"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1979

              /979
ThI
Glendale
ring 1979
E;iitor
Wendy Dodd
/. Staff .-
Barbara Barbera
Judi Bieda /1
Steven Clayma
Brenda Ham nd
Ki Roever
I
2
Contributors
Art and Photography
Bieda, Judi 8
Breshears, Leon J. . 51
Clayman, Steve 39
Colen, Laurel H .48
Hillary, L. 45
Jonas, Deborah 11
Smith, Carl 14, 30, 55
Spence, Mary Jane 36, 41
Steele, Anita ' 36
Talarico, Phil 18
Zitlau, Bob, Jr. 5, 6,15,22,29,42,47,52,54
Poetry
Antinoro, Flo 14, 20, 40, 44
Bailey, Brenda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13,30,39
Baldwin, Helen 20, 55
Banister, Maria Rebeca 36
Benninger, Geraldean 24
Bruno, Wayne 13
Ehrlich, Helen ·········· 6,7,11,12,21, 27, 29, 37
Feldman, Joseph 41
Fowler, Wanda Lea 41
Genevive, N 54
Hammond, Brenda 5,31,53
Jenkins, Lesley 8, 18, 27
Jonas, Deborah 11, 12, 15,37,43,47
Juarez, Felix 8
Kaplan, Hal _ 23
Lademan, Alice 7
Landerman, Susan 4,17,20,25,40
Martin, Dianne D .40
Martin, Julie 21,37,43,49
Maulfair, Michael D 5, 23, 25
Maxson, Paul 13
Mercer, Nancey 17, 24, 30, 3J, 44, 49
Mounsey, Pauline 8
Murphy, Ann 53
Murphy, Sherry 16,31
Rice, Joan 13,25
Rinaldo-Bauer, Debbie 4, 14, 15, 16,26,36,39,46,54
Small, Steven 46
Wilkins, Alice 16, 17, 53
Williams, Lisa 7, 26
Williams, Sharon K. 47
Prose
Clayman, Steve 9,50
Causer, Kay 44
Green, M. J. . 32
Miller, Kohanna 19
Tretta, Jeanne 38
Prize Winners
Photography
Stars by Bob Zitlau, Jr. First Prize
Riverbottom by Carl Smith Second Prize
Prose
"Matty" by M. J. Green First Prize
"Catharsis" by Kohanna Miller Second Prize
"Cindy at 15" by Jeanne Tretta Third Prize
"A Brief Glossary " by Steve Clayman Third Prize
Art
Anita Steele First Prize
Laurel Cohen Second Prize
Mary Jane Spence Third Prize
Cover
Sue Sterner First Prize
Poetry
Helen Erhlich First Prize
Brenda Bailey Second Prize
Susan Landerman Third Prize
3
It is a part
of my being­this
corner of
the world.
It belongs to my heart
and yet it can never
be mine.
I have seen the moods
of my canyon -
stormy, dark clouds
descending formidably
upon the red cliffs
driving sheets of rain
down their crevices ­charging
down the washes,
tearing off slices of sandstone.
I have seen the valley
sing with the wind that
only lives here -
rising tones seeking out
echoing hallways and
young pinion pine crowns.
I have seen the snows
wrap misty fingers around
Sentinel Rock and roll
clouds gently down her
neighbors caressing the
brushy slopes.
I have greeted many
a bright morning of serenity ­shared
only by visiting
hummingbirds and chipmunks;
Sat alone in the sleeping cabin
grateful for this magical place.
And now I have only this poem and
pictures and bittersweet
memories of a home
that was mine for a
moment in time and
I now know the
sorrow behind the coyote's song.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
4
Stardust Wine
Dreaming was Forever
In the sunshine of our days,
Searching for an answer
In the sapphire rays.
And worlds were turning onward,
Leaving us behind,
But each had the other
So neither one could mind.
And we soared in the goldgreens
Of a million afternoons
Watching silver darting
Around imagined moons.
