isn't usually worthy of giggles."
"My brother burped."
The whole class laughs and Miss Parker bangs on her desk with the
school board. "All right. All right," she hollers. "Let's have it quiet!
Angela, come here I Now!"
"Look at Paula," Angie hollers, pointing across the room at me. "She
don't have to mind you. She can read what she wants to. She's teacher's
little pet. She never gets a beating like me and the others. You only hit us.
Never her!"
Miss Parker freezes dead still. Her neck fills up with red as she moves,
then her whole face reddens as if all the blood is rushing upward out of the
bloated yellow dress.
"That's not true!" she can hardly talk. "Why would you say a thing
like that? You've got a dirty little mouth! A dirty mind, too. You're always
saying things in Navajo. Dirty mind and rummage sale clothes. Secondhand.
You're a dirty, secondhand Indian, Angela Yazzie. You'll never be any
better than you are right now! You're ..."
"I am reading another book, Miss Parker," I said and held it up.
She spun around and marched over to my desk. I wanted to run. This
didn't seem much like getting around Angie's Mom and Dad or mine. She
snatched my book away and read the title, maybe more than once. "This
isn't a sixth grade book. You think you're that smart? You think you're
smart enough to fool me? This is science. You're just trying to help her.
You can't possibly read this. Even I couldn't read it!"
Angie was grinning, so was Joe. Most of the kids still thought it was
funny until Miss Parker jerked me out of the desk, making it fall with a
loud bang. She kicked at the desk, scattered paper and books as she hauled
me to the front of the room and pushed at me.
"Bend over and hold your ankles. You want me to beat on Paula?" she
yelled. "Is that what you people need to make you happy? Angela? The
leader of the redman wants to see this quiet white child broken. All right.
You'll have what you so dearly want. I came here to help you people get
what you wanted. This is it. Right? All right. I'll break her for you!"
19
She hit me a hard dust-beating swing and I almost fell on my face. The
next whack came before I got braced again. It caught me low with a real
sting on my right leg. I could hear Angie crying and some of the others,
too. "She's bleeding," someone said. "Her leg is bleeding." A strong hand
closed around my arm, pulled me out of the way. It was Joe. "You can't hit
her anymore," he said. "That's enough. You're not beating her anymore."
"Beating?" Miss Parker's voice was vague and she looked at Joe like
he was somebody who was in a place she had never expected anybody to
be in.
"I wanted to help you. Indians don't have to be dumb, don't you see
that? Why can't you see how much you need me? I'm a teacher." Her voice
began to get louder. "I'm a teacher! I thought I could make things better
by teaching here. But you won't change. You just won't see how important
education is." Joe said something gently in Navajo and held out his hand
to her. She hit him. "Don't talk to me like that! You hate me. I wanted to
help but you hate me! You hate me. You hate me." She kept saying it over
and over and she hit Joe every time. He put his arms up to protect his head
and stepped back from her. "You don't want to be able to think like a
white man. You're a dumb savage and you're making me force you to
learn. Pound it into you against your will as if education weren't good for
you. It is good! It is! You just hate me. You hate me." She hit him hard on
the shoulder and kept right on swinging. That's when Joe pushed her over
backwards and ran out of the room.
The newspaper made it a racial thing. They said this big Indian boy
attacked Miss Parker because she had to correct him. They made a lot of
his size and of his being a poor student too big for sixth grade. It seemed
like none of the adults except my parents and the Yazzies wanted to hear
the truth. Daddy wanted to sue but the lawyer said it probably wouldn't
be worth the long drawn-out ordeal and expense it would take. The school
would fight to defend its reputation. We shouldn't hurt the school, he said.
It's the only one we have. Miss Parker didn't really beat me and Joe wasn't
hurt either. The school allows moderate corporeal punishment. A court
probably wouldn't credit hysterical twelve-year-old kids as being reliable
witnesses. There'd have to be some better proof that Miss Parker wasn't
moderate and there wasn't any proof. No one was really hurt. He made me
mad and I yelled at him until my Mom made me quit.
So that was it. Joe got expelled from school forever. The Yazzies aren't
ever going to let Angie go back. She won't go to school anymore either,
because this is the only one for them. They're going to live with Grandma
Yazzie and not get caught for keeping Angie out. I'm going away to school
next year.
My parents tried to explain everything to me, but. I just learned how
Angie must feel when I try to talk about math or cosmology or something.
I couldn't understand. My dad said I was seeing what happened to Miss
Parker and what came afterwards through the eyes of a child. That's why I
couldn't understand why the school officials didn't take Joe's side and mine
and Angie's. Mom started to cry then. "You're right, Paula. You're absolutely
right. It can't make any sense this way. The child's eyes see the only
true picture. You see it that way forever. You see it that way forever.
Don'·t ever grow up. Not if you have to see it this way. Don't ever grow up!"
"Go on out and play, Paula," my Dad told me. My Mom is still crying
and he's holding her in his arms.
I learn school work easily, but in real life things seem harder to learn.
It hurts people more, too. Maybe I don't much want to be where the
grown-ups are anymore. I don't want to play Monopoly anymore either.
