"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1978

              "'~
A Creative Arts Magazine
e
raveer Glendale Community College Creative Arts Magazine
Spring 1978
EDITOR
Daniel G. Fink
STAFF
Kathleen A. Briant
George Daugherty
Joan L. Klein
Kilian Earl Roever
Linda e Romer
Michael M. Sebring
Mike Souders
Marguerite Heltames
COVER
Jacque Hayes
6000 v
Glendale, Arizona 85302
ADVISORS
Conrad Bayley
Marilyn L. Schiedat
Tom Brazie
Tom Detrie
Volume 11
© The Traveler, G.ee, 1978
Contributors
Art and Photography
Berry, LaVerne 5, 32
Briant, Kathy 28, 29
Clayman, Steven 46, 61
Klein, Joan 27
Peddle, Robert 37
Rhodes, Marion B. 34,43
Sieve, Jerry 11, 59
Wolfson, Stephen 15
Zitlau, Bob, Jr. . 19,21, 50
Poetry
Abney, Sofia I. 51
Antinoro, Flo 22, 62
Barker, Wendy 10
Bauer, David 6,7,14,27,30
Beckley, Bob 4, 13,47,63
Berry, LaVerne 7,32,45
Branham, Cynthia L. 28, 29
Brooks, Donna M 34
Byrne, Tom 44
Causer, Kay 6
Clayman, Steven 20
Duncan, Linda S. . 42, 49
Ehrlich, Helen 31, 46, 48, 58
Francisco, Richard 6, 20, 44, 52
Griffin, Jeanne 34, 35
Hall, Terry 51, 52
Janowicz, Bill 45
Lalo, B. A. . 21, 26, 31, 58
Langlois, Diane M. . 37
Lastrapes, Odessa Roane 7,47,64
McNevins, Dixie 35
Maxson, Paul 30
2
Merritt, Gary 27
Rice, Joan 63, 64
Romer, Linda 31, 34, 36, 60
Spilos, Dean 58
Traeger, Mary V. 11,21,36,51, 52
Wilkinson, Peggy 22
Prose
Baker, Vivian Parmerlee 38
Barbera, Barbara 8
Causer, Kay 12, 23
Hall, Terry 64
Lewis, Clea D. . 16
Mennuti, Gaynelle 53
Awards
Art
Robert Peddle 1st Place
Steven Clayman 2nd Place
Cover
Jacque Hayes
Photography
LaVerne Berry 1st Place
Jerry Sieve 2nd Place
Bob Zitlau, Jr. . 3rd Place
Poetry
David Bauer 1st Place
Mary V. Traeger 2nd Place
Helen Ehrlich 3rd Place
Prose
Vivian Parmerlee Baker 1st Place
Gaynelle Mennuti 2nd Place
Kay Causer 3rd Place
3
4
Time To Begin
Running hard down boulevards, always on the lam
Six-gun shooting, high faluting, you love to play the ham
The girls adore you, but they bore you
To you they're just a game
Your dreams have faded, your mind is jaded
Everything's the same
But have you ever tried to open your heart?
Have you ever looked within?
Have you taken time to love yourself?
It's time to begin
The street's your home, you've got no phone
Your lungs they do just fine
But after all, there's no one to call, your friends are
doing time
And though you're young you've been stung
More times than many men
Hard-core user, three-time loser, you've done it all
my friend
But have you ever tried to open you heart?
Have you ever looked within?
Have you taken time to love yourself?
It's time to begin
You're by yourself on a dusty shelf in a clouded dream
Sometimes at night your skin gets tight
You feel like you want to scream
You want to shout, want to get out
But you don't know where to go
There's only one place to find your face
There's just one place to go
Have you ever tried to open your heart?
Have you ever looked within?
Have you taken time to love yourself?
It's time to begin
Have you taken time to love yourself?
It's time to begin
Bob Beckley
I Met A Construction Site Cottontail
I met a construction site cottontail
my headlights sighted a figure frozen still
on the edge of an inner city acre
How does a timid country creature
find even a scant of lettuce (even a carrot)
on this hammered and zoned only for people place period.
Escape? The freeway leads out to a woodland.
You could make it.
Escape! This project is due the first of March.
And you've done so well to stay alive this long
dodging blades and escaping from the neighborhood
boys and their slingshots.
Please Run. Run.
Head east.
Leave at two a.m.
Gather your senses first and try not to dart
Stay on the sidewalks and there is water in our
sprinklers
At one four six West Shumway there will be some
fresh greens behind the hedge.
Pause there, by then your tiny heart will be
beating fast
and as you continue your flight
think only of the endless briarbush
and hazelwood awaiting you.
David Bauer
Enough
It is indeed cruel that Fate only gave us one life.
Everyday, I wish I could live that day
in a million different ways
A million different chances;
But I can't
I have only one day
and chance for it -
And it is the same for a lifetime.
We should be grateful for that handicap
and not disappointed.
For one life's pain and pleasure
is only what we can endure.
Richard Francisco
6
Desert Rain
Stately, prickly, reaching spires.
Hot sand.
Waterless rivers. Small, scurrying things.
Quiet.
Angry air. Whirling dust. Brown vista.
Clear, sharp scent of wet somewhere.
Coming closer.
Bruised sky. A first moist kiss.
Ping. Plop.
The metal awning sings.
Kay Causer
Airborne
Spanish moss, breeze waft,
Home on bough of sturdy oak,
Tendrils out to sky.
Odessa Roane Lastrapes
Cromer's Crick
Like golden drops of rain
you were there
but only for a short span
after which you vanished
into the cold morning dew
leaving only a faded memory
Never to be seen again
by anyone but me.
LaVerne Berry
This summer's night, the school yards still
me and the boys know the joys of living on the edge of town
cause at night when our sleeping bags are taking in a cold dew
underneath the Olsen's crabapple trees we grab some stalks of my
rna's rhubarb and dream of the summer before us
after the streetlights blink on and when no more does the tin
can rattle from our laughing, stumbling kicks
and Scott finally says "it's time"
we head east across Craw's field; danein' on dirt clods.
a cool wind bumps the stars "that's why they move" he sez
venturing out, half country boys to go-a-crawdad searchin' by
moonlight
as we get settled just right over the water
so's the reflection lights up the slippery carpet
of moss
and when a crawdad leaps out from his rock we net 'em
then we mostly measure 'em against the sky
or a canteen
and all the way home me and the boys talk on
why the leaves blow by
and
how
that
crawdad
must'a
loved it
when we
placed
him
back so
gently to
the cool
summer waters
of Cromer's Crick.
David Bauer
7
The Cream Always Rises To The Top
Barbara Barbera
I know I shouldn't have done that, Earl said to himself as he carried the milk
can down the steps, but those two old biddies have given me nothing but trouble
ever since I took this route.
He set the can in the wagon and stepped in as Sally took off at a step-and­fetch-
it pace. As soon as I get back to the dairy farm I'd better go in and tell Mr.
Cartwright what I did before the Horton sisters rush down there to complain. He
knew Edna and Esse had nothing better to do than to run around town and cause
trouble.
As the milk wagon rounded the next corner there was little Jimmie Brown
waiting on the doorstep. "Hi, Mr. Anderson," shouted Jimmie, "Mamma wants
two milks - can I ride in the wagon today?"
"Sure, sonny, as soon as I pour the milk for your mother you can ride to the
corner," replied Earl.
Earl carried the milk can into the Brown's kitchen, said good morning to Ella
and they discussed the weather while he measured out two quarts of milk and
collected the tickets. When he got back to the wagon Jimmie was in the seat
trying to get Sally to giddiup. Sally couldn't be persuaded to move until she
heard Earl get in and set the milk can down. At the corner, Earl lifted Jimmie to
the ground and told him to scoot right home and said he'd see him on Thursday.
"Okey Dokey, Mr. Anderson, I'll be waitin' for ya," he said, as he started off down
the road as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.
When Earl got to Martha's house on Grove Street, Martha asked if he would
mind dropping off a package at Sarah's on his way. Martha had finished the quilt
for the church bazaar but wouldn't be able to go because she was "down in the
back again" and Sarah had offered to take it to the church for her. The little box,
Martha told him, he was to give to Lovina for the baby they were expecting any
day now. "I'll bet you hope it's a girl this time, what with three boys already ... "
When Sally stopped in front of the Walker's, Earl could smell the freshly
baked bread. Helen Walker invited him to sit a spell and have a cinnamon roll
that just came from the oven. He thanked her and told her he'd better get along to
the dairy farm, but he didn't let her know how he dreaded telling Cartwright
about what he'd done. Helen wrapped a loaf of bread and urged him to take it
along for his family. As he went down the steps she called after him to inquire
about the youngsters knowing that Chuckie had been ailing the week before.
"He's much better," he called over his shoulder as he went down the path, "and
thanks for the bread."
As they ambled down Rose Lane, Lucy and Mary Louise waited in the
middle of the road to give Sally a piece of carrot from their lunch box. "See my
new dress, Mr. Anderson?" Lucy said.
"Hey now, that's pretty spiffy," Earl replied. Mary Louise inquired if Chuck
would be back in school today because Mrs. Larson, their teacher, said he was
getting too far behind in his work.
Sally knew the route as well as Earl did, so he never had to tell her when to
go or where to stop. When a new family moved in he would take the milk can
from the wagon, and whistling a snappy tune, he would walk directly into the
kitchen as though he did it every day. Then, of course, he'd apologize and tell
8
them he always delivered milk to the previous tenants and had forgotten they
had moved. After getting acquainted and chatting for awhile he would insist on
leaving some milk. No, he wouldn't let them pay because he shouldn't have
come busting into their place the way he did. Sam, over at the other dairy farm,
never did figure out how Cartwright got most of the new people in town as
customers.
When he got to Harper's place on Three Oaks, there was no one home so he
measured milk into the pitcher that was sitting on the sideboard, tore off a ticket
and put the milk in the ice box. He went back to the wagon to get the package and
put the quilt on the day bed in the dining room. On his way out he stopped to pet
old Shep, who was lying on the back porch. Shep unceremoniously escorted him
to the wagon, sniffed Sally's heels as if to say hello and ambled back to the shade
of the oak tree and flopped down.
After all the deliveries were made, Earl usually sat and dozed while Sally
pulled the wagon back to the farm. He had to get up at four to be there in time to
help with the milking so he appreciated the chance to sleep for awhile. Today,
however, he didn't feel too much like sleeping because he was worried about
how he was going to tell Mr. Cartwright about his hellish prank. I hope I don't
lose my job, he thought, now that jobs are getting so hard to find. The boys will
need winter coats soon and with another baby on the way I can't afford to be
without work. Nevertheless, he couldn't help snicker when he visualized the
look on Edna's and Esse's faces when they got home and walked into their
kitchen.
As Sally pulled the wagon into the gate at the dairy farm, Charlie came out of
the barn and hollered, "Hey, Andy, Edna and Esse just left here mad as wet hens
and Mr. Cartwright wants to see you right now, if not sooner."
Oh, damn, thought Earl, they didn't waste any time getting here, wish I
could have broken it to him first. Well, I'd better go in and get it over with. He
jumped out of the wagon and let Sally go on to the barn. He would unhitch her
later.
Mr. Cartwright was a wonderful boss, always concerned about Earl's kids
and the Mrs. He always gave all his men a Christmas bonus and was just an
all around good guy. Ned Cartwright weighed around 250 pounds, and when he
laughed, he laughed all over. But Earl was afraid he wasn't laughing right now.
As he went up onto the porch Liz Cartwright called "Hi, Earl, Ned's in his
office, go on in."
As he walked into the house he heard Ned holler, "Earl, get in here." Ned
was getting up from his desk as Earl entered and said, "Those two old battleaxes
have done more griping than anyone else in town. They were in here a few
minutes ago and said they're gonna git their milk from Sam from now on. Sit
down and tell me what happened."
Earl thought, I guess this is it, as he sat down on the edge of the chair. "Well, I
just couldn't please 'em." he said. "One would tell me not to knock cause she
didn't want to be bothered if she was busy and then the other'ern bawl me out if!
did walk in. If I carried in a blade of grass they'd holler that I was messin' up their
floors. "
"Ya, Liz says their floors are clean enough to eat on," remarked Ned.
"Most of the time after I lugged that heavy can up all those stairs they'd only
take a pint and then I'd have to wait while they looked all over the house for their
tickets." Earl went on, "then I'd tell them, never mind, I'd get the ticket next
time."
"How much do they owe?" asked Ned.
9
"Oh, I suppose seventy-five cents or a dollar. I didn't write it down cause I
figured I'd never collect it anyway." Earl continued, "One time they didn't put
anything out for milk when they were gone, so Ifigured they didn't want any and
then they griped because I didn't get a pitcher outof the cupboard. Hell, I never
knew what they wanted. So today when I got there - they had the ladies' circle
meeting there yesterday - and all those cups, I guess a couple dozen, were sittin'
on the sideboard so I just filled every damn one of them. That's all."