But now the dreaming's ending
With a parting shine,
A glimmer in the golden
Of stardust wine.
Violet songs for singing
And stones to clasp and feel,
Sliding into sunset
Of sky and steel.
And finding all the old ways
We used to roam
In the private darkness
Of an unknown home.
But now we are apart again
Within the fading sun,
And all the colored memories
Make two where there was one.
And so I sit alone tonight
Wishing for what was mine ­And
I find the taste of sadness
!n my glass of stardust wine.
Susan Landerman
See his wings caress the sun,
as he soars,
high above the mountain.
I wish he could teach me too ­-
to fly (but my feet
are set firmly on the ground ­though
I don't know why.)
r
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
Dream Bird
Look at him dance
in the sky
to the delight of the child.
I think that I too -
should like to dance (but my feet ­are
set firmly on the ground ­though
I don't know why.)
As he fades away,
I must realize
that the things we see with morning eyes
Are not always real.
Brenda Hammond
Dream bird of darkest night
take me on your endless flight,
show me things yet to be
and I will then let you fly free.
Dream bird of a nether world
let your wings from sleep uncurl
and carry you to a distant void
where all man's dreams and hopes are joined.
Dream bird who shuns the day
you look at tomorrow to find the way
and put your faith in stars above
so you can hope and wait for love.
Dream bird whom sorrow knows
but to it no debt you owe
take your tears and let them flow
and fall on rocks and men below.
Dream bird always fly
for without dreams men would die
and the lonely hand of death would sweep along
while lonely men sang death's sad song.
Mike Maulfair
5
The Tiniest Leaf
He was the tiniest leaf on the tree, the weakest
From the moment his trembling bud appeared.
He left his shelter reluctantly, timid and
Afraid to greet the light his brothers devoured.
Strong, exultant, they lifted their veined arms
Upward towards the globe of life and drank
To excess its potent brew. He hid beneath
Their shadows, barely able to cling to the bough
That mothered him. Now, loosening
from the branch,
He tears, then flutters helpless to the ground,
Where, broken, dry, and crushed, he
returns almost
At once to dust, to sink and meld again
Into the womb of earth, nourishing there
The very tree that gave him birth.
Unchosen, not called upon to serve,
This tiny leaf becomes life's reservoir.
Helen Ehrlich
6
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
I Love ...
Children playing and people laughing,
Sandy beaches and pine wood burning;
The scented smell of hidden antiques,
Glass like water from a pair of skis;
Marshmallows roasting, the smell of rain,
A roaring ocean, looking back once again;
The free expression from a sad-happy clown,
All within a puddle, the world up-side-down;
Big wool sweaters, giving hugs,
Sipping hot chocolate from a brown warm mug;
The hum of talk in a spicy warm kitchen,
Keeping secrets but someone to listen;
Drawing pictures in cotton clouds, spirit
Of circuses and cheering crowds;
Cookies baking, a shady swing,
Sad quiet music and comforting things;
Rocking chairs, someone to tell you good night,
Fresh cut flowers arranged just right;
The purr of a kitten with spring on the way,
A taste of salt along the bay;
Afternoon showers, being able to cry,
Drifting fog and seagulls in flight;
Ribbons that curl and boxes with lace,
Wrapped in a quilt in your favorite place;
Walking on sidewalks just after it rains,
A hand to hold to erase all the pain;
Big dogs running over fields of green;
Christmas caroling, friends you haven't seen;
Finding time to daydream, a place to sit,
People smiling and really meaning it;
Hiking in hills, no direction to follow,
A family to love you for today and tomorrow;
These are the things I truly love, but you too
Are here, you're in all the above.
Lisa Williams
I took a walk
the other day
passed my soul
along the way
first sight
was strange
as never seen
or heard before
Alice Lademan
Hobbit-Time
o little round man, with furry brown feet,
Everywhere I go I meet
You,
Sitting on my doorstep,
Peering in my window.