Not if Joe Yazzie can't win sometimes, too.
20
In the early morning hour
of empty disbelief,
as light invades the hiding
in our souls;
Our pointless conversations
become a solid wall,
our words becoming brick
our feelings turned to stone;
Higher and higher
goes the wall.
Michael C. Bebb
It is known, followed and said
"An eye for an eye and a tooth
for a tooth"
So if a rival slaps your face
Do not hesitate to slap him back
also seek revenges in same degrees,
which were also applied to you.
Never forgive and forget
Always resent and remember.
Hate the country that hates you
Only help countries that help you
And especially remember
Do un-to others as you would have
them do un-to you.
But if they do it to you first
get even!
If this goes on much longer and
this rule is known, followed and said,
"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth" the world will soon be blind
and toothless.
Jerry Byrn
21
22
A marsh where a moose can be a moose
Is a marsh where fireflies are loose
And the only canoe is a crisp autumn
leaf
Spun on silvery swishes
Past milkweed pod docks
And turtle track wishes.
Water bug wakes coming back going forth
Leave lasting impressions on a marsh in the
north.
David Bauer
I remember things from the past
Like pickled melon rind
Homemade ice cream and lemon pie
And the honeysuckle vine
The old house with stairs and picket fence
And elm trees all around
A cool breeze in the summer
With blossoms on the ground
I loved the misty autumns
And how the sun would shine
But most of all I still recall
The honeysuckle vine
When winter came my hands grew numb
As I dug a path to our door
The snow was fun but then again
It could be quite a chore
With the spring came the birth
Of the fruits that made the wine
The air would fill with that certain thrill
Of the honeysuckle vine
And so the years hurried by
To make room for the new
But my heart longed for just one place
Where the honeysuckle grew
Again I look across the years
To all that has been mine
And smell once more what I adore
The honeysuckle vine
Susan Block
I
\
\ (
24
you made us smile
with hands that clipped
and pieced together again
the magic
that was to show us
the world
and the world, us
And they hailed you
great men known for
their deeds
asked you to make
magic for them
But the common man too
he knew you
the fruit farmer's son
who wrote dissertations
on physics
and magic that happened
one night
It was one idea
that put it through
from reel to reel
to the screen of
the mind
It was Capra's name above
the title
and they grew
to know the power
of your ideas
And they took it away
from you
didn't they
they took it away
because film can
be controlled
but
they can't.
Twyla Mason
Softly falling
silent clinging
frosted branches
trembling gently
in the iced wind.
Glittering bits
upon wavy drifts ...
catching star-light
and holding it
in a clenched white fist.
Slowly unfolding
icy fingers
releasing frolicking
swirls of soft winter flakes.
Hushed whispers
as trees brush
snowy crowns
and furry white rabbits
huddle in last spring's cubbyholes.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
In the mist of the first dawn
I was born.
Till the end of it all
then must I fall.
I haunt your every footstep and
you dare make nl) decision without consulting me.
Like an omnipotent god I am everywhere but
unlike God I do not care
to make judgments upon you
who are just passing through
a miniscule portion of my existence.
I was there at your first breath of life
And all your joys and strife
Go by me, all, unnoticed.
And one day you will die
Wondering why
there is an accountant who must balance all books.
It is I, time.
Michael Lee
25
The human mind
is like the horizon
of the ocean;
never reaching
its destiny.
Priscilla Sosa
28
You are like the wind
of the seasons.
Sometimes gusty,
sometimes gentle;
And the image that
you express
reflects on me.
Priscilla Sosa
If silence were golden
Millionaire he would be
For each time he's hunted
he cries out a plea
To his eyes which are straining
to find the right place
So the policeman that passes
will find not a trace
Of a shade blue of levi
or a white fringe of shoe
The flashlight now hits him
what will he do?
Will he look like a trashcan
will he look like a wall
It's too late - he's now running
he hears the cop call!
He hates with a passion
for the cop with the gun
The bullet is fired ... Its job is well done
The police walks to the body,
his conscience is bugged
But he then thinks of the poor child
whose mother was mugged.
Jerry Byrn
The day is ending.
The canyon is
surrendering to the
peacefulness of night.
Violet shadows
drift across the
mesas like waves
upon the sea
moving slowly
towards twilight.
The wind is
skipping across
spiraling towers of rock,
tumbling over
timbered slopes
and singing through
narrow hallways
of stone.
The symp,honic music
of the mountains
joined with the raging
red of a dying sky,
pays tribute to a
sun-blessed
summer day of
the canyon.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
I'll return this dark evening
the solitary guest
My view 'tween the clouds
is surely the best
And if stillness the pond
will ask that I stay
My reflection on the water
a shimmerin' gray
Where I'll linger till morning
escorts me away.
David Bauer
29
pejt Control
mite J!ee
Commander Wassellbone, the hereditary leader of the Quaff Confederation
Galactic Pest Control Expedition, stared down at the Z-bomb on the
table. The bomb was a beautiful crystal structure and radiated appeal on
all of the seventeen known sense channels. It was guaranteed to attract any
creature of sentience, and, once attracted, the creature was sure to commit
the fatal act that would set the bomb off. Z-bombs were so dangerous that
an expedition never carried more than one, lest they should ever fall into
the hands of one of the lesser intelligent crew members or slaves, who
would immediately (though accidentally, to be sure) eliminate a large
sector of the Expedition's space-time continuum.