"When they were in here awhile ago, they were raving so I couldn't make
heads or tails of what they were blabbering about, but this beats all," Ned said as
the corners of his eyes started to wrinkle. "Wish I coulda seen the look on their
faces," he added as he burst out laughing. "Yes, sir, I should aughta warn Sam
that he is going to have a new customer- but heck, let him find out like I did."
Mr. Cartwright walked around the desk and opened the drawer as he said,
"Here, Andy, have a ce-gar. This is the best news I've had all day. Why don't you
take the rest of the day offand I'll have Charlie take care of Sally? When you come
in Monday I want you to change routes with Red, old man Simmons has been
getting pretty crabby lately ... "
Upon Reflection
I like to stand back
and look at life
from an aloof and superior plane.
I like to consider
my immeasurable fund
of superior wit, which I unashamedly admit
it took days to attain.
I like to stand back
and curl a lip
in an amused, mildly cynical sneer
and reflect upon the foibles
(without being involved)
and the struggles of those, who would dare to suppose,
to attain my loftier sphere.
I enjoy immensely,
(when I allot me the time ­my
time I let nobody waste)
to clinically watch
the humdrum bore
of plebian strife, that passes for life,
for which, Thank God, I've no taste.
It never occurs
indeed why should it,
to think that there's something I missed;
but upon occasion,
I have to admit
in their happy eyes, they've got the best lives
while mine's not all that I wished.
10
Wendy Barker
A Moment In Time
Talking water
Tireless water
Tumbles down the hill
Over boulders
Limestone boulders
To the rushing rill.
Current chases
Over faces
Of embedded rocks.
Mighty molder
Flaws each boulder
Outwardly with pocks.
Twigs and branches
Take their chances
Sliding down the falls.
Sticks upended,
Caught, suspended,
Line the rocky walls.
Water flowing
Downward going
Scenery sublime.
Splendid setting,
Past forgetting,
Pictured for all time.
Mary ~ Traeger
11
Conversation In Graffiti
Kay Causer
In the third stall on the left in the women's rest room of the building where I
work, someone made a sad and poignant plea. In neat, round handwriting with
even margins and a fairly sharp pencil she wrote, "Will someone please love me.
I am so lonely and no one cares."
It sent shivers through me when I first saw it. I wanted to reach out to her. I
felt that I should say, "I care." But, that seemed hypocritical. I didn't even know
her.. How could I make a commitment to someone I didn't even know? And ... I
don't write on bathroom walls.
I watched and waited to see if anyone else would respond. Several weeks
went by and no one answered. If she were as desperately unhappy as she
sounded, I thought, she might commit suicide. Possibly the final straw would be
the silence following her pitiful appeal. But ... I never write on bathroom walls.
Finally, a black ballpoint pen with small, irregular penmanship wrote a
lengthy response. "Don't despair, my dear. God loves you. The Bible tells us that
God loves us so much he counts the hairs on our heads. Read the Gospel of John.
You will know that God's love is better than any that you could get from another
person. Bless you."
At last a response. Although I hoped it would give her some peace, I reacted
with slight irritation as I often do when people retreat behind their God when
human aid and comfort are needed. But, of course, I don't write on bathroom
walls so I said nothing.
Almost immediately another comment appeared. A blue felt-tip pen in bold
print said, "GOD, HELL! IF THERE'S A GOD AND HE LOVES HER, SHE
WOULDN'T BE IN THAT SHAPE IN THE FIRST PLACE. SHE NEEDS A MAN.
THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE LOVE OF A GOOD MAN. DON'T BE PICKY,
HONEY. THERE ARE PLENTY OF MEN WHO WOULD LOVE TO LOVE YOU.
TRY MR. MEANIE'S ON SATURDAY NIGHT. LOTS OF SINGLES ACTION
THERE. GOOD LUCK!"
Well, I thought, maybe that's her answer. But, it sounded like a good way to
experience another kind of hurt, particularly for someone as vulnerable as she
sounded.
At least it was from someone who cared enough to write on a bathroom wall.
The black ballpoint returned. "Oh ye of little faith. Heed not the temptations
presented before thee by the Devil. God is love! Seek and ye shall find."
A few days later a new opinion was expressed by another pencil, less sharp
and in a hurried hand with the n's hardly more than wavy lines. It wrote as if by
writing quickly, it would lay the matter to rest once and for all.
"Leave the poor girl alone with your Bible quotations. No one has heard
from your God for so long, smart people have given up waiting. If He's alive and
well, where the Hell is He hiding?"
I felt like responding, "Amen." But, I don't write on walls and ... the word
seemed incongruous.
To another writer the latest note couldn't go unavenged. A red felt-tip
showed Christian charity for the most recent writer but ignored the original lost
sheep. "Forgive her, Lord. She knows not what she says. Girl- get down on your
knees and ask forgiveness for your weakness. Repent. Be saved!"
12
Too much. Too much. A blue fineline seemed to think all previous authors
had missed the boat. In a patchwork of cursive and slanted printing it wrote,
"God has nothing to do with it and what good is a man if you're not living in a
healthy body. Depression can be caused by poor nutrition. Take Lecithin and
massive doses of E. Eat kelp and wheat germ. You'll be 100% if you follow my
advice."
"100% what? Bullshit?" asked an angry red pencil.
. The exchanges fascinated me and I wondered what she was thinking of it all.
As I observed the office workers coming and going, I tried to imagine which was
the blue felt-tip (all caps) and who was the blunt pencil. Who were the others,
especially the sharp pencil that wrote in round letters within neat margins?
Who was she? Did she find someone who cared? Did the writings on the
wall help her?
Better Things Will Come
The little boy has played all day and run throughout the park
He knows he should be going home because it's almost dark
His mother's often told him that he must obey
Soon he'll be a bigger boy with bigger games to play
Give it life, keep it whole, drive the darkness from your soul
For tomorrow is a new day, and better things will come
Better things will come
The man is walking home 'cause he missed the evening train
He knows his wife is waiting and she'll be mad again
As he walks he wonders how it all went wrong
He wishes he were young again and sang a happy song
Give it life, keep it whole, drive the darkness from your soul
For tomorrow is a new day, and better things will come
Better things will come
The old man takes the same bench each day at six a.m.
There's no one in his life whom he can call his friend
So he feeds the pigeons on the grass and they take to the air
His thoughts go winging with them as he sinks to despair
Give it life, keep it whole, drive the darkness from your soul
For tomorrow is a new day, and better things will come
Better things will come
Tomorrow is a new day, and better things will come.
Bob Beckley
13
14
There's Life in a Wash
I.
The snow, low slung like saddles upon the sandstone
and the patches of snow set wet, cooling lattice work
upon cactus spines, brag of a winter
Twitching, flexing shiny-back lizards and three prong
etches upon the slowly swirling slowly dripping ground
quail tracks scattered, hint of high desert spring
But I say neither, simply the season of mud, as my boots
become caked with the glorious stuff
There's life in a wash, wedged here between the hard red
mountains and the close, endless skies of buffed turquoise
II.
There the descending sands, there the arroyo the wash enters
the scene, funnel of rainwashed twigs, turning, following
the way to mountain, to lower, to desert
there's life in a wash, in the deep
down
under
where immovable boulders move.
III.
Were it night, dark upon the desert, the owl might be winging
here with a silent silk-on-air "whop whop" sound, a
hovering shadow above the high wall passage,
and if a fine moon shone like a lantern of a passing ship,
far above the jagged rock-ship,
the night runners would follow this craggy highway up to a
ledge nearer the moon
or
down
in search of rabbits
leaving only paw marks
and but the memories of
their impassioned verbal pleaing
IV.
There's life in a wash in the deep down under
where
immovable
boulders
move.
David Bauer
Evy's Christmas Prayer
Clea D. Lewis
The savory aroma of pumpkin pie cooling, soup stock simmering and
chocolate cooking filled the rooms of the McAnally's house.
"Doesn't Christmas smell good'" Evy exclaimed as she carefully placed a
silver foil star atop the three-foot pine tree which rested on a sheet-covered
orange crate. The crate raised the tree to window height, making it appear taller
when viewed from outside the front window of the small frame house.
Evy's sixteen-year-old brother, Kevin, sat across the room in a white
ladder-back chair, feet propped against the large pot-bellied stove which
warmed the house. "You know something, Punkin, that runt of a tree doesn't
look half bad with those beautiful decorations you made," Kevin said.
Evy stepped back from the tree. Arms akimbo and her tiny cherub lips
pursed, she examined her creation. "This is going to be our very best Christmas
even if we couldn't have a big tree," she told Kevin.
"You said that last year, Evy."
"Last year was the best, but this year will be even better," she said, her back
straight and her curly red head tilted smugly, "cause I'll be seven years old."
Christmas had a special meaning for Evy. Not only was she born on Christ­mas
Eve, but it was also her namesake. A delicately boned child, smaller than
most girls her age, Evy was often mistaken for being younger than her age. This
she considered a grave insult. However, she always remembered her Grandma
McAnally, who in seventy years never grew past five feet, telling her that each
year whether your body grew or not, your mind continued growing in wisdom.
Knowing that like Grandma McAnally she might never add many inches to her
body, Evy became obsessed with adding numbers to her age and wisdom to her
mind.
Outside the front window tiny snowflakes floated through the air.
"Oh, Kevin, look, look," Evy cried and pulled him away from the stove and
toward the window. "It's snowing. Three more days 'til Christmas, and snow.
Oh, it will be the best Christmas ever, Kevin, it will'"
The shrill whistle of the Coville Number Ten mine where Mr. McAnally
worked interrupted Evy's jubilance. Kevin's lean body stiffened and his eye­brows
lowered, wrinkling his broad forehead.
"It's just the lunch whistle," Evy reassured him, but as the words flowed
from her mouth she remembered just having breakfast.
"Kevin," their mother called from the kitchen, "I'm going down to the
store."
Evy followed Kevin into the kitchen. Her mother had taken offher apron and
was exchanging it for a brown woolen coat on the wall hanger next to the back
door.
"But Mom, I ... I can go," Kevin said.
"No, I have to go myself. Besides it may be nothing and I could use some
more flour."
Evy sensed anxiety in her mother's too-calm voice. She also knew there were
three bags of flour in the cupboard. "Mommie, what's wrong?"
"Nothing to concern yourself with, dear. Just mind Kevin for me." She
kissed Evy's cheek then exited out the kitchen door.
16
I'm seven years old, almost, Evy thought, but she still thinks I'm a baby.
Maybe Kevin will tell me what's wrong. "Kevin, why did Momma go to the
store?" she asked.
"To get some flour. Now stop asking silly questions and we'll go out in the
snow."
Evy, eager to play in the new fallen snow, put on her coat, leggings and
galoshes; however, she did not forget the mine whistle or her mother's sudden
trip to the village store. ''I'll find out," she said out loud as she and Kevin
descended the back steps to the yard.
"Find out what?" Kevin asked.
"Nothing to concern yourself with," she said, mocking her mother's words.
The snow was falling softly to the ground like flour through a sieve. Evy
held out her hands and let it glide through her fingers. "Oh, it's so beautiful,
Kevin. Can we make a snowman?"
"There isn't enough yet," Kevin said.
"Come on," Evy said, tugging at the corner of his red plaid jacket. "I bet
there's some drifts out by the coal pile."
Kevin didn't budge. His eyes were fixed on the slim figure of a girl coming
up the lane adjacent to the McAnally's yard.
Carla Patterson. Why did she have to come by, Evy thought. Kevin doesn't
even hear me when she's around.
Kevin waved and started across the yard. Evy tagged behind. The girl left the
path and sauntered toward the picket fence which separated the lane from the
yard.
"Isn't the snow pretty," she shook her head slightly, powdering her shoul-ders
with white flakes from her blond ponytail.
"Not as pretty as you," Kevin said and lowered his head.
"You're just teasing me, Kevin McAnally," the girl said.
"You're just teasing me," Evy mocked, but no one heard.
"I mean it, honest I do," Kevin said staring at the ground and shuffling his
boots in the thin layer of snow. For a moment he was wordless.
"Why do you think they blew the mine whistle so early this morning?" Carla
asked, relieving his awkwardness.
"I don't know. Mom went down to the store. Maybe she'll find out some­thing."
"Evan got on last week," Carla said.
"Wondered why I hadn't seen him around. Sure hope I can get on after
graduation next spring. Mom doesn't want me to, but there's nothing to do
around here but the mine."
"So her big brother gota job at the mine. Who cares," Evy said to herself. She
knew to get Kevin's attention from Carla was as hopeless as getting A's in
spelling. She pivoted her heels, then trudged up the yard toward the house,
kicking the snow. That's when she saw it. Next to the house in an old coal bucket
was enough snow to make a giant snowball. She pressed the snow together as
hard as she could, the cold stinging her hands through her knitted gloves.