Beckoning
You walk with me through the hours
And chide me when we pass the flowers
If I do not stop to admire their tints
Or breathe awhile their delicate scents.
You scold me, too, when a bird sings
And I listen instead to my own thoughts
(Dull, plodding things),
While his music soars by on wings,
As he does.
And if I do not fix a lovely cloud in the sky
With an attentive eye,
Why, you positively storm and frown
Th~Ishou~looknot up, but down.
And then there are times
When I'm sure I hear
You whispering softly in my ear
Tales of far-flung adventures
We two might share,
If I would but dare.
o little round man; with furry brown feet,
I promise you, someday we'll meet
And walk about, your hand in mine.
Someday, someday.
(When I have time.)
Helen Ehrlich
7
Amigos?
Amistad; Que palabra tan bella
que sonido tan hermoso
que cuerpo menos voluptuoso
no baila al compas de ella
Que roca por ser mas dura
no pudiera desmoronarse
tan s610 por ser madura
con s610 poder nombrarse
Amistad yo Ie lIamo
al unico sentimiento puro
que muchos dicen, 10 amo
y luego se muestran duros
Amigo brinda tu mano
no guardes nunca rencores
no seas tan inhumano
y se fiel en los amores.
Felix Juarez
Cat
black, white, tiger, gray,
tall, furry, fat.
ball, yarn, string, play,
purr, meow, scat!
Leslie Jenkins
8
Judi Bieda
A Lonely Place
To march alone
When all else dance;
To hear your drummer
When all else can't.
To feel the discord
When all else rhyme,
To be off beat
When all keep time.
To struggle on
When all seems lost;
To try and try
Whate'er the cost.
To make it count
When no one's there;
To do your best
Because you care.
To be alone
To wish, to share;
To reach to touch
And no one's there.
To hear the beat
To march along,
And at long last -
To share your song!
To know the joy
Though brief it be;
To march together
Just you and me.
Pauline Mounsey
A Rock and a Hard Place Steve Clayman
As I remember it, my childhood was bliss­fully
happy. I was a carefree lad whose bound­less
afternoons were spent frollicking gaily
among the sterile, landscaped plots of my
suburban neighborhood. Countless sweaty
games of kickball were played out in those
cold asphalt lanes, when we could find a suit­able
place between oil slicks. I remember
looking at the oil slicks after a rain and seeing
the splashes of color there, mutilated rainbows,
and thinking how pretty they were. I guess we
all thought that way then; we always managed
to find beauty in decadence.
One day shortly after I turned 17, after a
typical dinner with my family in which my
younger brother would upset Mom by bring­ing
up the most incredibly gross subjects he
could think of, and I would upset Mom by for­getting
the salad spoon when I set the table,
and Mom would upset Dad by forgetting to
put radishes in the salad, and Dad would upset
everyone with audible and olfactory manifes­tations
of his digestive difficulties; after all that,
we went into the living room to watch the six
o'clock news. A man with ironed hair and a
jazzy tie came on, and sounding awed with his
own voice, announced the major headlines:
riot, war, cult murders, corruption, inflation,
recession, famine, terrorism, pollution, new
carcinogenic substances, and a little lost
doggie. That was just during the opening
credits, the "For these stories, and more ..."
part. Then came four commercials (three
national, one local), a station break, a "tech­nical
difficulties - please stand by," and a test
of the Emergency Broadcast System, during
which we were repeatedly assured that it was
only a test. (I always wondered what they
would tell us if it were an actual nuclear holo­caust
- to take out our umbrellas? To take out
more insurance, maybe? To pray?) After the
Moog synthesizer theme song, which sounded
exactly like a spastic rubber band, old ironed­hair
came back on and dove right into the
tragedies, sounding as awed as ever.
When he moved from international to nation­al
calamities, however, he began to slip. It
started slowly, with a rapid blinking and a
quivering of his lower lip. Then we watched,
amazed, as he burst out laughing, a maniac un­controllable
sort of laughter. It gradually turned
into sobbing, great racking sobs, more like
coughs, followed by staccato intakes of air,
which sounded absurdly like a kitchen sink
unclogging itself. Finally three men came on
and carried him offstage, and though he kicked
and screamed I noticed that, incredibly, he
still had every hair in place.