Wassellbone secretly felt that it would be so much easier to just fly
over the planet to be eliminated and drop the bomb and be done with it.
The trouble was that the Quaff had been civilized for so many thousands
of years that the ability to kill directly had been completely bred out of the
race. The Z-bombs were old museum pieces left over from the pre-enlightened
years, when extreme anti-social behavior was the norm. Why, some of
the races even used to eat each other. Horrible thoughts like that made
Wassellbone's three stomachs contract and attempt to spill out the morning's
synto-gruel. No, there could be no bombing by the Quaff. They could
provide the means of planetary suicide, but a cooperative member of the
race to be eliminated must do the actual button-pushing. Thanks to psychological
appeal the bombs created, every Pest Elimination Expedition had
been successful within days, and the Commander and crew would return
home to Quaff for a few more centuries of peaceful rest.
Twenty-six races had been discovered by the Quaff. Twenty-six races
had been judged as exhibiting un-Quaff-like behavior and, as such, could
not be considered for entrance to the Confederation. Twenty-six "barbaric"
planets were successfully wiped out, and after 23,000 years the Quaff Confederation
still consisted of the one original member - Quaff. No one else
worthy of membership had been found. The commander twitched his tentacles
regretfully, picked up the one-and-only Z-bomb, got his two most
trusted aides, and headed down in the scoutship for the planet.
Tim Conroy staggered down Houston Street after the 3 a.m. closing of
O'Brian's bar and grill. It had become almost a ritual. At four' in the afternoon,
Tim would arrive at O'Brian's and drink steadily until closing, when
Bill O'Brian himself would personally escort Tim to the door. Bill never
forgot the Saturday night they had missed Tim, who had fallen asleep and
slipped under a table. By the time they opened up Monday afternoon, old
Conroy had drunk up a week's profits. Anyway, once the door was safely
reached, it was up to Tim to find his own way home.
So it was at the corner of Third and Broadway that Tim, having an
animated conversation with New York's finest (one of those battered silver
trash cans that are ignored on every street corner), was approached by the
Quaffian delegation.
"Observe," said Wassellbone to his aides, "one of the sorry specimens
of this decadent civilization. Notice this degenerate being is barely able to
provide its own locomotion - and no tentacles. How barbaric. Think not of
30
the benefits to Quaff, but rather how we must put these poor creatures out
of their misery."
Tim wobbled unsteadily as the three nightmares approached, and he
executed a wild-west draw that placed the emergency bottle of "01' Polecat"
genuine Georgia rotgut to his lips in point seven tenths of a second. As the
bottle met his lips, his legs met the trash barrel, and Tim executed an
unwieldy ass-over-tea kettle, ending up in a sitting position against the
curb. Miraculously, and in a move born of long practice, the neck of the
bottle never pointed downward - in the complete 'tumble not a drop of
precious amber fluid was lost.
"Notice his futile efforts to escape. Why, a tadpole right from the egg
is more graceful," observed one of the aides.
"Yes," Wassellbone decided. "The only good earthie was a dead one,
and even then they might smell bad. Definitely no place for them in the
Confederation."
Tim downed the bottle in a chug and decided that maybe the green
beasties weren't so bad anyway. In fact, they probably weren't even there.
The decision on whether they existed or not ended in a "hung jury" which
called for the singing of a few verses of "Sweet Rosie O'Grady."
The two aides held Tim while the Z-bomb was slowly held in front of
his face for the psychological lock to take place. When Tim stopped singing,
Wassellbone set the bomb on the curb, and he and the two aides transmitted
back to the spaceship, which immediately headed out to Pluto to
await the inevitable explosion of Earth that would spell the successful
conclusion of their mission.
Tim sat on the curb and stared wonderingly at the crystal. Why, old
Kaufman at the pawn shop would probably give him twenty dollars for it.
Maybe even $22.50 if he said it was his last family heirloom, given him by
his dying grandma. Something was written on the jewel. Tim blurrily read,
"for your every wish, push this button." Staring with difficulty, he saw a
button. No, it was three buttons. Or was it two? They didn't seem to sit
still. Stabbing a finger wildly at what he thought was the button, Tim
missed the crystal completely and fell forward on his face. His elbow
knocked the bomb off the curb, where it rolled down into a city sewer. Tim
sat up, looked for the jewel, and found it gone. Probably wasn't really
there anyway, he decided, just like them little green fellas who gave it to
me. Sure, it's just the DT's.
The next day at 4 p.m., Tim was in O'Brian's, the incident of the night
before completely forgotten. Meanwhile, out beyond Pluto, the Quaff
waited for the explosion. And they waited, and waited, and waited....
31
32
of!ove
Love can be silent.
A silence that grows
Into sound,
That arouses the unspoken wisdom
Growing peacefully within.