"Wanta have a snowball fight?" she yelled and aimed the cold mass at the
. pretty girl's head. Carla turned, but not swift enough to dodge the whirling white
ball which burst off her ear like a shooting star on the Fourth of July.
"Oh, you little brat," Carla pulled her knitted muffler over her scarlet ear.
"Kevin McAnally, next time you want to talk to me see that she isn't around."
She held the muffler with her left hand and pointed the index finger of her
shaking right hand at Evy.
"I ... I'm sure, Carla, she didn't mean to hurt you," Kevin apologized.
17
"Just keep her away from me," Carla said, then turned and stomped down
the lane.
"I'm sorry, Kevin, really I am," Evy said, forcing tears to her eyes. "I only
meant to hit her coat, it just went too high. Don't be mad, Kevin, please."
"It's alright, Punkin. Don't cry. She'll get over it. Let's go in and get warmed
up." Before he opened the kitchen door, Kevin glanced over his shoulder in the
direction ofthe store. "I wish Mom would get back," he said more to himself than
Evy.
Kevin pulled the wet galoshes from Evy's feet. "Now go in to the stove and
get warm."
"All right," Evy answered, and dragged her cold body to the living room.
She pulled her small wooden rocker to the edge of the stove board and placed her
cold stockinged feet against the chrome trim which encircled the belly of the big
stove. The dry heat warmed her flesh to the bone, giving her a feeling of security
and protection from the outside world.
She sat tracing with her toes the intricate curves and designs engraved in the
metal until her concentration was broken by the squeaking of the back door. She
turned her attention to the kitchen. Her mother's words were muffled but she did
hear Kevin say, "five men" and "not Dad." Probably a layoff, she thought. She
didn't know what that meant, but she did know that her mother was always
relieved when her daddy's name was not on the list. Now maybe everyone will
cheer up, she thought, and resumed tracing the patterns on the stove.
That afternoon Mrs. McAnally worked in the kitchen and the aromas of
cinnamon, nutmeg, and chocolate mingled with the clean smell of the pine tree;
however, a heavy silence replaced the lighthearted sounds ofthe morning. Kevin
sat with a book, seldom turning the pages. He's probably worrying about that
snooty Carla Patterson, Evy thought, and secretly hoped Carla was angry enough
to stay away from Kevin forever.
Evy passed the afternoon packing small boxes with succulent fruits and her
mother's sweet bread for their elderly relatives and neighbors. She finished the
last one and cleaned the table for supper.
"Only three, dear," her mother said when Evy began setting the plates.
"Where's Daddy?" Evy asked.
"They had some extra work for your father at the mine," her mother
answered, than glanced at Kevin, who had just entered the kitchen. Evy knew the
look meant for Kevin to keep silent and let her mother do the talking.
At the usual hour of six o'clock, the three sat down to the evening meal. Mrs.
McAnally thanked the Lord for their many gifts and asked his blessings upon
their food, but just as Evy began to raise her head, Mrs. McAnally added "and be
with our neighbors in this dark hour. Amen."
"In this dark hour." The words swam across Evy's mind. Where had she
heard them? When? She couldn't remember. Everything, she thought, it so
mixed up today. The mine whistle, daddy not coming home, and now those
words. She didn't understand, and it angered her thatno one would tell her.
"Evy, that's enough," her mother's voice brought Evy's mind back to the
supper table and the pile of crackers she had crumpled in her soup. ''I'll eat it
Momma, I like crackers," Evy said, and forced a spoonful toward her mouth.
"That's all right, dear," her mother said. Evy knew her mother's mind was
elsewhere. Another time she would have lectured on the sin of wastefulness and
children starving in China.
After supper, Evy decided no one was going to tell her anything, so she
might as well go to bed. She kissed her mother and Kevin goodnight, then
skipped up the three steps to her small bedroom which sat a few feet above and
behind the kitchen. She drifted to sleep pieces of the day floating across her
mind like the snow.
18
Sometime during the night she awoke and heard her father and mother
talking. She wrapped herself in her pink flannel robe, slipped from the bed and
started down the steps to the kitchen. Her mother's voice was shaky, she was
crying. Evy stopped on the last step and stood motionless against the stairwalI.
"They found all five," her father said, "but it was too late for Evan Patterson,
the gas from the explosion killed him."
"The poor Patterson family, a coffin in place of a Christmas tree. Oh God, I
hate that mine," Mrs. McAnally cried.
Evy crept back to her bed and wrapped a quilt around her tiny body. Those
words. The memory returned as if it were yesterday. The end of her fourth
summer. Mount Pleasant cemetery. Grandma McAnally was buried amidst the
dying trees.
Reverend Burns stood erect in front of the grave, his black trousers swirling
around his legs with the dried autumn leaves, his hair white as the snow bobbing
like a chicken's comb as he bowed his head: "Lord, be with her family in this
dark hour. For the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."
Evy remembered the pain and loneliness of death, and her little heart filled
with compassion for the Patterson family. She stared out the window at the snow
glistening like diamonds under a fuJI moon and marveled at the God who created
such beauty, the God who could give life and take life away.
"Dear Lord," she prayed, "I don't quite understand why people die, but
Momma says it's part of your cycle like the leaves dying in the fall, and just like
we miss the warm summer, we miss people we love when they die. She says we
should be extra specially nice to people when someone they love dies, like when
everyone brought food when Grandma died. So do you think, Lord, it might help
if I fixed a Christmas box for Carla. This morning I hit her on purpose, Lord, but
I'm sorry, real sorry. I know how important brothers are and I know Carla's gonna
miss Evan a lot so I promise to share Kevin with her from now on. Amen.
19
For Want of Existence
Without pity or hope,
Without justification,
It waits for us all:
The final transition.
It lurks in each footstep
Like a shadow from Hell;
That it will strike is certain,
When, no man can tell.
Its methods are many
And it won't be appeased
Till the last body has fallen,
The last spark has been seized.
As we strive for some meaning
The injustice is clear,
So we do what we must
And we shed not a tear.
All efforts to conquer
Have ended in naught,
So, with no other choice,
Acceptance we're taught.
While acceptance shrinks fear,
We are caught in the juggle
Of the marching of death
In the wake of man's struggle.
Steven Clayman
20
Building
Like a house
a person's life is built
from the ground up.
How can an engineer
begin his project
without the blueprints?
He must know
how the house will look
when completed
however long that takes;
and he must know
the stresses -
the strengths
and weaknesses
of the frame.
The house will need
a foundation
before any construction
begins
To be rested upon.
It must be made of the
hardest concrete
in order to last
a lifetime.
But too often
the engineer forgets
about the Earth
beneath the foundation
The Bedrock.
If it is not made of
the strongest
and most pliable rock
in the universe -
A fault might crack in it
and a quake of distress
may collapse
the entire structure
even though
what rested upon it
was so sturdy
and beautiful.
Richard Francisco
The Old Stone Wall
The bricks have stood the test of time.
They're weathered, pocked and bleak,
But yet they hold the vines aloft,
A cover birds can seek.
Along the wall the flower beds
Surrender to decay,
But bees and bugs and butterflies
I see there ev'ry day.
The wall of stone is ten feet high
Encompassing my world.
I cling to life the way the vines
Around that wall have curled.
And now I sit beside the wall,
The vines and frowzy flowers,
Enjoying age - a peaceful time ­Within
my sunset hours.
Mary V. Traeger
A man is not
what he says he is,
A man is the person
he is,
The way he lives.
The way he chooses to live.
A man is how he speaks,
And
How he stands behind
those phrases,
With a certainty that
is unshakeable.
A man is how tall
he towers,
Not in height,
But in his convictions.
His strength,
not derived from brawn,
But in his willingness
to accept burdens
and not bow his shoulders
under its weight.
B.A. Lalo 21
Owed to TV
tue you a medium of mediocrity,
Image possessed,
Hypnotizing guardian with
Cunning commercials,
Missiles fired at children;
Modern melodramas having
Whitewashed plots in
An ocean of bathos ­Gossipy
chronicles of
Turkeys by hams
Pitchers of blood spilli
ng;
Contests of cupidity;
Intrusive newshawks
With puissant opinions,
National nuisances overexposed,
Spouting degrading drivel,
Yule ball games,
Fomenter of clans,
Divider of turtledoves;
Or an adder of c u It U r e
With visual trickery
For hours spent in Lethe; An
Entertaining educator;
E n ch an e d carp e . h
t twit a
Window on the universe;
Theatre in the home with
Distinguished drama and
Artistic inspiration as
Reality retreats;
Informational antidote;
Binoculared spectator
Closing in on scrimmages;
Slaker of appetites for
Guffaws and tears;
Number of imagination,
Replacer of participation?
Dial for the answer.
Peggy Wilkinson
22
College
"College" is a concrete noun,
An education booster, if yours is down.
Enter and embark on a great learning spree,
Fulfill the requirements and earn a degree.
Supreme knowledge is yours
Through academic doors
In stimulating classes
Appealing to masses
Of personalities various
(gregarious, contrarious).
You can converse intellectually,
Irrelevantly or sexually
With vets on the "bill,"
Housewives "over the hill"
(to fellow students under 20).
For they all have plenty
To assimilate (that's learn)
To repudiate (that's spurn)
From instructors who range
Through terrific to strange.
But free tutoring is tossed in!
(And parking lots to get lost in!)
There's a bookstore for browsing,
Student Union for carousing,
Varied sports for the asking,
Broad lawns for sun-basking,
Extracurricular activities galore,
New loves and/or friendships in store.
Yes, "college" is great,
There's nothing to hate ...
But the exams.
Flo Antinoro
The End of the Long Day
Kay Causer
Annie poured the pills from the second bottle onto the flower-printed
bedspread. A shaking, knobby finger moved each pill aside as she counted
quietly.
"Twenty-three yellow ones and eleven white ones," she whispered to her­self
in the semi-darkness. "Is that enough?"
The delicate, gray-haired woman sat on her bed in a flannel gown and
knitted sleep socks. She looked out at the predawn sky beyond the familiar
backyard setting. A glow in the sky silhouetted dark clouds moving along on
strong currents. The few leaves still on the maple tree turned their silver sides
out as the wind whistled around the corner pushing a cold mist ahead of it. The
swing set stood in the chilly dampness awaiting another summer's fun and
Annie watched the swings moving back and forth as if children swung lazily on
them. The image of her grandchildren playing, barefooted and laughing,
deepened the ache in her throat.
When the swing set was new, it gave exhilarating lifts to small Becky and
smaller Tommy. But, Annie recalled, as they got older, a swooping flight on the
swing was not enough and they experimented with gymnastics from the top bar,
sitting astraddle it or hanging upside down.
"Get down from there this minute!" Annie had screamed at them repeatedly.
"You're not monkies!"
"Always scolding," thought Annie. "That's the way they'll remember me.
Why do I scold them so much?"
She glanced at the gold-framed snapshots on the nightstand. Their sweet,
cherubic faces smiled impishly up at her own weathered, worry-worn counte­nance.
Her faded blue eyes behind thick bifocals welled with tears.
"They'll be glad to see me go - either way," she thought.
Her small suitcase lay open on the dresser waiting for the last-minute
additions to be added in the morning. The larger case sat packed and closed
alongside a big, Delsey Toilet Tissue box bound with clothesline.
"Three pieces to hold all that's left," she thought. "And, now I won't even
have this room in my own daughter's home."
Annie tried again to visualize the retirement home as it was described to her
repeatedly by a nervous Linda and a businesslike Bob.
"Cheerful private rooms!"
"Fun and games in the well-equipped recreation center!"
"Clean sheets weekly!"
Poor Linda. She's always found it hard to see things as they really are. And
Bob, he's so practical, just like his father was, thought Annie with rare frankness.
"Mom, we want to talk to you about something," Linda had said looking at
her brother for help.
"Mom, you've got to face facts. We don't want you to be alone during the
day," offered Bob. "With your blood pressure and dizzy spells, you could have a
stroke in the morning and lay here alone all day until Linda gets home from
work."
23
"There's no one to talk to. You don't even have anyone to call and chat with
since your friends have passed away," Linda said quickly as her eyes darted now
between her husband and her sister-in-law, Joanie, who quickly looked at the
wall.
"The thing of it is, Mom," Bob continued, "Linda has found a really fine
retirement home where you could have 24-hour nursing care and ..."
"There'd be lots of people your own age to visit with," Linda interrupted
quickly.
Annie looked at the four people in front of her. Her daughter was folding and
unfolding a crumpled Kleenex as though she was trying to decide whether or not
to save it for her next sneeze. Her son sat calmly and looked almost bored. Her
son-in-law, Lenny, was impatient, she knew, to get the family conference over
with so he could watch "Columbo." Joanie was obviously ill at ease. She popped
peanuts into her mouth one right after another and said nothing since she had
nothing to offer. Salespeople. Strangers.