That's when I decided I would get on the ball.
So I became an idealist, and everything
I saw after that disgusted me. I no longer ab­sorbed
the television news with my eyes
blinking and my mouth slightly ajar - the
carp effect - I agonized over it. Now when I
walked down the street I saw oil slicks, not
rainbows.
Everything seemed so precarious. I kept
picturing the whole world of man, that pre­cious,
pitifully isolated bubble of life as, of
all things, a car. Not just any car, but a car zip­ping
down the highway at a speed definitely
not in compliance with the federal limit. The
terrifying thing was, the person who should be
driving is looking the other way. As a matter of
fact, everyone is looking the other way. The
car is as free and as uncontrollable as a stone
flung casually into some chasm; deep, but
most certainly not bottomless.
To help get that car under control, I became
an activist. Fired with excitement at the chance
to save the world, I began activating right and
left. I mean, I got involved all over the place.
Amid the screaming, reflected glare of our
formica kitchen table, I wrote letters to the
President, my Congressman, and the news­paper.
Four weeks later the President sent me
an autographed five-by-seven glossy portrait
and a tourist map of the White House. My Con­gressman
sent me a three-by-five matte-fin­ished
portrait and a card with the official state
flower, state bird, state flag, state seal, and
state method of execution on it, all printed in
the official state ink. The newspaper didn't send
me anything, but I did get an unsigned letter
from a government agen4Y, the name of which
I will not mention - although its initials are
C.I.A. - asking about my views on the Free
World. Word travels fast.
9
I tried joining citizen's groups and con­sumer
organizations for a different approach.
I thought that might bring the kind of action I
was looking for. One afternoon I was assigned
to take a telephone survey of opinions regard­ing
the effectiveness of the auto emissions
control program. After nine consecutive si­lences
followed by "The what program?" I
turned in my Nader button.
Desiring something with more immediate
effects, I turned to civil disobedience. I be­came
a devoted protest-marcher and sit-inner.
My sitting-in was okay, but my marching need­ed
some work. What I lacked in skill; however,
I made up for in high-school cheerleading en­thusiasm.
Our leader coached me on some of the
fine points of protesting, such as emphatic
picket-sign waving, forceful slogan-chanting,
and expert gas-mask usage. All three at once
can be pretty confusing. I thought I had it all
down until the day of the actual march. I guess
I just got a little confused. When the crucial
moment came, I waved the gas mask and clap­ped
the picket sign to my face. It had to be
surgically removed, but while I was under
they fixed my nose for free.
For all the good I had done thus far, I felt like
a gnat trying to take control of that steering
wheel, buzzing aimlessly, tracing tenuous
paths randomly around its perimeter.
When my sophomore year at State U.
rolled around, I saw that drastic measures
would be needed. So I stopped eating. With
three-fourths of the world starving, it seemed
to be the only thing I could do in good con­science.
My parents' reactions were mixed. It was
during our traditional morning breakfast that
I told them my decision.
"( don't understand, Mark," Mom said,
putting down her cereal spoon. Dad remained
buried behind the front page.
"I said I've quit eating to save food for the
world food shortage," I replied calmly.
"Here, have a bowl of Crunchy-Sugary­Honey-
Os." She held the brightly colored box
toward me hopefully.
"I said I've stopped eating, Mqm."
"But they're new and improved!" she ob-
10
jected, pointing indignantly at the large, elec­tric
blue letters on the front of the box. She
was right; they were new and improved, by
George.
"It's a matter of principle. There is a world
food shortage, you know," I said, looking at
her.
"What business is that of yours? Morris, tell
him it's none of his business!" Dad rustled
the paper in reply and grunted noncommit­tally.