Love is many colors,
Like the rainbow of life.
It darts in many directions
And shades our lives.
Love assures me.
I have no doubt.
I need not pretend
What love is all about.
Sylvia Trotter
!J'm of!ookinlJ :Jor Someone
They are yelling
That they are dying
The whole damn world
Is crying
Save my soul
And make me whole
I'm looking for someone who smiles
Hurt is often spoken
With depression as my token
Reach out to me
Set happiness free
I'm looking for someone who smiles
But happiness only grows
And is nourished by those
Who find joy from within
Then it can be found
In the rest of us around
So the someone I'm seeking is me
I'm looking for someone who smiles
Susan Block
Our friendship is like
the inspiration of a
running stream.
Its content binds the
sentiment of past memories
and future moments in
A constant flow of
never-ending experiences.
Priscilla Sosa
To understand you I must
try to understand what you are
not saying, what you perhaps
will never be able to say.
Debby Szeredy
If love could only sing,
we would produce the supreme song that ever filled the Earth.
If love could only bring
the rains down, we would cause a forty-one day flood.
If love could only write,
we would be the theme of the most beautiful love poem.
If our love could only right
all wrongs, no apologies would ever have to be made.
If love could chase away the blues,
we would be the happiest of all couples.
If love was always true,
I could be loving you now, instead of writing this poem.
Daniel G. Fink
33
34
Cold, still, black night is restless.
Taking life from those who cannot see.
People seeking for a candle,
For a light, in a troubled sea.
In the morning He breaks through the clouds,
All the earth turns to see His Story.
He's not the sun; but the living God,
And the rivers shine forth His Glory.
"Where're my people; where're my children;
Where are they who are mighty and trust.
I've come to gather them,
Who've been strong with a willing must."
The trumpets are shouting;
"Hear the people cry of Glory,
He rises now to warm the dark earth.
Bring full the story!"
As they assembled for the gathering
To make their last stand.
The numbers were uncountable;
Like grains in the sand.
o Lord, I've walked high on your glorious clouds,
But my wings were too weak to keep me there.
Judge me not now I pray,
It just isn't fair.
Seats are full for judgment,
Tears are shown for joy and sorrow.
The day has arrived for all to see,
Many thought would be tomorrow.
Life is too short
to be endless.
We have all heard the call,
"Life does have a true fullness."
(consider it all)
"Where're my people; where're my children;
Where are they who are mighty and trust.
I've come to gather them,
Who've been strong with a willing must."
Now that the Judgment Seat
Is called up for all,
None can escape.
Rich, poor, short, nor the tall.
o Lord, I've walked high on your glorious clouds,
But my wings were too weak to keep me there.
Judge me not now I pray,
It just isn't fair.
As the bridge of eternity breaks,
Mourning is heard from all.
Even from those who've witnessed the full story,
Starting from Lucifer's fall.
Heads are moved all about.
There's no hope for deeds gone;
As fires rage, mixed with God's praise,
For now endless days are drawn.
Warm, moving, bright days are calm,
Giving life to those who can see.
People that find a candle;
On a ship found at sea.
Jerry Perlman
r made the world
With all the land
and all its mountains
and all its valleys
and all its vast minerals.
With all the water
and all its oceans
and all its rivers
and all its springs.
With all the air
and all its wind
and all its breeze
and all its weather.
r alone, fashioned this world
long - long ago.
r am the Triune God of Heaven
And you . . . are loved . . . by Me.
Anonymous
35
Storm
Yath'J Briant
A flame sputtered pathetically in the pouring rain. I nurtured it with
the last of the wet wood and searched the sky for some sign of a let-up. It
had only grown darker.
The two other girls remaining at camp trudged back with armloads of
rainsoaked wood. I fed the fire; it responded little. These efforts were small
comfort in the fierce mountain storm.
"They were fools," I said to myself, "to ever hike out into this weather."
The others stared with vapid expressions into the fire. Finally, Ann
broke the silence.
"It's snowing up on the mountain and they're not back yet."
"They must be caught up there ," my voice trailed off and stuck in
my throat. The awful predicament came down on me. Thunder pealed, the
rain came down harder.
The mountain peak above us was shrouded in clouds. Only that morning
it had seemed innocent in the clear sky, and now it glowered at us, and
rolled with thunder. I shivered uncontrollably as the rain soaked my windbreaker.
I began to pray as the rain came down harder; insistently the icy
daggers pierced my skin. We pleaded with the sky to stop the relentless
deluge, but no, the only answer was the incessant torrent of rain. We
struggled to keep the fire alive.
"You realize, don't you, that we are not prepared for snow?" Kim
raised her voice above the wind.
"Yeh," I offered emptily.
As if in scorn, the wind rose and our fire, our warmth, our hope was
suddenly extinguished.
"The fire!" I panicked. "Kim - Ann, what'll we do?"
Inside the light tent, we huddled together for the only warmth available.
I hardly dared think of the rest of the group. The others were silent,
blankly staring. I opened my mouth to speak, and could not. Numbness
crept over me. Instinctively I moved to ward off the feeling. My limbs
responded sluggishly, but my thoughts raced in frantic confusion....