The rest was a matter of paperwork. A date was set for Annie to take up
residence at Sunset Acres.
As the time drew nearer, Linda avoided her mother more and more:Bob and
Joanie called but didn't come over. Annie's love for her family was more painful
than it had ever been. Loving them, knowing she would be leaving soon made
her feel even more short-tempered than usual and it confused and troubled her.
Everything nagged at her. The TV was too loud. The dog barked too much.
Everyone was going in different directions at once. It all reminded her that she
was no longer part of this world.
The more irritable Annie was, the more she disliked herself. The more she
disliked herself, the more justified the banishment. She began to wish the day
would hurry, but dreaded the good-bye. Out of that dread grew the alternative.
She began to move the pills around absently. For the first time in years she
noticed her own hands. They were wrinkled and heavily veined.
"How long has it been since I've had polish on my nails? How long has it
been since these hands were useful to anyone?" she asked herself, forgetting the
many times those hands had wiped tears from a little boy's dusty face or wrapped
secret packages in the late hours on Christmas Eve.
The cold wind howled and threw a handful of freezing rain against the
window, an unfriendly gesture from the world outside the cozy, warm room.
"Winter is here already. The older 1 get the more 1 dread it. Think of
something else," she thought trying to push the sad, lonely feeling away. "Good
thing Linda got that new coat ..." She remembered the night Linda bought it.
But the memory didn't chase away the sad, lonely feeling.
"Have a piece of cake, Joanie," Linda had said as she sliced a generous piece
for her already overfed sister-in-law. "It's a new recipe Mom found in a
magazine."
"Oh, not so big, Linda," protested Joanie weakly. " ... Mmmm, that's good
MQm. You'll have to give me the recipe."
"Sure, it's easy to make," said Annie eagerly. "You just ..."
"Hey, Joanie," interrupted Linda. "Did you hear about Margie? She's preg­nant
again. Can you imagine?"
"Yeah," Joanie said washing down a mouthful of cake with coffee heavily
laced with cream and sugar. "I heard it from Nancy. This is her fifth, isn't it?"
"She already has five," said Annie quietly.
"What do you mean 'her fifth'? She already has five," said Linda loudly.
"Oh well, long as it's her and not me, I'm not going to complain," said Joanie
as she pressed her fork into each and everyone of the crumbs on her plate,
collecting them for one last taste.
24
"Used to be," said Annie, "people welcomed big families. The more they
had, the more help they'd have on the farm."
"Yeah? Well, just how many farms do you see around here, Mom?" said
Linda. "Overpopulating. That's what it is. Won't be enough of anything to go
around one of these days. Old people are living longer and people keep repro­ducing.
Who's going to feed them all?"
"I, well, 1guess 1never thought of it that way ..." said Annie uncomfortably.
"If you think about it ..."
"Hey, Linda, did you hear about the sale on winter coats at Mason's? You've
been looking for a coat, haven't you?" asked Joanie.
"Yeah, how much are they?"
"I don't know. 30 to 50 percent off 1 think," answered Joanie.
Linda walked to the stove, brought the coffeepot to the table, and poured
herself a second cup of coffee.
"Want more, Joanie?"
"OK," she answered then drained the cup to make room.
Linda filled the cup and returned the pot to the stove.
"Boy, 1sure would like to get in on that sale," said Linda sadly. "Can't swing
it this payday, though."
Annie took her cup to the stove and poured herself a refill.
"That coat 1got last year is too short now," Linda whined while staring into
her coffee.
"It's too bad you can't get in on this sale," Joanie said sympathetically.
"These coats are fur-trimmed."
Annie left the room. When she came back, she handed a small, plastic card
to her daughter.
"Here, you can use my charge account ... again," Annie said.
"Hey, that's great!" Linda said enthusiastically. ''I'll pay you back this time.
Honest, 1 will, Mom."
"Let's go get it now," said Joanie.
"OK," said Linda as she got up and went into the bedroom to get her old,
out-of-style coat.
Joanie was gathering her coat and purse as Annie went to her room. She
changed from her comfortable old felt slippers to her black shoes, the ones that
hurt the least when her feet were swollen. She put on a warm cardigan under her
ten-year-old gray tweed winter coat. A crocheted hat was topped with a three­cornered
scarf to protect against earache.
"You better wear something on your head, Linda," Annie said as she entered
the kitchen.
Linda wasn't there. Neither was Joanie. Just then, the car started in the
driveway and Linda and Joanie drove off to Mason's to buy a new coat.
Annie turned and walked slowly back to her room. She took off the three��cornered
scarf, the crocheted hat, the tweed coat and the sweater. She changed
back into the felt slippers and padded down the hall to the kitchen where she
picked up Linda and Joanie's dirty dishes.
"I guess they didn't mean for me to go with them," she said as she filled the
sink with hot, soapy water to wash the dishes.
"What's so bad about Sunset Acres?" Annie asked herself again as she
moved a yellow pill from a pink rosebud across the bedspread to a purple violet
and back. "The kids wouldn't put me some place that's not nice ... It's just that 1
thought 1 could live out my days here. I've been moved around so much since
Pete died ... so hard to find a place 1can afford. Guess 1haven't much choice ...
sure can't keep an apartment on my income. Lucky they could find a place that
would have me."
25
"Just so tired. Don't really want to start over again ... meeting new people
... getting used to a new place. Be better to just go to sleep now and be done with
it ... kids not have to worry about me anymore ... wouldn't have to visit ... no
more bills ... no more worry ..."
Annie lay back on her pillow. The ceiling was patterned with shadows of
leaves fluttering in the wind like black flames.
The morning sky was light gray when Linda paused at the closed door and
called, "Mom, breakfast is ready." She returned to the kitchen. The cup rattled in
its saucer as she poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down heavily
opposite her husband.
"I'll be glad when this is over. It'll be nice to have our own family alone
again," Linda whispered to the back of the morning paper.
"Uh huh," mumbled Lenny.
"She'll be better off at Sunset. Of course, there'll be some adjusting to do but
before long, she'll have friends there."
"Uh huh."
"This way, if she should take a fall or get sick, there'll be someone ..."
"You've said all that a hundred times before, Linda," Lenny said from
behind the paper.
Linda snuffed out her cigarette and sighed.
"I better get her up," she said as she went back to the closed door.
"Mom, you'd better have your breakfast before it gets cold."
There was no answer. Linda turned her ear toward the door and listened.
She put her hand on the knob and slowly opened the door.
"Mom?"
The morning sun broke through the clouds and made the leftover raindrops
glisten on the window. A sunbeam fell across Annie's pillow and lay like a soft
spotlight across her peaceful, lifeless face.
Two empty pill bottles lay on the bed next to her, along with 23 yellow pills
and 11 white ones.
Children
Children, like trees,
should be able to
stand straight
without a crutch .
to be beautiful .
to be strong .
to reach to the skies.
Perhaps, Perhaps,
never reaching the skies,
but in each effort
growing straighter ...
growing taller ...
standing straight and
tall against the beautiful sunset
reaching for God.
B.A: Lalo
26
Northern- Thunder-waters
Upon the northern plains
glaciers gone-by
have left a thousand
delicate footprints
and as the mighty,
ancient rainclouds let
fall the magic rain
flowing gently, fitting
snugly
each awaiting princess's foot
filling,
forming smooth silver slippers
on the ground
David Bauer
A Shiver and a Sigh
Your love
Is like a frozen stream
Waiting for the first rays of spring,
My love
Is like the moth that flew too close to the flame
And exploded.
Gary Merritt
27
His Sea
As I walked along the seashore
I chanced to meet
The most extraordinary girl.
She was deep in thought and teary-eyed, so
I asked her to swim away with me.
She stared at me through languid eyes,
Though, surely I'm not possessed!
Her eyes were large and soft,
Her lips as if to speak.
Brown hair flowed behind her
In the morning breeze.
She took my hand and
We waded into the sea.
Slowly, at first, then more compatible were we,
As if we two were meant to be.
I laughed and splashed joyously
While she smiled timidly.
She watched my every move, from
Beneath hooded lids she peeked.
Deeper still we traveled
Out, beyond all reach.
Then, she slithered away from me
And sank into the deep.
I dove and dove to rescue her,
This newfound happiness of mine.
But ... she was gone from me forever.
And now I understand ...
She belonged to the sea
And the sea to her was calling.
I learned she'd lost a lover
In that deep, mysterious sea.
Now, I stand alone on the shore,
Looking out into the deep.
Sad to know, her love was not for me.
_-- Cynthia L. Branham
,P ~
~ 0 ~ \)
{tid 0 00 °D
0 A 0 b -
---28 ~ ------
Cynthia L. Branham
Her Sea
Walking along the misted sands I hear,
"Come with me, come with me."
The voice is deep, sensuous, whispery low.
A hand reaches out of the mist
And beckons to me,
"Come with me, come with me."
"Who are you?" I call
To the hand above the misted sands.
"It matters not who I be, who I be,
Come, wander with me into the sea."
His face appears through the swirling mists,
Smiling at me, smiling at me.
I reach for his hand blindly,
My fingers become entwined with his.
Gently I am pulled into the sea, into the sea.
The sea whirls about my feet,
The mist about my head.
Still deeper he leads me into the sea,
Tugging gently, encouraging softly,
"Come with me, come with me."
A few more steps I take,
The water rushing above my knees,
Pulling me deeper still
Into the sea, into the sea.
"Come, wander with me into the sea,"
He smiles confidently, holding my hand.
The water has reached my breast
And seized my heart,
While he laughs low and mockingly,
"You came into the sea with me, with me;
It is time now that I go, that I go."
He releases my hand, fades into the mists,
Leaving me to flounder in the sea, in the sea.
Closing my misted eyes I am content
To slip beneath the sea, beneath the sea.
Still, I hear above the rushing waters deep,
"Come with me, come with me,
Come, wander with me into the sea."
Deer Tree
Have you chosen the crown of this
rounded
windswept
hill as your bedding place for safety?
protected on all sides by the deep quiet wash,
the wash
where I see your soft-nosed family
filter gently
down
into the fringes of Jack Canyon,
burnished outer-canyon
before morning or quail whimper at
the sky
Is this why I find the yellow grass pressed
in four small plots
beneath
this hard-reaching pinon?
these heavy limbs I thought were mine
here only to mark the way back
from my yearly trek that leads me
after you.
Searching
finding hoof diggings and
the exposed roots that soft mouths touched
only now have I found you.
for I know your sleeping place
beneath deer tree
where in tomorrow's darkness
your family's warm bodies
shall lie
gathered beneath
deer tree
awaiting a stirless foredawn.
David Bauer
30
Prediction
He walked amongst the graves
Of the long before dead,
Thinking questions,
Receiving answers.
Spirits and devils of time
Play upon his brain
As his walk continues.
His eyes are closed
But onward he moves,
Not a blade of grass
Disturbed.
His face is white, pallad
And shows not the vigor
of life.
His goal, he slowly reaches,
A man,
His beard reaches to the ground
And beyond.
Eyes of fire, black as coal;
Half the wrath is in his
Left hand and the love for
Mankind in the other.
He is accepted and
Leaves.
I saw this sight long ago
And the man said,
"Son, your time will come"
I stood with wide mouth
And stared with youthful wonder.
Now,
I walk amongst the graves
of the long before dead ...
Paul Maxson
Moods
When I look in the mirror
I see my face -
But not really me.
Reflected is my hair ­My
dress,
And I suppose what others see.
But I feel this camouflage
About me
That isn't seen in the mirror.
I know it is there -
Because some days
My heart is full of fear.
A battle builds within me
My days gradually
fill themselves
with doubt.
And I really, really wonder
How in the hell
I can ever work it out.
I can't bash my head
against the wall or ­Tear
the house apart
Although I swear at times ­A
good old drunk
is where to start!
It seems I am Dr. Jeckel
But then-
I am Mr. Hyde.
They take turns
I think it seems
And I don't know who is the guide.
I hate this sort of battle
Which seems to creep
Upon my peaceful days -
To make me want to rant within
And raise hell in lots of ways.
I am no good with anyone else
When I am feeling -
Is it crazy??
I desire to sit alone
And let the time pass
until it gets hazy.
Then
maybe the sun will rise
On a new day
When I feel at peace.
And I can sit and wonder
Whatever in the world
Made it ever seem to cease.
Linda Romer
Desert Drive
The desert lies beside the road
My car and I pursue
As homeward bound we leave behind
The disciplines of school.
Music fills the air, composed
Of wind and engine's roar,
With counterpoint of silence
Rising mute from desert floor.
The balletmaster takes the stand,
His ear to Nature's score.
He lifts his hand, the dance begins,
Alive with Western lore.
Tumbleweeds rustle to center stage,
Brown tutus all starchy and dry,
Roadrunner next, a comedy sketch,
Can you catch him with your eye?