''I'm sorry, but my mind's made up." I pushed
back my chair and got up to leave. They all con­tinued
eating. The crunching was deafening;
I almost couldn't concentrate on my plans.
Actually, I didn't have any formal plans. I
would just stop eating. The decision caused
considerable discussion among the group of
friends I ate lunch with at the local hamburger
joint. They noticed my empty place setting as
we sat down, and Howard was the first to
speak.
"What's up, Mark, you going on a hunger
strike?"
"In a way, yes. I've decided to stop eating
to aid the world food shortage."
There was this big, long silence after that.
Then Joe cleared his throat and said, "Excuse
me, but have you gone completely out of your
mind?"
His girlfriend, Joanne, smiled and said, "Oh,
come on, Joey, he's only joking." She laughed
appreciatively, and then stopped. "Aren't
you?"
''I'm serious. You guys go ahead and eat,
though. Don't mind me. I'll just watch." I stared
at the table expectantly.
Howard had been eating all along, but he
stopped long enough to say, "Just what good
do you think this is going to do?"
"I don't know. Maybe none at all. It's just
something I have to do." I looked at the burger
in his right hand. It dripped on the waxed
paper. "I just hope you can live with yourself
that's all." He took another enormous bite with
a flourish, then chewed with gusto to spite me.
He was a business major.
The next few weeks were rough. I only drank
liquids, figuring that the poor people of the
world were dying of hunger, not thirst. Poun­dage
slid off my body like hot fudge off a
sundae. The hunger pains were excruciating;
I was content spiritually, though.
One sunny day I passed the hall mirror,
and I had to look quite closely before I found
myself in the glass. But find myself I did, and
was shocked at the picture; I looked like a
handful of broken matchsticks. I realized right
then and there that the only reason I was un­happy
was because of me. The only danger I
faced was from myself.
So I got in my car and headed for the ham­burger
place. About halfway there, I turned
around to get something from the back seat. As
I did so, I remember thinking that it was a
good thing I came to my senses in time, or I
might have really been in trouble.
I continued to rummage in the back seat,
and myoid car zipped down the highway. 0
Why Not GREEN
for Go?
I mailed you a letter this morning.
I put it in the mailbox and
raised the red flag up.
(Why RED for stop -
Why not GREEN for go?)
The calendar says today is
August 18, 1978,
and the clock says it is
9:30 a.m.,
but the date is really
The Year of Our Lord
and the Time is Now.
This is a ponderous
tick tick tick,
this clock whose
hands sweep infinity,
but it is not a clock
I'd wish to stop,
the ride is so much fun.
And besides,
when vou get your mail,
the red flag will be down.
Helen Ehrlich
Deborah Jonas
The Answer for
Everything
The sky is dark and black
The sea is cold and slow
The trees are dead and brown
The artist is out of paint
The writer is out of ink
The child is out of love
Spring lightens the sea
Until it is warm and blue
And the waves can move fast
Spring lightens the trees
It makes them every color
Of green and makes them grow
God gives the artist paint
God gives the writer ink,
And the child all his love.
Deborah Jonas
11
The City
The hard cement.
The cold faces
walking by,
as if in a hurry
to get someplace,
nowhere really,
just away
from other glancing eyes.
The trash scattered.
The children tease,
not knowing
the meaning of their words
and the anguish
they cause their "friend"
just to be
one on the winning team.
The traffic moves.
The poor man begs,
without doubt
there's any other way
to live his life,
to earn his bread,
just to beg,
and hope for someone kind.
Debbie Jonas
12
Mt. Sisyphus Lane
I wish I didn't have to clean my house,
so I could think on grander things,
like the way the stars
swing through the skies
or the way Heaven smiles
in a child's eyes.
But the days of slaves are gone,
and if I don't clean my house,
who is going to do it for me?
And so I go about,
furiously mopping up the place,
mocked by dirt with a satyr's face.
And there are my books,
my beautiful books,
leaning out of their sterile case,
trying to catch my eye
as I rush by,
yearing for me to release their shine.