"Listen," the old bearded man on the trail said to us, "I've heard of
many a tough young man freezin' to death up here. Don't need to be too
cold. All ya' gotta do is get wet. Yep, that's all it takes."
Ann's head dropped to her chest. She toppled over weakly. Kim and I
shook her with what strength we had, but there was nothing we could do.
One by one we each succumbed to the stiff numb darkness that overcame
consciousness. . . .
When I woke, my ears buzzed and I was nauseous. I saw a confused
blur of color, and a faraway voice told me I had been fortunate and to close
my eyes. I drifted off and came back again, and this time everything was
much clearer. My body was stiff within layers of wrappings, and with each
slow breath I. could smell the damp wool.
As I lay on the ground, trying to focus, I could make out the fire ring
close by and the huddled figures bent over it. I knew then the others had
returned, but I tried not to think of it; I tried not to remember. I closed
my eyes to the brightness of the clear blue sky and slept.
36
Within our minds dark clouds exist,
where fear, and gloom, and threat abide.
Lost ... is the power to resist,
foolish acts of senseless pride.
The cloud is dense with vanity,
that may fall freely from below.
Sprinkling thoughts of little sanity,
dousing that which we should know.
Many people never hide,
the JOY of fame and feeling proud.
For if there were not such a pride,
we wouldn't have our darkened clouds.
David A. Devine
I have experienced
the ultimate
in living.
Flight.
A journey of the
physical being
and the soul.
A journey out and beyond
the realm of reality
to become a part of
the primitive heartbeat
of the earth.
A sense of identity-one
of true being.
Finding your basic selfthen
losing it in the beauty
and flow of each flight.
Seeing with new awareness
the details that create the
beautiful scenery that
speeds by below you.
The ultimate experience of life - flight.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
37
Ceade
A white dove lay in my hand. I caress its wings with my fingers. I rub
my cheek on its luxurious soft coat of down. It feels warm as it melts in
my hand. In the dove I see all of God's creatures. The dove pleases me. The
dove is my soul.
I kneel in a thick pasture of green moist grass. It is content with the
hand of the wind as it sways as if alive. And it is content as I kneel to
observe the blueness of the river flowing next to it. The river's silence and
pureness amazes me. My hands break its surface and I feel it try to escape
as I hold it to my face and mouth. I receive it to my skin with a gasp, for
it is cold. The river pleases me. The river is my essence.
In great awe and wonder I gaze at the blue sky. It is forever with me.
I stand and gaze upward. The beauty of the clouds is beholding. Never has
there been such a white! .... Never has there been such a blue! I extend
my arms and hands to the sky. I try to touch it as if it were a river with a
covey of white doves taking rest upon it. I have failed to touch it with my
hands, but I can still touch it with my mind. The sky pleases me. The sky is
my life.
My crying will never cease, for time and man have done me wrong!
In my hand lies a cold dove! An oil-stained dove! A silent dove. At my
feet there is no grass, only concrete! My river ... Oh God my river is
nevermore blue and pure! In my eyes is a gray sky full of man's progress!
In my eyes there are no clouds! In my eyes is a tear. Where is my Soul?
Where is my essence? Where is my life? I am displeased. The things I love
are my death.
Once there was a dream,
Big, white, and soft as a cloud.
It floated from a land of clear skies
and shining promises.
The dream made its way from the sky
down to the soul of its creation,
the earth.
And as the dream was about to become real,
it was touched by man's hand,
and became forever stained.
Michael C. Bebb
38
"I don"t think you can get your part any straighter," Mrs. Selfworth said
as she looked into John's room.
"What was that you said?" John quickly turned his head towards her.
"Oh, nothing.... But you had better hurry up. You don't want to be
late."
"Don't worry. I'm almost ready. I sure hope Christine likes me." John
thought aloud as he put on some cologne.
Mrs. Selfworth hated it when John degraded himself. "Why shouldn't
she like you? You should have more self-confidence."
"I'll say I need more self-confidence. It took me four months to build
up the courage to ask Christine out," John related as he turned out the
light in his room.
"Good-bye, Mom."
"Mother, does this purse look all right?" Christine asked as she held a
purse up to her dress.
"Yes, that does match quite well," Mrs. Value said as she put down her
knitting.
"I wasn't sure of which purse to bring."
"What did you say this boy was named?" Mrs. Value asked.
"His mime is John and he's really super!" Christine dreamed aloud.
"This John really must be something special. I can tell that from the
sparkle in your eyes," Mrs. Value smiled.
"Oh, Mom." Christine blushed a little bit.
"You also seem to be quite nervous."
"Why shouldn't I be? John is so neat and I'm so ordinary. I wonder if
he'll like me. I sure do like him."
Buzzzz.
Christine's eyes opened wide, "That's probably him now."
"Well, why don't you answer the door?" Mrs. Value asked as she got up
so she could greet John.
"Hello, John."
"Hi, Christine. It's nice to see you again. I hope I'm not late." John's
knees were shaking, but Christine didn't notice since hers were also.