Dust devils twirl majestically,
Leaping high into the sky,
While myriad chorus dancers bow
As we go racing by.
The curtain falls as houses loom,
My car slows down its pace,
Only a hint of the hot desert breeze
Now blows across my face.
And here is home, my loved ones
I enfold in warm embrace,
Happy to be living in this
Most enchanting place.
Helen Ehrlich
A New Dawn
The warmth of the sun reached for me.
The stirrings of sun outside my window
bade me wake to welcome a new dawn.
Grudgingly leaving my fantasy
of silent dreams,
I awoke with the sun
proclaiming another dawning
full of promise,
innocence not yet tainted.
B.A. LaID
31
The King Is Dead
They called Him the King
• Though He wore no crown,
He was born a commoner
In an unknown town.
He began so young
To fulfill the plan,
I suppose He knew then ­He
was a different man.
People loved Him
All of His days-
Because He really touched them
With His special ways.
I saw Him once - !
He stood above us all,
I was mesmerized -
Watching Him in awe.
They say He was good,
Led a life mostly clean,
Didn't use the vices
Most of us have seen.
Now the King is dead -
They tell me so -
But He lives on -
He touched my soul.
It is all down on records ­But
He will be missed,
There will be no King ­Like
the one named Elvis.
Linda Romer
I know your love is
Like a flower in the fall.
Soon winter will come.
Donna M. Brooks
Sorrow
Time has passed ever so slowly
Since at your grave I last kneeled,
With dirt clenched in fist so tightly,
By the final plot freshly filled.
Angry, cloudy skies on a cold day
Shared their torment with me,
Teased by the winds of May
That could have let things be.
No! No! I silently cry,
Is that all I have now?
Distant memories flashing by;
A rock from your grave, and
Selfish sorrow, crude sorrow,
Haunting, cruelly, with no end.
Jeanne Griffin
34
To Some Of Us A Shadow Talks
To some of us a shadow talks,
As it ripples across the bushes
And moves along the walks.
The sunbeams warm upon my back,
Yes, the shadow gives the answer
Others lack.
For this person torn with strife,
The shadow rests against a nearby
Tree, observes the torrential river,
Resembling one's life.
Deep in thought we stand together,
My shadow and I.
Yes, the answer does come forth,
And again I know the shadow's worth.
Now the sun is lost in wind and dust,
And the darkness has crept over us.
Here in darkness I stand alone
But with newfound confidence,
I'll begin my journey home.
To some of us a shadow talks.
Dixie McNevins
Prelude to a Sonnet
Keats and Poe I have discovered,
And Tolstoy, he too mattered
For my starved soul to expand.
But it was, yes, your gentle hand
That showed me a firm way
And to not dwell on yesterday.
So I, for you a sonnet write,
And hope a candle always light
To explore life with your sight.
Sonnet to Dr. McBride
Exile from all feelings I have known
Like an Arctic winter all around
And the sun nowhere to be found;
Dark, desperate despair no longer shown,
And to be heard not even a moan
That might soften loneliness so bound,
And kept in a nightmare to hound,
Ruthlessly, at times with a muffled groan.
But now, my shell without I stand
Vulnerable as the seashore sand,
Constantly drenched, never dried out.
Ever so slowly you taught me not to doubt
That life's treasures are all about,
And certainly deserve a touch and a shout!
Jeanne Griffin
35
Forest Preserve
Tree soldiers oversee these woods
From hill and valley floor.
Those soughing sentinels comprise
The local Forest Corps.
Reconnaissance is possible
By birds from boughs on high,
And messages are passed along
Through streamlet coursing by.
A weakened member of the troop
Has fallen to the ground.
Completely stripped of greenery
He rests where he was downed.
The evidence of battle lies
Upon the forest tract.
From many stones and boulders there
It seems they were attacked.
Preserve our woods from man's attacks
And spreading urban rot.
Our birthright to these forest lands
Should never be forgot.
Mary \T. Traeger
36
Music
Music can be a paintbrush
Painting scenes upon your mind
Torrent waters rushing
And colors of all kinds.
I've felt music soothe my soul
Change my frowns to smiles
Bring sunlight to the clouds of day
And linger - through the miles.
You can find a memory­Listening
to an old favorite tune,
Relive the senses of an hour ­While
you loved beneath the moon.
And for occasions
of gloom upon the heart,
Music there too can be
Of the gloomiest gloom a part.
There's no emotion
left untouched -
By a musician's mind,
Every note has feelings
Whatever you choose to find.
Can't you fantasize the field of grain
Swaying with the breeze?
As the violins hold
The whispering notes on C's.
The pianos pulsating chords
Causes tapping of our feet,
And the drums continue it all
With the rhythmic, inspiring beat.
Catch the joy of music
And all the things it brings to you
Anything you wish or dream -
Is in the sounds of music too.
Linda Romer
Robert Peddle
Our Moon
Our moon
as big as a bullring
glows bronze, darker than the sun;
throws off rays of smoky yellow light.
The frightening yellow fog
creeps into your bones like acid,
dissolving your insides to dust.
Now it possesses you.
That huge, mysterious monarch
has misplaced your mind
with its strong and quiet power.
Tonight, like ancient man in hunted skin,
you stand on earth adoring
this moon-our
holy moon.
Diane M. Langlois
37
Conformity
Vivian Parmerlee Baker
Sweet Peace enslaved by Harmony
Bound in chains of conformity.
Eel River uncoiled across the Indiana countryside, splitting the lower part of
town from the higher just below Main Street. The stores on the south side of Main
Street were lined up on the high bank so that the square grey houses of the
lowland stared up at them. The bank, sloping steeply down to the river, was
cluttered with boxes and packing thrown by the storekeepers when new mer­chandise
arrived. In flood years water rose to the back steps of the houses on the
lower side. Although it was ten years before she was born, Anna had often heard
her mother tell how their basement was full of water in the rainy spring of 1913.
Anna's mother was a born storyteller and she kept her children entertained as
she moved about her big kitchen or stood at the ironing board. Sometimes she
told amusing stories about Fred Ford and his housekeeper and his little fat boy,
sometimes she told about sad things like the war and Anna's uncle who was
shell-shocked, sometimes she told them about her dramatics class in college. Her
teacher had told her that she had expressive eyes and she used them to full
advantage in all the stories she told.
Anna's mother enjoyed local acclaim as the handsomest of four lovely
sisters and her pride in that made her a natural competitor of each of the other
three. She seemed committed to prove her superiority in every way and would
not countenance mere equality. After a while everyone forgot that the race was
only among the sisters, and the emulation became a private matter between her
and every other woman in Hampton. She had married the best-looking and
brightest boy in town and he was well on his way to the top ofthe executive ranks
in the town's number one industry. Even the Depression failed to slow his
advance, and one day they announced to their children that they were going to
be vacating the old house, the house where Anna's father had been born and all
of his children too. With a glittering smile, Anna's mother described the man­sion
uptown on the high bank, and pointed out that the residents of that area
referred to the exclusive few blocks as "Hollywood." The name stuck in Anna's
throat and she boldly proclaimed that she wouldn't leave her home. But her
mother had no ears for counter thoughts and Anna's rebellion evinced no
reaction whatever. As that winter wore on, Anna wondered if she had been heard
at all, for the renovation of the big house uptown began to assume lavish
proportions. When the first floor had been redecorated, the family discussed
colors and locations for the bedrooms of each of them. Anna's mother seemed
charmed with her own description of the room for the daughter of the household.
Its door had a knocker shaped like a basket of flowers, there was a closet as big as
her present bedroom, and a private alcove with a glamorous dressing table. Anna
snorted at the thought of herself at a dressing table, but her mother spoke firmly,
"You're going to have to start acting like a lady sometime. You're too old to be
going around as sloppy as you do. You'll never look like my family, but you
should at least be wearing makeup. I don't want to be ashamed of my only
daughter with our new neighbours."
38
As spring progressed, the relentless activity of packing, sorting, and trans­ferring
accelerated to the point where the old house was empty, the new one
furnished and demanding tenancy. There was nothing for a 14-year-old girl to do
but occupy her father's legal residence.
Standing in the window at the place where her bed had been, Anna looked
out across the flat roof that had sung her to sleep on rainy nights and welcomed
her with its morning radiance when it snowed. In the distance she could see the
Saffron River stabbing at the cornfields like an evil oriental dagger. By the row of
purple flags her father had planted before she was born stood the playhouse,
locked and uninviting. Anna sighed and gripped the broom tightly. The family
had left her to sweep out and lock the house for the last time. Her mother's
parting words had been, "Now be a good girl and come in the back way when you
come to the house. You won't look very spruce after being down here and
someone might see you if you come to the front door."
Anna did her work with a sense of oppression. Nothing looked the same
now. The house echoed like a vault without its curtains and rugs. The handsome
floors looked forlornly bare, giving up every secret flaw that had been hidden in
the business of living. The rooms stood impersonally in the same places, but
home was not there. The illusion was gone and would never be remade. The big
ugly patch on the living room wall where her mother's portrait had hung was the
most despicable of all. Anna retraced the portrait easily in her mind's eye. It was
not a picture in wistful, muted colors, but of vibrant contrasts, positive and
aggressive as her mother herself. The portrait seemed to reach out with fingers of
authority and demand attention. The raven's wing of widow's peak dipping
dramatically into the rich olive coloring of her forehead accented the liveliness
of the black eyes. But the mouth was the most vivid feature, spread in a ruby
smile of approbation. It had been a long time since that smile had been directed
at Anna. In the days when she had long curls, the smile was there every morning.
The pleasant aura of the day ahead was crystallized in the half hour it took her
mother to comb each dark tendril over her finger and fasten a ribbon to hold them
back. It could have been a tiresome ordeal for Anna but for the smile that made
her mother a living portrait.
In those days, her brothers enjoyed the challenge of catching her curls. It
must have been a kind of tug-of-war game to see how hard the curls had to be
pulled to produce a scream from Anna.
Now she could see that the curls had been her only claim to beauty. But such
a little girl couldn't have been expected to understand the disappointment in her
mother's voice when she said, "Why must you stand there and let them hurt you?
I'm going to have to have your hair cut short. If you'd only fight back!"
Anna swept through the rest of the house hurriedly and let herself out the
back door. The back porch was the first thing that day that seemed unchanged. It
had been entirely walled in by a vigorous wisteria vine and for all the summers
that she could remember, Anna and her brothers had delighted in the nest the
robins had built there. Standing on a chair, she had first learned there that robins'
eggs are the color of Lake Michigan, and they had all watched with fascination
when three or four scrawny necks stretched to reach the worms the mother robin
held out from her perch on the edge of the woven nest.
On the outside, luscious lavender clusters were hanging down thickly along
the sides and roof of the porch. Anna's heart warmed with the sweet incense of
ageless summer as she cradled one plump bloom in her cupped hands. To close
her eyes and feel the cool softness of the delicate pods was to close out all the
gloom of the day.
39
Her spirits lifted as she walked down the back steps and under the grape
arbor. One gently spiraling coil of new green tickled her cheek. She could look
through the arbor to the old grey barn behind the alley. It was crumbling and
rotten, all the hinges were rusty, but she ran to her grandfather's blacksmith shop
just as she had in years past.
The locks were so old that she knew she could easily open the big double
door. She had done it sometime after her grandfather's death, but the equipment
had been removed after the sale and she couldn't bear the sight of the empty
shop. The feel of the wood, the smell of the barn, the Maytime hum of nature in
the field were all unchanged. Anna flung herself down in the tall grass now
growing in front of the door and inhaled the musty, old-wood, coal-dusty,
metallic smell that oozed through and under the splintery doors. She closed her
eyes and saw the heavy Nordic figure of her grandfather, his rough grey shirt
darkening with the spread of the sweat from his work. She saw the sparks that
flew from every blow of metal on metal. She saw his powerful arm raise and drop
in steady time. She heard the music of its might, the hark-hankity, hark-hankity
song of the anvil. Craftsmanlike, he poured his strength of sinew into the orange
crescent of hot metal and, plunging it into water, its singing sizzle leapt at the
dusty air. Out of the rhythmic clanging of his hark-hankity anvil and the flame
and fury of his bellows he had forged the ballad of his life.
She saw the stable at the south end of the barn, where John Hee Haw took his
leisure between races. Grandpa was so proud of John Hee Haw that he cried
when her father had given him a framed picture of his gallant old horse. When he
hitched the sulky to John Hee Haw at the fairgrounds and rode around the track
they were a team, and Anna knew that something grand had happened. Grandpa
wasn't the same when he wore the bright satin shirt, any more than he was the
same when he held the fiddle lovingly beneath his chin. Anna smiled to hear the
merry tones she hadn't heard since his death. He was a peasant, as her mother
said, but peasant didn't mean what her mother's tone implied. He was a colorful,
earthy, rough, and tender peasant, born with a violin singing in his heart. She
couldn't bring herself to tell them his real meaning. The times that she had tried
to translate the music ofher soul into words that they could understand had been
seasons of derisive jocularity or of downright condemnation. She was beginning
to realize that the price of her singing heart was a mute tongue, dividing and
alienating her from the ones who denied its existence. So her pride was becom­ing
the sealing-stone of her secret soul.