But house-shine prevails.
My house must be put in order,
even the Bible tells me so,
(and Jesus loves me, this I know).
I beg your pardon? My address?
Just a stone's throw
from you, really -
7734 Mt. Sisyphus Lane ­look
me up anytime,
you'll find things much the same.
This is the way I clean my house,
clean my
clean
this is the way
Helen Ehrlich
Hello
Hello Lord! What do you do in your
Spare time? How about a coffee break
And listen to some troubles of mine.
I promise not to keep you, Lord, just
A minute or two; you surely· have so
Many things that you have yet to do.
So, c'mon, Lord and take a break; maybe
I too can help to lessen your own
Tremendous ache.
Hope that you can hear me, Lord; my
Voice is moderately small, so leave
A sign to let me know if you have
Heard at all.
If you are much too busy, Lord, I
Won't mind to wait. Just please try
To remember me next time you need
A break!
Joan Rice
Fields of Time
Do you ever run away in your mind?
Let your thoughts drift through space and time?
You can go anywhere or do anything
Be who you want, even a king.
Somedays I run through fields of time
Remembering silly rhymes,
And nights as sweet as cherry wine,
I held you close, were you mine?
There'll come a day when I won't dream
I'll run for real! in that far field
I'll twirl and dance and sing and shout,
Will you be there when I get out?
Brenda Bailey
Just a Thought
after Saying
Goodbye
You said,
"It's guys like you
That makes me wish
I wasn't leaving."
Perhaps just a passing phrase,
But,
When I wake up in the
Morning
I think of you
and see the sunrise,
and watch the birds
and the flowers
and trees
and bees
and I know that God made
All this beauty for a reason.
Bye girl, Paul is sad.
Paul Maxson
College is can withn't "T"
The matchless wonder of smoke.
Darn my soul damn it.
Untie you Do Knot
Amazmatize, Wisdomwize.
The afterwhat rebuttle
Beforewhich remained an apple entire,
a pizza without cheese.
Wayne Bruno
13
West Fork
Liquid silver
swirling around
granite gems that
lie mosaic on
the sandy floor.
Dancing around
mossy trunks
that challenge the
surging currents.
Coppery glints from
backs of quick darting
trout-dashing
under smooth
sandstone ledges.
Bright bits like
diamond chips
bounce off rushing rapids
up towards
the autumn sky.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
14
Carl Smith
Death's Reprieve
With my undiagnosed illness
I sit in the stillness
Of my Doctor's waiting room.
There are germs all around me
(Hypochondriacs surround me!)
As I anticipate my final doom.
For what seems like hours
I think of the flowers
That will decorate my burial tomb.
Then finally it's my turn
To see the doctor and I learn
Exactly what malady I hold.
It seems that my wheezing,
Coughing, aching and sneezing
Is only a common cold.
Flo Antinoro
Timeless canyon ...
tell me a story
about the years you've worn.
· .. the gritty winds that have
swept your soul,
digging deep within.
· .. the rhythmic waves
of ancient seas that have
battered your sandy shores.
· .. the golden stretches
of drifting dunes that have
rippled across your face.
Tell me about
the rains that came,
tell me of their fury
as they pounded down
into your narrow hallways
of stone.
Tell me about all these ...
the secrets of your past
that make you what I see,
timeless canyon.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Broken homes,
Growing brush
covering the streets
once covered by feet.
Feet walking,
And climbing
the stone covered steps
carrying the gold.
The gold rock,
Town's treasure
it built Jerome
and others like it.
Towns that lived
Till empty
then faded away
leaving memories.
Debbie Jonas
Bryce
Fiery colors
radiate from
pinnacles
that wind into
a canyon of
sunlit colors.
Eerie shapes
twisted by
ancient winds
and rivers of rain.
Wandering trails
weave across
timbered slopes
and create a
delicate nedlework
of color.