"No, you're not late." Christine looked at her watch. He was only ten
minutes early, but Christine did not mention anything. "Oh, John, this is
my mother."
"It's nice I met her. I mean, I'm glad to meet you." John stepped
forward to shake Mrs. Value's hand and messed up the throw rug.
"It's nice to meet you, John. You two have a good time and, please, be
careful." Mrs. Value sensed that John was nervous and figured they had
better be going.
"Good-bye, Mom."
40
John went to open the door a little bit more and got his arm in Christine's
way as she was starting to walk out.
"Excuse me," John said embarrassedly. "Good-bye, Mrs. Value."
They walked out to the car and it only took him 10 minutes to find the
right key. He opened her door, then went around and got in on his side.
They were on their way.
John held both hands on the wheel firmly. "You really look great tonight,"
he said, as he thought she must not like him since she sat so far on
the other side of the car.
"Thank you, you look nice also," Christine replied as she wondered why
John didn't ask her if she wanted to sit closer to him. Maybe he did not
really like her, she thought.
How he wanted to ask her if she wanted to sit by him but he was afraid
she would not want to and would feel embarrassed. They did not talk much
on the ride to the bowling alley.
As John helped Christine out of the car, he put his hand on her back,
but then quickly withdrew it. He thought she might think he was a little
forward.
"I really enjoy bowling," Christine said. But she wasn't really thinking
about bowling. She was wondering why John had moved his hand off her
back so quickly.
"This is really a nice bowling alley. Last time I was here I bowled a
197," John said.
As they walked toward the alley, the conversation continued about
bowling.
They got lane number 24, the last lane.
They went to the desk to pick up their shoes and John asked for an
eleven even though he only wore a ten. Christine got a size seven shoe but
she normally wore a size eight. She felt the discomfort would be better
than for John to think she had big feet.
They went down to their lane and put their shoes on.
"Well, are you ready to look for a ball?" John asked after he finished
tying his shoes.
"Yea, as soon as I set the score sheet on the table." Christine hurried
and set the score sheet down on the desk. "There, I'm ready to find my
lucky ball."
"Oh yes, the good ole lucky ball." John did a quick imitation of W. C.
Fields.
"Hey, that's pretty good. Groucho Marx, isn't it?"
"Oh ... yea, thanks." John smiled as Christine looked at him, then
frowned after she turned her back.
"Here's a pretty good ball." Christine turned to show it to John.
"As Groucho Marx would say, 'Oh yes, the lucky one.''' John still
couldn't figure out why Christine thought his impression was of Groucho
Marx instead of W. C. Fields. "It usually is so hard to find a good ball. I'll
be back in a minute."
"I'll put my ball up in the ball return." Christine walked away to put
her ball up. John went on down the aisle to look for the right ball.
He was testing the thumb sizes on the balls, when one slipped and fell
on the floor making a loud noise. Luckily, Christine was in the lower sec1:
ion and would not see the ball he dropped. He looked at Christine and
saw that she was looking in his direction, wondering what the noise was.
So he quickly turned and looked down the aisle as if he was trying to find
41
out what made the noise, also. After Christine had turned around, he
quickly reached down and picked the ball up. He went on down testing the
balls, this time being more careful, until he finally found one that had the
right holes. He brought the ball and set it on the ball return.
"Did you find a good one?" Christine asked.
"Yea, I should be able to bowl at least a fifty with this one."
"Oh, so high," Christine laughed.
"I sure feel lucky tonight." John wasn't sure if it was luck he felt, but
he knew he felt great being with Christine. "Do you want to go first or
would you like me to go first?"
"Why don't you go first?" Christine wrote his name down first, then
her own.
"The first one will be practice, unless I get a strike." John walked up
and got his ball ready.
"That sounds fair enough." Christine watched him.
John took his four steps and let the ball roll. It looked pretty good. It
hit hard but left three pins up.
"That was pretty good, for openers." Christine looked at him as he
walked back.
"I think the ball went in too straight. It sure is going to be hard to get
all three of these."
"Good luck."
John aimed his ball. It went right at the two pins on the right, knocked
them both down and left the last one up.
"I'm lucky this is practice," John said as he walked back and sat in the
chair next to Christine.
"Well, here goes nothing." Christine lifted her ball and stood on the
floor looking at the pins.
John wondered why Christine had gotten up so quickly when he sat
down next to her. Then he realized it was probably because she had to
bowl then and not that she didn't like him. He looked at her as she got
ready to roll the ball. Her blond hair looked so beautiful, flowing down her
neck and resting on her shoulden and back. John felt like jumping up and
holding her and running his fingers through it. Her golden hair was just a
springboard for her shining brown eyes. If ever John was in love he knew
it was now and that it was with Christine, the girl he noticed four months
ago. He liked her then and as he talked to her at school and got to know
her, he even liked her better. Once he found out she worked at The
Hamburger Palace, he made it his favorite place to eat.
"Look at that, I got eight."
"Hey," John woke up out of his daydream, "that's pretty good. Let's
see if you can't get both the others down with this throw."