Her grandfather never crossed paths with a music teacher, but he played
magic melodies that set the work-burdened couples to dancing in the days before
Anna was born. One day he showed Anna how to set his violin under her chin,
placed her fingers delicately on the bow, told her step by step what to do. And
that afternoon she had played Long, Long Ago. They looked at each other with a
smile of warm recognition. The stiff, dark furniture of the unused parlor seemed
to have disappeared. Even the solidity of the grand piano, which dominated the
room, drifted into mist in the hours she and her grandfather charmed with his
fiddle. After Grandpa had weathered the stroke that nearly killed him, he asked
Anna to take the violin for her own. He knew his fingers would never curve over
the tense strings again.
After the heat of the day, the willow trees bent to the east. Anna knew the
first strains of their angelus and jumped to her feet, wondering how so much of
the day had passed. Through the old garden was the most direct way to the
bridge. She hurried past the twisted apple tree where she had had her swing,
where she had looked up through blossoms and through fruit to the sky and
thought, "Oh, I do think it the loveliest thing ever a child can do!"
40
The bridge capped the hill where all the neighborhood children had met
with sleds in winter. Once a boy had tried to skate on the river before it was
frozen solid enough. Anna remembered her mother's sobs when they were
probing the river that day. The mother's face had been pale and strained, live
agony, everything wiped from it but grief, her lips twisted into a colorless arc.
Anna wanted to think the river was beautiful. The town depended on it. It
was a landmark and an institution. It was like a mother, nourishing the seed of
life, and one felt an obligation to love it. People of Hampton referred in sacroanct
tones to the river and never doubted its divine ordination. But she couldn't find
any beauty in it. It had always looked like a sickening yellow scar on the
landscape, and today she loathed it with a new fervor. She was compelled to
cross over it from the old to the new, not on an errand for her mother, to return for
her gratitude, but this time as an act of desertion, a conscious abandonment.
Anna never crossed the river without gazing down into the murky depths of its
magnetic ugliness. She was fascinated with the legend of the woman who had
stood at this same iron railing and stared in the same way until she had flung
herself into it. Anna could feel the shock of the cold water saturating her hair,
swirling it about her face, and wondered if, at the last moment, she had felt regret
for giving herself to the river, for dying in a dirty ditch.
Once across the bridge, Anna followed the river around to the point where it
curved out and left off paralleling Main Street. She cut up the alley at the back of
the Lutheran Church, where two tall, misshapen garbage cans acted as sentinels.
The lawns grew larger and surrounded pompous houses with white colonnades
or imposing bricks. She recognized the back of their house by the boxes that
cluttered the porch and the ground below it. All sorts of trash and crumpled
newspapers, some still in the shape of cups, were piled about. As children are
attracted by any collection of miscellany, Anna bent over the boxes with interest.
The top box seemed to be half full of magazines on top of which were a few
broken dishes from the exquisite china miniatures her uncle had brought from
Belgium. She fondled them speculatively, trying to fit the broken pieces to­gether,
wondering if they could be glued invisibly. A doll from a past Christmas
lay in the carnage. Anna remembered the times she had changed her clothes with
all the pink and lacy layette her grandmother had made for her that year. The box
even contained one of the small sacques, dirty and distressed with ragged
ribbons down the front. But when she reached for the doll, her fingernail caught
on a stiff cord underneath. She lifted all the magazines and shifted the clutter to
one side in order to reach the bottom of the box. Her hand, exploring under it all,
closed on something smooth and graceful in shape. At first her eyes only
recorded but wouldn't believe that it was really a violin, a broken violin. A
sucking sound puiied through her teeth against her lower lip like a lonely wind
at night.
Inside the house her mother walked briskly through the dining room hold­ing
a stepladder in front of her. Setting it firmly down, she picked up the curtains
on the long rod and climbed up with a short glance at Anna. Her mother was
always enthusiastic, always strong, swiftly accomplishing whatever she felt
needed doing. "Go up and take a bath. I've laid out the clothes I want you to wear,
and for goodness sake try to do something with your hair and your face. You look
sallow."
She was not smiling like the portrait. She scowled down from the top of the
ladder. Anna wished she had hidden the violin, but it was too late. "Throw that
dirty thing out. I'm not going to have this house cluttered up with all the junk we
had before."
Anna stared dumbly but her mother wasn't looking at her anymore.
41
Anna was glad that the door to her room was closed. Th,e iron basket of
flowers hung like a funeral wreath on the door. At the top of the stairs she could
see into her mother's open bedroom. Boxes covered the bed and the floor around
it. The portrait of her mother was standing behind a tall carton so that only the
upper portion was revealed. It was a painful disruption of fluid forces like
hearing all of a song except the final note. Anna saw the eyes reflected in the
mirror of the dressing table, and that vicarious visage made them seem like
living eyes, trying to solve some riddle that wouldn't form itself. Her own eyes
were dark. She looked from the one pair of black eyes to the other, staring deeply
into the mirror at her own face as if she had never been met with that reflection
before. An ornate label on a bottle of cologne proclaimed Jacques Farique as the
discoverer of the scent of surrender. Anna inhaled its engaging sweetness as it
cooled her hand. Jacques Farique, she thought, doesn't know the smell of
surrender. It is really acrid as brimstone.
It must be because she couldn't see the mouth that the image of the portrait
seemed so strange. It was sacrilege to hide that precious smile. A woman with
scarlet lips would not mourn for a dead child. Or if she did, who would know?
Anna uncapped a lipstick labeled "Nothing But Red" and gave it a violent twist.
Merging with the taint of "Surrender," the gash of "Nothing But Red" in the
mirror achieved a slightly sardonic curve that was not far from the smile in the
portrait.
A New Woman
An innocent virgin meets an experienced man.
They make passionate love and he shows her the way
To a life full of lust in a fantasyland.
The pace never breaks for five years everyday ­She
leans, she depends, she's always afraid.
She lives the person, the mold he has made.
He is the leader; he has always been.
After all, mother told her, the dominant are men.
Underneath she is one who's as independent as hell.
She's confused by the laws; she crawls out of her shell.
What about my needs we both have neglected?
Just because you love me doesn't mean I'm protected
From pain, insecurity, frustration and fear.
She opens her eyes and looks in the mirror.
She sees a woman lost in a dream -
This is reality; there's nowhere to lean.
Be your own woman, not a man's mold.
He loves you no doubt more than you know.
He fears this new lady, a follower no more.
She might find a new leader, someone else to adore.
He feels there's nothing new to show her, no new roads to take.
She is his equal; a new match they make.
Have no fear - a new leader she's found
Deep inside herself, secure and bound.
Linda S. Duncan
42
So It Goes
I'm out after dark
Chasing my illusionary lovers.
Playing a part, in a minor passion play,
Typecast, as a dark horse runner.
I guess I'm a bit of a loner.
I can stand by myself in a crowd.
But I've torn apart the Anvil Screen
And danced with the Elfin Queen.
She danced with me, then she danced by herself,
With stars for company.
Her golden hair cast a silver sheen in the dark light of the moon.
And it goes.
So it goes.
Turning again into night,
As she spun around in her black lace gown,
Throwing shadows into the light.
It's time again troubled for ending delusion.
You're far too innocent for your own good.
You expect the world to follow through,
With all the fine promises it made to you.
And I'm chasing girls, in my head.
And it goes.
So it goes.
Turning again into night.
And it goes.
So it goes.
It goes.
Tom Byrne
Life
Before I went to sleep
I contemplated my death ­How
the people I knew
and Loved
would miss me
or wouldn't miss me.
I thought of my parents
How could they get along?
And the friends who would find me
Would some cry?
Maybe I want to know
if my life was really important.
If I changed or affected other lives.
I want to know -
If I died tomorrow
Did I really live?
44 Richard Francisco
Advice To The Wanderer
Always allow amorous adventures abroad
Because beloved beauties beckon breathlessly.
Careful calculations can command carnal correspondence.
Darkness doesn't deny delightful desires.
Every evening enhances erotic ecstasies,
For fabulous females follow fastidiously
Gallant gestures graphically generated.
Having helped harassed husbands
Into inspired illicit ideals,
Joy justifies jubilant journeys
Kindling kindly kisses.
Love's luster longingly lies like lambs
Making merry 'mongst moonlit memories.
Nature's nymphs neglect nobody.
Operas of orgies offer oceans of Odysseys,
Promptly permitting passion's pursuit.
Quaint quivers quickly quadruple,
Returning rapture revives risque recollections.
Sensuous stimulating satisfaction soars skyward
Tending to tantalize tender thoughts.
Unbelievable urges usher universal Utopia
Vigorously vowing vivacious voyages.
While wonderful. wanton, ways withstand weariness,
Xenial. xanthic, xebec's xenium,
Yield youthful, yearning yesterdays.
Zeus' zephrs zoom zestfully zenith!
Bill Janowicz
Old man
decrepit and worn
striving to make a friend.
For a moment
the back of his mind
grasps
a memory
without
wrinkles
and baldness.
LaVerne Berry
45
46
$$$
Green slime, seeping up out of the soft, dark rottenness,
Taking control of the unwary,
Appearing to them as a green translucence,
Snaring them with dreams and visions they cannot resist,
Disdains the horse,
Preferring the energies of the machines it creates,
Heedless of the cries of those crushed beneath them.
Green slime oozes out of the nostrils
Of its willing host,
Dripping down onto the hands and
Defiling all that it touches,
While those who would flee its debasement
Find all exits blocked,
North, East, South, and West,
Their only refuge a clear, cold stream to bathe in.
Pity the man covered with green slime
For precious gold lies hidden in the deep waters
Just beyond the sight of his unwashed eyes.
Helen Ehrlich
A Change In The Season
There's a change in the season
There's a change in me
Soon I'll be leaving
Just wait and see
I'll pack all my clothes and grab myoId hat
Then make it down Main Street quick as a cat
Don't ask for a reason
Just call it life
It's a change in the season
It cuts like a knife
I'm not sorry I never could live in your dreams
I'm not sorry you never could let me be me
Sometimes love works and sometimes it doesn't
Now that it's over I want to be free
There's a change in the season
There's a change in me
Soon I'll be leaving
Just wait and see
When the morning light comes you'll find a space by your side
You'll freeze in mid-motion, then break down and cry
Don't ask for a reason
Just call it life
There's a change in the season
It cuts like a knife
Bob Beckley
Unborn
Imogene, my babe,
Heaven sent unto my heart ­Thrust
now back to God!
Odessa Roane Lastrapes
47
Farewell, Beloved Viper
I am old now, my life almost over, and I lie here on my deathbed,
Forsaken by you, mocked as always when I failed to live up to your expectations.
Did you think I would live forever?
I am not like you, I creep upon the earth, my flesh decays.
What will you do now, viper, parasite on my brain,
With no more of my blood to sustain you?
If you knew I would wound your immortality,
Why did you come to live with me at all?
I fully intended to live out my life in a normal fashion,
Earning my bread, putting provision aside for myoId age,
Choosing a bride, raising a family, as all good men do.
But you changed all that,
You searched out the ways until you found me,
You took me away from my own,
Luring me with your pleasures and your promises,
Until no longer able to resist,
I joined my life to yours, chained,
While you came and went as you chose.
You cared nothing for my needs,
Letting me languish and starve and despair,
Laughing at my pitiful struggles to conquer you.
Yet, there were periods when I sensed true delight
In the way you took my hand and walked about the countryside with me,
Pointing out joys and beauties I had never known before.
Then you seemed to want me,
My faith in you revived,
And we traveled to far-off lands together,
Just we two, needing no other.
Later we bore many children, you and I,
Some so beautiful it pained the eye to look upon them.
These you claimed for your own.
One day you took them for a walk in the park
And they spied me hiding in the bushes
And came and surrounded me and pointed their fingers at me
And jeered at me in the way that children do,
Until I threw my coat over my head and ran from the park,
Seeking refuge in the basement of our house,
Where our dead children lay.
I shivered there in the dark all day,
Until becoming concerned for me,
You called from above and coaxed me up the stairs and into the kitchen,
Where you fed me until my pallor left.
48
While I had your pity, I thought to ask you to go down
And look at our dead children,
But you shuddered and turned away.
Later you had the house remodeled,
Putting the kitchen in an upstairs room,
Far from the basement door:
That was before you left me for the last time.
Now I lie here, facing my real death, and
For the first moment since my youth - long, long ago ­I
realize that your time with me is past,
I shall never hear your lovely voice again.
Helen Ehrlich
Your Eyes, Your Beautiful Eyes
Your eyes,
Dark and wide, a feeling from inside.