Sun rays
pierce the sheer
ridges
seeking discovery
of the cool shadows
hiding at the bottom.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Full Circle
On our first date
you brought me roses
When we became friends
you gave me daisies.
One very special day - in the woods
you picked wild violets for me.
Now sometimes
you send roses.
Alice Wilkins
16
Alone
Self by self he lives each day
Amid life's struggle to survive.
He walks alone among the throng
And speaks to no one but himself.
He does not stop to feel the air,
Nor look around at who is there.
He's built a wall around his world,
And wants to share it with himself.
It's fear that makes this man so brave
That he can by himself remain,
To touch no other, speak to none,
And share no feelings, give no love.
He's seen too much, he'll say to you
If you can urge him once to speak.
But do not try to touch his sleeve
Or give him comfort when he's down.
For he may think you like the rest,
Expecting something in return.
He cannot bring himself to ask
For favors, love, a tear to shed.
He's much too proud to owe a debt,
And would not offer on his own
To give what he has not to lend,
Nor want to share what he has left.
He's made his world a safe fortress
Where he can hide himself away.
It's cold and lonely, but he reasons
He can provide all he may need.
And when his day on earth is done,
He'll owe no man, no man need weep.
If he was half the man he thought,
He'd look anew upon each day.
He'd take the goodness with the bad.
He'd share a smile, a thought, a frown,
And know that we are all the same ­Each
needing what the other gives.
Man was not meant to build such walls,
To hide his feelings deep inside.
He must be willing, wanting, needing,
To share himself, his heart, his love.
For then he'll walk no more alone.
He'll own what he could never buy.
Sherry Murphy
Enchantress
Your pale blond body excites me.
I long to touch and caress you,
but that might break this mystical spell.
The dark blue velvet around you
only seems to make you shine more,
to give you warmth.
The pull you have on me
makes me yearn to hold you
and give my love to you.
But that would be foolish,
for you are the moon
enchantress for centuries
and I only mortal.
Nancey Mercer
Lover of the
Morning
The alarm's gone off
Dawn touches the corners of my room
He slips thru the doorway
Quiet, stealthy, sure.
Every muscle ripples in strength
Certain of his every move
I yawn and roll over
Feigning sleep - just to see.
He slips across my bed
Touching my ankle, then knee
In silent greeting
He slides across my body - lacing me.
Except for the love so clear in his eyes
His body is tense with joy
He pats me on the nose and
At last, asks the question ...
Meow?
Alice Wilkins
A Shadow of Myself
I dreamed a song the other day,
It slipped my mind and flew away
And no one will hear its flying notes.
I saw a song far overhead,
It wasn't mine and yet it led
Me far from here.
A shadow of myself has disappeared,
Has flown to a place of nowhere near;
I've lost the song that led to Forever,
I follow a new song with a tear.
I thought a tale the other day,
But it ran off the other way
And no one will read its running words.
I found a story on the floor,
It wasn't mine but let me soar
Far worlds from here.
A shadow of myself has disappeared,
Has flown to a place of nowhere near;
I've lost the song that led to Forever,
I follow a new song with a tear.
I knew Shareen the other day,
But she was free and went away
And never will she return again.
I thought I saw her over there,
Was someone else with ebon hair,
Not she I knew.
A shadow of myself has disappeared,
Has flown to a place of nowhere near;
I've lost the song that led to Forever,
I follow a new song with a tear.
Susan Landerman
17
Snowflakes and
Daffodils
Snowflakes
fall softly,
where long,
green grass
and gentle,
laughing streams
did flow.
Slowly,
oh so slowly,
the drifting,
soft, white snow
vanishes
and sunny daffodils
peek out.
Soon
they too
whisper good-bye
and everything
becomes juicy,
rosy,
and ripe.
So ripe
it soon
fades away.
Leaves of
red, yellow,
orange, and brown
flutter softly to the ground.
Silently,
the feathery,
white snowflakes
reign once more
until
the daffodils
peek out.