"I hope I can." Christine walked up to the dots on the floor. She
thought about how much she cared for John. Then she really did not care
about getting the last two pins down. In fact, it would probably be better
to make sure she missed, she thought. So she rolled the ball to the right of
the two pins, a shot which might otherwise be easy.
"Ah, shucks, I missed." Christine looked upset as she walked back to
the scoring table.
"You came pretty close, actually it might have been ugly close."
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing. Just another bad joke."
42
"Are you sure it was not funny?" Christine asked, kind of upset that
she didn't hear it.
"I'm sure. It wasn't funny." John walked past her as he got up to take
his turn.
As Christine got ready to write down the score, she thought about John
and how he was the type of boy she always dreamed of. With his long
brown hair and neatly trimmed moustache, he looked the way she liked for
a man to look. He was smart, yet he was athletic, also. His good sense of
humor made him really popular with all the girls. She enjoyed it so much
when he would talk to her at school or at her work. She thought he probably
just heard that she wanted to go out with him so he asked her out in
order not to hUrt her feelings. Of course, she could never tell him how much
she thought she loved him. But at least she got one date, she thought.
"Look at that, a strike on my first ball." John walked back, all smiles.
"Wow, that's great." Christine clapped for a little while.
They both went up and down, up and down, taking turns bowling.
Before they knew it, they had bowled three games. John won all three
games.
"Anywhere special you would like to eat?" John asked.
"Anywhere will be fine." Christine didn't really want to suggest a
place. She wanted John to pick.
"Are you sure there's no place special?"
"Really, any place you want to go."
"How about Junior's Country Barn? They have pretty good food."
"That sounds great."
They placed their shoes on the counter, paid, and headed out to the car.
It was a short drive to Junior's. Once they got in, it was not very
crowded. They got a corner table, right away.
After they had ordered their food and gotten comfortable, John reached
over and gently clasped her hand. She looked over at him and gave a cute
smile as only a beautiful blond can. John stared at her brown eyes.
Christine felt so warm inside, just as if it was a cold wintery night and
she was sitting in front of a fireplace. She wondered if maybe John did like
her but yet he did not say anything.
John enjoyed embracing Christine's warm hand. He wondered why
Christine did not move closer to him on the seat. He felt that maybe she
did not enjoy being with him. John felt he had to tell her how he felt, even
if he looked like a fool. He bent his head over to whisper to her.
"Sir, your food is ready." The waitress put the plates down in front
of them.
John let go of Christine's hand. "Thank you," he said. "It sure looks
good," John commented as he looked over at Christine. How he wished he
would have told her how he felt, or at least had kissed her.
The meal was good. As they walked toward the car, John tried to walk
closer to Christine. This time she got in on his side and sat next to him. He
thought she was sitting next to him so as to not hurt his feelings after he
had held her hand. So he didn't reach over to grasp her hand. How Christine
wished he would have. She felt good after he had held her hand in the
restaurant, but now she thought maybe he only did it to make her feel
at ease.
John drove up to her house and turned the car off.
"I really enjoyed being out with you," John said as he looked over at
Christine.
43
"I had a great time." Christine looked deep into his blue eyes.
John wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her good night, but
since he thought she really did not like him, he felt he better not.
"I guess I had better walk you to the door." John opened his door. Then
he helped her out. They walked to the door. Then Christine leaned against
the wall. John put his hand on the wall above her shoulder.
"Well, I'll see you in school, Monday." John could not think of anything
else to say.
"Yea, make sure you talk to me."
"Oh, I will." John wanted to kiss her the way a good-bye kiss ought to
be given, but he still was afraid she didn't like him. So he leaned over and
lightly kissed her lips.
"Good night," John said.
"Good night," Christine said.
Christine went inside and after she had closed the door, went to the
window and looked out as John walked toward his car. She thought of
how much she loved him and how she would have to keep that feeling
inside her since he didn't like her the same way she liked him. She knew
there would not be another date.
John got in his car.
"What a girl," he said to himself. "If only she liked me half as much as
I love her." He really enjoyed this date but was sorry she didn't like him.
He knew this was their first and last date.
Indians once lived off the land here
under fresh blue skies.
Mountains once extended endlessly
near brisk flowing waters.
Animals once roamed freely
in spacious valleys.
Life once lingered freely on sweeping
wisps of wind.
But time caught the wind.
Indians were killed. Skies are stale.
Mountains were cut. Rivers are dead.
Animals were caged. Valleys are buried.
Life moves fast and cluttered on
sweeping wisps of wind.
Time has captured the wind.
David Bauer
44
Fire burning by my side
Shining through my eyes
Teach me your ways of
Bringing warmth and show me
How to keep someone's heart lit.
Debby Szeredy
I hate the slaughter
But I eat the meat.
I like driving a car
But I see the pollution.
Is it my need or
Is it my greed?
My space and place
are confused.
Am I good or
Bad for wanting
nice things?
Lonnie Lane
:Jhe mortar gunner
The jungle is dark, no stars are out.
The wind is a roar, around me men shout.
My rockets sing their message of death to the sky.
Some of us are wounded, many will die.
Now machine guns clatter, tracers rip through the night.