Soft, light, full of insight,
Your eyes,
The outlet of your soul.
I could see no love without them.
Strong, aggressive, from you a message,
To me,
Of love and desire, rich with fire,
Your eyes,
Outlined with you, expressing your mind and body to me.
Flirty, fluttery, liquidy, buttery,
Irresistibly alive!
Sensual, tender, I'll always remember,
Your eyes,
Your beautiful eyes.
for Gerry-
Linda S. Duncan
49
Marching and marching
Time continues on forever,
With a steady beat.
Sofia I. Abney
The War Lover
I want the way it was before
When we had that global war.
Parties lasted through the night,
Sating each one's appetite.
We sure lived it up, all right!
Let the other fellows fight.
The way it was before was grand.
Living was a lotus land.
Forget the stamps for gas and food.
Take a drink, but don't be rude.
Go, sit at home if you're a prude.
Never let a war conclude!
The way it was - the violence
Just didn't seem to make much sense.
We didn't think ~f it at all
As we went from ball to brawl.
Those gorgeous parties, I recall,
Never once began to pall.
The way of life for all of us
Back then was simply marvelous.
The fun and games, the money spent ­We
wonder now just where it went.
We didn't hold with sentiment;
But overseas the boys were sent.
The parties, liquor vanished soon,
And punctured was the fun balloon.
We girls were left behind; what's more
Existing was a total bore.
Oh, create another war!
I want the way it was before.
Mary \T. Traeger
Traveler
The traveler is moving
he's changing, he's ranging,
he's reaching and feeding
and speeding ahead.
From the far off and the
dim-lit, and the childhood
tunnel halls, he is chiding
and riding and coming up
to us all.
He's a shadow, an instant,
a memory glimpse of an
action, a reaction, he's
a part of it all.
On the shoreline, in the
caverns, or the pyramids
of Uxmal; From the islands,
or the jungles or the wind
off the Sahara.
He's crossed the biggest,
he's rode the longest, and
he's drunk from the widest
of them all.
From the high roads of the
Incas, to all our dreams and
hidden moments, he's traversed
them through, he's a blessing
yet he's a shrew, he's all of us,
he's me and you.
He's a mercenary gambler,
he's a destitute rambler,
he's a runnin' tale bearer,
he's the traveler.
And he's in our grasp now
but tomorrow he's leaving
town.
Terry Hall
51
Accentuated Heart
At routine pace my heart intends
A calm iambic swing. . I
I see your face. My heart then sends
Quick dactyls capering. I ..
And when we meet, my heart exults
With skipping anapests. . . I
A bittersweet desire results
That trochee beat attests. I .
Ah, well, my dear, you must be mine
My very heart insists.
When you are near, no anodyne
Will stop those spondee twists. II
Mary ~ Traeger
Whispering Secrets
Streaming
singing
glistening needles
leaning
swaying
staying
whispering
giant saguaro
so old, so upright ­holding
having as much wisdom
as moisture inside,
against the deep blue sky
so high
and lonely
except for me listening
and the wind helping
whisper
secrets.
Terry Hall
52
Perpetual Summer
I said good-bye
to her
as if
I were never
to see her
once more
But I will
see her again
for she will always
be in me
Like the changing
seasons
that must die
and pass
to be reborn
I will remember
her
and be with her
in the summers
of my life.
Richard Francisco
The Trading Post Robbery
Gaynelle Mennuti
I.
They called him Big Lou. As a kid growing up in the streets of Boston his
size and intelligence had made him a natural leader. Tall and muscular, he
sauntered down the street with an air of a great lord sur\{eying his domain. His
eyes had a street-wise look and his glance seemed to say ''I'm the Man here."
Two men leaning in the doorway of the delicatessen looked up as Lou
approached.
"Hi ya, Lou. What's happenin'?"
"How's Sandy? And the kids?"
"The old lady is just great. You know Lou always keeps her happy. The
animals are growing like weeds, eatin' me out of house and home. That's why I
wanted to see you guys. I sure could use some bread, and I'm on to a new scam.
Let's go to myoId man's store. It's private in the back room. After doin ninety in
the slammer last year I ain't takin any chances."
The three men moved down the street. Joel was the youngest of the trio.
Short and heavyset, he had a little trouble keeping up with the other two. When
. Joel was ten years old he was an expert craps shooter. One night he was playing
with a gang from another neighborhood and was winning heavily. The gang
decided that they wanted their money back and had started to give Joel a beating.
Lou happened along and didn't like the odds against the little kid. Within
minutes Joel had his money back and Lou had a loyal follower.
Mike was as tall as Lou, but slimmer. They were both born on the same block
and had been friends as far back as either of them could remember. Both dropped
out of school in ninth grade, but Mike had gone back to night school and
finished. He had remained Lou's closest friend and right-hand man.
They turned into an alley and entered one of the doors. "Hey, Pal Me and the
guys wanna rap awhile. We're gonna use the back room." Lou walked up to the
old man sitting at a desk cluttered with papers. "If anybody asks, we ain't here.
OK?"
The old man nodded and continued his work. He knew that the things Lou
did weren't always honest, but he had learned long ago not to interfere. What he
didn't know wouldn't hurt him - or Mama. Lou was a good son. He went to
Temple, observed the Sabbath and High Holidays, and he had married a good
Jewish girl and given them two beautiful grandchildren. If only he would settle
down in a nice steady job ...
Lou closed the door. "How does two hundred big ones grab you?" Both
men's eyes widened as they waited for him to continue. Two hundred thousand
dollars could make life pretty easy for awhile. "You know the Trading Post on
the highway just out of town? The one to Milton? He just got a shipment of
leather goods in from the west. His security guard tipped me off about itand he is
setting it up. His cut is ten big ones. The rest we split."
"Jeez, Lou! Where are we gonna peddle the stuff? Hot leather ain't too easy
to get rid of."
Mike sat quietly, waiting for Lou to continue. Joel's mouth was always
flapping when he should have been listening.
53
"This scam can't miss. It's all set for next Sunday night. That gives us six
days to get ready. Mike, you make arrangements for a truck and you do the
driving. We sit on the stuff for four months. I've gota fence all lined up to peddle
the stuff once it cools off. By March we should be sittin pretty."
Joel and Mike listened carefully as Lou outlined the plan, nodding their
heads occasionally. Big Lou knew what he was doing. He didn't make mistakes
and he didn't like anybody else to. The only time he had taken a fall was when
somebody else goofed up. They knew that they had better pay close attention to
everything he said.
"Joel, tell your Mom we need her basementfor a few months. We'll be keepin
the stuff there until March. Tell her I'll pay her rent for it. Any questions? OK!
Meet me back here Saturday at three. We'll go over it one more time. Meanwhile,
get your stuff together and have an alibi set up, just in case."
The old man watched as the three of them went out the back door. He
wondered what they were up to, but he really didn't want to know.
"Bye, Pop! See you and Ma at supper tonight."
He is a good son, the old man thought. No matter what else he does, he is a
good son.
II.
Sandy looked forward to Sundays. She would get up and take the kids to
religion classes at the Temple, then come home and fix Lou a big breakfast. They
would have coffee together and talk, just like they did before the kids came
along. Too quickly it would be time to pick them up.
Even in the winter Lou liked to putter around with his plants. He took great
pride in them and was known all over the neighborhood for his green thumb.
The neighbors all brought their sick plants to him. It always amazed them to see
this big man with such large hands handling delicate plants so carefully. He
talked to them, coaxed them and pampered them, and they always got well.
Sandy watched proudly as Lou rumpled Michael's hair. Showing affection
wasn't easy for him, but she knew how much she and the kids meant to him. He
had great plans for them. No hustling for a buck for his kids. They would grow up
safe and protected from the harsh world that he had known. He would see that
they grew up as good solid citizens, with a good education. He had quit school
but he knew the value of an education if you wanted to make something of
yourself.
"Hey, Lenore! Come and see your old man a minute. What's this I hear about
you not knowin your lesson this mornin? We'll have to cut out the TV on
Saturday nights if you can't get your lessons done."
"Aw, dad. It's just religion. What's so important about all this religion stuff
anyway?"
Sandy smiled as she watched them together. Lenore was so much like her
father. Maybe too much at times.
"Babe, you're a Jew. And I want you to know what that means, and be proud
of it. For too long Jews have been afraid to stand up and be proud of what they
were. That's why people have walked all over them, even killed them. You be
proud to be a Jew, but you gotta know why you're proud. That's what you learn in
these classes."
"OK, dad. I'll do better next week." Lenore kissed him on the cheek and
went down the hall to her room.
Lou watched her walk away. Ain't she somethin, he thought, she's gonna be
some good lookin broad when she grows up. And she's smart too.
"Sandra, get me a cuppa coffee and a sandwich!"
"Get it yourself." Sandy yelled back. "I'm busy getting your dinner started."
54
Lou sat and waited. In a few minutes she came in and handed him the
sandwich and coffee. Lou grinned and ducked as she took a swing at him. "You
take good care ofthe old man. I got everything in life that's good. A good woman
and two great kids. What do ya say we make it three?"
"Come on, Lou. You know we can't afford another one. And there sure isn't
enough room in this apartment."
"When we move to Arizona I'll buy you a house with four bedrooms. One for
each kid. OK?"
"When we get there I'll let you know."
But Sandy knew that they would get there. Whatever Lou said he would do
- he did. They were all safe as long as Lou was around. But if anything
happened to him ... Sandy couldn't bear to think about it. Sandy was always
afraid. She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't. It was more than she
could handle until she met Lou. Even after he dropped out of school he con­tinued
to protect her. Nobody bothered Lou's girl. As long as he was here she
could function, but if anything happened to him she knew she would fall apart.
The kids had been in bed for hours. Lou fell asleep about eleven, but Sandy
couldn't close her eyes. The alarm was set for one o'clock and she was wide
awake when it went off. Lou rolled over and patted her playfully. "Make me some
coffee while I shower. Bring it in here. I'll drink it while I'm dressin."
Sandy made them both a cup of instant coffee. Lou was just coming out of
the bathroom. She watched as he dressed to go out. The knot in her stomach got
bigger each time. How long could he keep doing these things before he got
caught? Ifhe hadn't hurt his back he might have been able to hold down a decent
job. The Air Force gave him full disability, but it wasn't enough to support a
family. She knew he wasn't doing this out of necessity, though. It :was much more
than that. He loved the challenge, and the thrill of danger. But what if someone
made a mistake? They would all end up in jail. She couldn't bear to think about
it.
Some of her fear must have shown. Lou looked at her questioningly. "What's
the matter? Don't you have any confidence in the old man? Have I ever let you
down?"
Fighting her tears, Sandy turned away quickly and began picking up his
dirty clothes and towel. This was no time to get weepy. Lou didn't need any
distractions. She had known when she married him that he was a hoodlum. But
she kept hoping he would find some legitimate way to make a living. With his
brains he could do anything he set his mind to. He was Big Lou all right. Big man,
big heart and big ego!
The streets were quiet and a light snow was falling as the car pulled to the
curb and stopped. Neither man spoke as they waited. Lou came out and hurried
to the car. He slipped quickly into the back seat. "Damn, it's cold! If that
watchman is late we'll freeze our tails off."
"Mike and me picked up a pint, just in case, Lou. But we ain't had anything
to drink all night, honest."
Lou nodded and turned to look out the window. It was twenty-eight above
zero and the temperature was still dropping. Mike was driving carefully and
there hadn't been a sign of a cop anywhere. All the smart ones are in some coffee
joint keeping warm, he thought. At two in the morning, with temperatures like
this, there wouldn't be any of them sitting in cars watching. If everything went
according to plans he could be back in bed with Sandy by five. Any later than
that and one of the neighbors might see him go in. That would blow his alibi, if
he should need one.
The car slowed as they turned into an alley. Mike pulled into a garage where
the three men got out. A large truck, with dirt partially obliterating the lettering
55
on the sides, was parked nearby. They got into the truck quickly and headed out
of the alley. Within a few minutes they turned onto the highway. Joel could feel
the sweat running down his back in spite of the cold. A drink sure would help
right now, but Lou didn't allow any booze till the job was done.
Mike stopped the truck and shut off the ligllts at the drive to the Trading
Post. From the side of the building came two flashes of light - then three more.
"OK, Mike. That's the signal. Get around in back, quick."
The watchman was waiting for them. "The doors are open. Make it snappy!
The Highway Patrol comes by here about three-thirty so you've gotta be outta
here by then."
Moving swiftly, the four men loaded box after box of new leather goods onto
the truck. Boxes of boots, jackets, vests and purses. Each one worth a hundred or
more apiece. By three-fifteen they had loaded the last box. Lou turned to the
night watchman. "Are ya ready?" The watchman nodded. "Just make it quick.
We're pushin it pretty cloSe. And take it easy on my head."
"OK, we'll be in touch in about four months. Just as soon as this stuff cools
offand it's safe to move it. Joel, tie him up. Mike, hit him easy. Just enough to look
good for the cops."
They moved quickly and were on their way to Joel's mother's house before
the Highway Patrol made its rounds. Everything went just as planned.
It was dark in the alley, but that was an advantage. No one would see them
unloading the stuff and carrying it into the basement. Joel found it hard to
believe this load could bring them two hundred grand. But Lou always knew
what he was doing. When they had finished, Mike got out the pint and passed it
around. It was cold even when they were busy moving all the boxes. Now that
they had finished they all felt chilled to the bone. The whiskey warmed them up
inside, anyway.
All three were quiet as they drove the truck back to where they had left the
car. Lou was thinking about Arizona. When they sold this load he just might pack
Sandy and the kids up and move there. They had been talking about it for some
time now. It would be good for the kids and the warm weather would sure help
his back. His share would give them a good start.
They dropped Joel off first, then Mike took Lou home. "It was a good night's
work, Lou. For once Joel didn't screw up."
"Joel's OK. Just a little nervous. He never did have much self-confidence.
But he's loyal. That counts for a lot."
"Well, at least he left the sauce alone. Here we are! You've got it made, a nice
warm bed and a wife waiting for you. There's nobody waiting for me."
"Why don't you find a nice girl and get married, Mike? There's nothin like
it." Lou opened the door and stepped out. "Hang in there, man. Four months
from now we will all be in good shape. Catch you later."
Lou entered the apartment quietly and slipped into bed without waking
Sandy. Even before he fell asleep he was dreaming of the money, and Arizona.
III.
It had been a rough winter and a slim Christmas. If it hadn't been for the old
man the kids wouldn't have had much at all. But the old man always was a soft
touch where Sandy and the kids were concerned. A few small scams had kept
them going since the robbery, but nothing in big bucks. Just enough to scratch by
on. The papers had been full of accounts of the robbery for a couple of days. The
night watchman even got his picture on the· front page. But it was quickly
forgotten. Crime in the Boston area was common and no one got very excited
about it. It was just something they all lived with. Anyway, the Trading Post was
insured, so nobody got hurt.
It had been one of the worst winters in quite a few years. Drifts of snow had
piled up against buildings almost to the second story windows. The middle of
56
March brought a thaw. Everywhere there was mud and slush. Here and there
little bits of green were starting to show. Lou figured that now was the time to
move. He contacted the fence who agreed that it would be safe to peddle it now.
Then he called Joel and Mike and told them to meet him in the back room of his
old man's place in an hour. Arizona would soon be a reality.
Both men were on time and obviously excited. They could already feel the
money in their hands. Lou was watching for them.
"It's all set, guys. We do the same as we did before. Mike, you set up the
truck. After we pick up the stuff we head out of town. About twenty miles out
there is a side road and my man will be there with his truck - and the money."
Joel and Mike left the store planning how they would spend their share of
the money they would get on Sunday night. Joel wanted to go to Florida for a
long vacation. There would be lots of chicks there and lots of suckers just waiting
to be taken. Man, would he have a blast. With a classy new wardrobe and plenty
of money to spend, the broads would be chasing him.
Mike had other plans for his share. He really didn't like this kind of life and
wanted to use the money to go legit. First a couple of semesters in college. He had
just missed out on a good job with Honeywell because he didn't have any college
credits. And he would have something to offer Anne. They could buy a nice little
house iIi the suburbs. He would be able to give her all the things she deserved
and nobody would be able to say she was marrying a bum.
Sunday night Mike and Joel pulled up in front of Lou's place at exactly
eleven-thirty. Lou was watching for them and hurried out to the car. He turned to
Joel as he got in. "You got the key to your old lady's place? Nobody's there now, is
there? When does she get back from Florida?"
"Yah, I got the key. She stayed here for Christmas so that she could be with
the grandkids, but she isn't planning to come back until next month. She don't
like the cold, and anyway, she's having a ball with all those old Jewish widowers
down there. Maybe she'll trap one and get off my back for a change."
The truck was in the same place as before and they switched quickly. The
danger was over and they were all anxious to get their money after all these
months of waiting. They pulled up behind Joel's mother's place at twelve-thirty.
Joel was the first one to the door. He unlocked the door to the basement and
reached for the light switch. "Jeez, will you look at that? My God, Lou, what are
we going to do now?"
The three men stood dumbfounded, their dreams shattered into a million
pieces. The basement was flooded with water and there were leather goods
floating all over the place. Some of them still frozen.
"The water pipes musta busted," Mike said quietly, as if to himself. Tears
forced their way from under his half-shut eyelids. Gone was the house in the
suburbs and all the things he had planned for Anne. He could still go to college,
but it woulq have to be at night. Easy street was gone, and it was back to grubbing
for a dime again.
Gone were Joel's visions of the Florida beaches and all the gorgeous chicks.
It would be back to running numbers for a few extra bucks so that he could get
into the Saturday night crap games. And he'd be stuck livin with his old lady till
she went back to Florida next winter. They'd have to get rid of this mess before
she got back.
Lou just stood there looking at the hundred grand floating there in front of
him. Arizona would just have to wait a little longer. But he would get there, he'd
promised Sandy and the kids. He never broke a promise. At least it wasn't me
that screwed things up, he thought. How could anyone know this would hap­pen?
He reached out for a box floating nearby and took a jacket off the top. Only
the lining was a little wet in a few places. A little dry cleaning and it would look
OK. "Well, it wasn't a total loss," he said as he turned and walked out the door.
"Sandy will like this."
57
The Circle
A sunburnt leaf trembling as each small
whisper of a breeze passes by,
Soon, fall ...
Then winter with its harsh, bitter wind ...
Is love like a leaf bursting forth
like a new life in the spring?
Only to burst forth with sparkling excitement,
to revel in the newness of its creation
then to fade, tremble
... and fall ...
the everlasting circle.
B.A. Lalo
The Land of Alone
Long, long ago, in the Land of Alone,
In a time we call Vanished-by-Fire,
Lived a stricken folk, their only cloak
The Shipwreck of all Desire.
For a whirlwind rose from the Sea of Cold,
Uprooting the Family Tree
And slaying the Dove of Brotherly Love
Before sporting back to sea.
No man walked in the Garden of Touch,
Slowly each soul withered and died,
And all that remained when the White Flame came
Was the shriek of the vulture's cry.
Helen Ehrlich
Dismembered, alone
Like fragments of broken time
Yearns to be just One.
Dean Spilos
58
My One Of These Days Calendars
Let's see ...
There are birthdays, anniversaries,
Holidays, graduations, babies, weddings
And so forth
To keep me up to date.
But it seems there are still the things
That forever get done late.
I can mark and mark on my calendars
For reminders through the days
And still time gets away from me
In its quickly passing ways.
So, I came to this conclusion
That I need something more ­Than
just my normal calendar
To help me keep a score.
I need some sort of counter
Titled "For One of These Days"
And then just add the-list
To maybe get me through the maze.
Yes, I think that sounds good
I would add such things as promises made
and - be sure and don't forget;
Or this is a friendly reminder -
And even - don't forget this face you met.
Mend this, fix that, go here,
buy this, call her
return a loan, and owe letter to ­Are
all areas to add for sure.
All of these being I notice
Specific things that get undone
When I also am aware of desires of­One
of These Days just for fun.
Of all the things I intend to do
A calendar just does not have room
What Monday through Sunday is just seven days
Or another word could fit - like Zoom!!
And what is a month but four weeks
Of seven days come and gone
And before you know it you have twelve months
Then it is in another year where you belong.
In fact, there is a point to make
About things to do one of these days
It doesn't seem to be bad things left undone,
But the things that are nice little ways.
I seem to have time to work in anger
60
Or tell my neighbor of bad news
And then for a niceness sent my way -
It is always - I must remember to send thank-you's.
Or it is one of these days I will go to church -
One of these days I will visit a friend
And - I think I will send a gift.
But I never do it in the end.
Tomorrow I will thank God
For how lovely things are today ­Oh,
and yes, I meant to say I love you
Before you got away.
Now that I think of it, it seems to be
That what I am trying to say -
For the things I mean to do -
One of These Days
should be today!!
Linda Romer
Steven Clayman
61
Mrs. Clean's Daughter
My mother is coming
For dinner tonight,
"Don't put yourself out, Dear,
Fix just a quick bite."
(Which means, meat, vegetables, salad,
Hot rolls will be fine,
Make a yummy dessert,
And she'll bring the wine.)
So I frantically clean,
Scrub and polish all day.
(Mother's hand is attached to
A can of disinfectant spray.)
Her house is a showplace,
And cleaning is her thing,
My home is ... well, lived-in,
And clutter reigns as king.
She arrives, asks sympathetically,
"Have you been sick?
The dust on your baseboards
Is a quarter inch thick."
"Her values are different,
She'd rather live, learn and play,
Than follow a vacuum cleaner
Around the house all day."
My mother finally leaves,
Sadly shaking her head,
I take my husband's hand,
And lead him to bed.
Now, my mother can't understand
Just where she went wrong,
But she knows amid clutter with my husband
Is where I belong.
She replies, "When I see you
Living like this, I just hurt.
You know I didn't raise you
To live in such dirt."
At this point I've had it!
Her perfect daughter, I'm not!
I demand, "Show me where it says
That being clean is so hot!" "She's a very good mother,
With the patience of Job.
She's my sexual intellectual,
In a fuzzy bathrobe.
Warming to the subject,
She continues her outpour,
"A clean house is important,
Or else what's a wife for?"
My husband defends me,
Says, "I really don't mind,
If the house doesn't sparkle,
As a woman she'll shine.
And I know where my mother is coming from,
I think her antiseptic ideals are outdated,
And I'll never be moving towards housework because
Her germ warfare is clean overrated!
62 Flo Antinoro
4
Walk Towards The Spring
Walk towards the spring each day and touch each growing
Thing,
Look about and up above and pull the sunshine in.
Extend a friendly hand to all, who stand and wait
Smile and speak of love and truth, not hate.
Look upon the weaker things and try to give them strength.
Be kind, be soft of voice, give and never take.
Walk towards the winter glow and brighten every path,
A smile, a friendly word to all will surely brighten
Every task.
Joan Rice
Lord, You've Given Me
From the hills of easy Kentucky to the streets of west L. A.
Lord, it's been a long road, growing harder every day
But if I've made it this far, I can make it to the top
'Cause you've given this old country boy a soul that just
won't stop
Lord, you've given me more love and sanity
Than most who've ever sailed these stormy seas
I'm grateful for Your love and I hope I'm good enough
To give back all the joy You've given me
I started out in honky-tonks where I would pass the hat
Then I moved on to nightclubs, I thought I was getting fat
But my first big break was Houston where I rolled them in
the aisles
It was there you took my inches, Lord, and stretched them
into miles
Lord, you've given me more love and sanity
Than most who've ever sailed these stormy seas
I'm grateful for Your love and I hope I'm good enough
To give back all the joy You've given me
I'll go on a-pickin', Lord, until the day I die
Singing songs about life and love to make them laugh and cry
It's the only life I've ever known, it's the only game
I'll play
When I rise up to Heaven, Lord, I'll be pickin' all the way
Lord, you've given me more love and sanity
Than most who've ever sailed these stormy seas
I'm grateful for Your love and I hope I'm good enough
To give back all the joy You've given me
Bob Beckley 63
The Sea Is Beautiful
The sea is beautiful and yet, somehow
Cold.
The waves break softly over my feet,
Yet they warm me.
The sun shines down upon my face and
Warms my breast.
Memories of days gone by are visions
So clearly.
The sea is beautiful and yet, somehow
Cold.
It cannot bring back the laughter on
The shore, the days of youth.
The sea is beautiful and yet,
Somehow cold, but I love the sea.
Joan Rice
Communication
Your eyes are open;
I look at you; there is light;
No word is spoken.
Odessa Roane Lastrapes
Carney
Terry Hall
The grease-on-hand-man takes a drag on the short-end-part of a dirty Camel
and motions hard, as if the people are only tickets, and the crowds are only
marks. He hurries them and thrills them, herds them and locks them in, and to
him they haven't any faces, they are not of the carnival.
His moves are exact - he's an old-timer going on thirty - he smiles his
cracked and shifted face to momentary young and pretty looks who watch him
and his tatooed and oiled arms, and they instantly forget him - the traveling
carney, the arcade gypsy, the midway man; they forget him and miss him as the
gears begin to sing, and the ride starts around.
64
The Traveler committee thanks everyone who submitted poetry, prose, photo­graphy,
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 ofthis 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 475 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 Traveler Staff
The Traveler staff, standing are (left to right) Mike Souders, George Daugherty, Linda
Romer, Michael Sebring and Daniel G. Fink. Seated are Kathy Briant, Ki Roever, Joan Klein
and Peg Heltames.
(Photo by LaVerne Berry)