And overhead flares sketch a life and death fight.
Around me everywhere, enemy shells start to fall,
The soft whisper of death has become a loud call.
The air is so still now that hell's night has passed,
For the few who remain the memories will last,
And those who have died, have died without cause.
For on marches death without any pause,
And the world finds no gain from their great sacrifice.
Though history's voice carries, futures heed no advice.
Mike Lee
46
So ...
We meet once again
as friends.
With a casual greeting
and a warm smile
we use for everyone.
It's been some time
and we stumble
over the silence.
We fill in with nervous laughterthe
void that's grown so wide.
We talk once again
as friends.
With light conversation
and superficial phrases
and we ramble on
in such a perfectly friendly way .
my mind begins to wander
my heart to remember ..
my inner soul to cry ..
over the fact
that you could
even want
to forget
1he time in between·
when we were
lovers
instead of friends.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Heather heard me whistling
as I sauntered down the street,
wearing my good soft old jeans,
and walking in bare feet.
Heather wore a frozen smile;
she knew just what to stressthrough
her eyes she said to me,
"A LADY wears a dress."
Shiny shoes and polished nails,
and curls that lie just right:
nylons, earrings, girdles, skirts,
and perfume (very light).
Yes, Heather heard me humming
as I wandered down the road;
Heather saw me and I'm glad
she thought I was a toad.
Michelle
47
I put a penny in the Love Box.
I watched the penny go down
I watched the paper come out
The paper said "Love costs more
than a penny."
So I just walked away.
Isn't there any easier way?
Debby Szeredy
The little child with the tiny bare feet
Lightly skipped down the road
With -the wind in her soft brown hair
It tickled the skin that showed
She wore a lollipop smile, maybe a secret
A thought was on her mind
As she skipped along, she picked a daisy
And left her rose behind
Susan Block
0/ Courde !J'!! Cry
When you go
While you are here
rooms are too full for furniture
and walls are too fragile
to hang portraits on.
While you are here
there are voiceless lullabyes
peace that induces sleep
and love that hurries morning.
While you are here
cups fill with coffee,
eyes fill with understanding
and pillows are shared.
While you are here
clocks race past themselves
stealing pleasure, as might an old widow
from a child poaching marigolds.
Linda Kay Oiler
50
4
Charge On! dawn infantry,
Charge on.
Make silent advances through the
Misty morn.
Stay ever close to the earth, even
To brush the safety of manzanita and
Pinon.
Attack in bands of ever approaching
Warriors.
Now break for the open but beware your
Tall shining helmet plumage.
The element of surprise is necessary.
Not really.
Meadow grass and silent seed don't fear
The coming Quail.
David Bauer
I think of all the hopelessness,
Of all the things I've lost.
They run thru my mind,
As I wonder around,
Trying to untangle my thoughts of you.
You were just trying to
Make up your mind,
But you couldn't tell me,
While you protected something,
That was shattered years ago.
And I couldn't tell you either,
About the truth I knew,
And ruin your false dreams.
We just tried not to lie
And almost succeeded.
Listening to Neil's lost tune,
As reality fades away,
And tears run into reflecting pools
Of bright dark memories,
That are never washed away.
Tom Byrne
51
52
The universe is so vast,
Immeasurable,
My mind cannot comprehend it,
But You made it.
You reached into the sky,
And littered it with stars,
You bound them into galaxies,
And sprinkled them,
Across the heavens.
Each star emits Your message,
Each planet portrays Your majesty,
Each galaxy shines with the presence of God,
And the universe gleams with Your glory.
Ah!
Your presence, God,
It never ends.
Like the universe,
It's infinite,
Its measure is unbounded space,
Oh, how greatly You've illustrated,
Your infinity.
Anna Gaffney
Children are a blessing
They are jewels in disguise
They are mother nature's daisies
They are their parents' priceless prize
Children are your pass-me-downs
Of you and all you learned
They're made up of all your love
And all of what you earned
Children are imaginative
With dreams beyond all dreams
They're full of curiosity
And lots of foolish schemes
There is not a single word
That so justly can express
Children are what you once were
And now your happiness
Susan Block
..
The Traveler committee thanks everyone who submitted
poetry, prose, photography, music, and artwork for consideration
in this year's creative arts magazine.
We greatly appreciate the many pieces submitted, each
one a noticeable creative expression in itself. We are very
proud of this year's magazine, and feel it is worthy to bear
the name of Glendale Community College. It has been a
pleasure to work on The Traveler staff, but we never could
have produced such a unique magazine without you - the
Glendale College students who write, draw, or take photographs
to share your deepest emotions with other people.
The Traveler staff, composed of Glendale College students,
had to choose from over 300 submitted entries. We
hope that each writer and artist - whether published or not
- will continue to express ideas on paper and submit more
material for next year's issue. We also invite you to be a
part of next year's staff.
The Editors
Editors and staff pictured standing are (left to right) Daniel G. Fink
and Vivian Baker. Seated (left to right) are Calmen Chu, Karen
Melot and Kathy Briant. Not in photo is Richard Miller.
(Photo by Sharon Wertz)