Lesley Jenkins
Catharsis
I was eight years old - a skinny, scabby­kneed
little twig of a girl, with a Shirley-Temple
head of sandy curls and large hazel eyes that
overwhelmed my thin face. I spoke with a lisp,
and there was a gap in my smile where my left
front tooth had not yet come in. I loved climbing
the big mimosa tree in our front yard, and doing
cartwheels and headstands and somersaults,
and playing with my orange and white-striped
cat. But most of all, I loved my father.
Every evening when he returned from his law
office in the city, I would run to greet him as he
strode up the sidewalk, tall and slender and
handsome in his pin-striped suit and gray hom­burg.
I would hurl myself into his arms and give
him an eager hug and a loud kiss on the cheek
as I inhaled the familiar sweetness of his tobac­co-
and-Yardley cologne scent. He would al­ways
groan and make some joke about how
heavy I was getting, and then would put me
down gently so that I could carry his pigskin
briefcase, swinging it jauntily as Iskipped along.
Before dinner, he always changed into his
favorite slacks and plaid flannel shirt and set­tled
into his big green easy chair to read the
evening paper and relax with a cigarette. As
soon as I had set the table I would join him,
perching on the arm of his chair, trying un­successfully
not to fidget, while he finished
what he was reading. At last he would turn to
the comics section and, starting with Li'l Abner,
would read all my favorites to me. He created a
different voice to characterize each person­ality,
from the lazy drawls of Li'l Abner and
Daisy Mae to the clipped Brooklyn accent of
Dick Tracy, bringing the characters in the
little squares to life.
At night, scrubbed and combed and smell­ing
of toothpaste and Sweetheart soap, Iwould
climb into his lap and snuggle blissfully. With
my head resting on his chest, I would listen
to the strong, comforting thump of his heart­beat,
feeling the warmth of his body through
the softness of his shirt and watching the thin
white strand of smoke rise like a magic Hindu
rope from the cigarette in his hand. Eventu­ally
my mother would come to collect me, and
I would put my arms around his neck, kiss
him goodnight, and nuzzle him one last time
before I took her hand and was led off to bed.
Kohanna Miller
He was killed that spring in a grinding
automobile accident, and the suddenness of
his death was too much for my stunned young
mind to comprehend. Numb with disbelief, my
heart became a cold stone in my chest, and I
could not grieve. All through the funeral I was
silent as a shadow, a mechanical doll with huge,
vacant, tearless eyes.
For days after that I stayed in my room as
much as possible, listening to records, color­ing,
playing with my cat - unconsciously
avoiding the desolation on the other side of
the bedroom door.
Then, one afternoon almost a week after the
funeral, I has just finished coloring a picture
and was looking all over my room for my blunt­nosed
scissors. Unable to find them, I remem­bered
the scissors that my mother kept in
her sewing basket in her room. I would have
called her to bring them to me, but I could
hear the muted roar of the vacuum in the dis­tance,
and I knew that she wouldn't hear me.
So I ventured from my room down the narrow
hall to her bedroom.
The door was open just a crack, and as I
pushed it wide, my eyes were inexorably
drawn to a large, silver-framed photograph
of my father which rested on Mother's dresser.
He was sitting behind his big desk at his office,
under a backdrop of certificates and diplomas,
and he was looking right at me, smiling that
wonderful smile of his - as if he had been
expecting me. I could smell his tobacco-and­cologne
scent, and his presence enveloped
me like a tender embrace.
I took the picture from the dresser and put
it in my lap as I sank down on the edge of the
bed, my eyes brimming. All at once a flood of
hot tears streamed down my cheeks, plop­ping
onto the glass-covered photo as the an­guish
and outrage that had been welling up
inside me pushed up into my throat. Great
tortured sobs racked my thin body again and
again. After what seemed like an eternity,
the turmoil within me slowly subsided.
Sometime during my catharsis, Mother
came to me, and as my torrent of tears abated I
became aware of her sitting next to me on the
bed, her arm encircling my shoulders. I look-
19
ed up into her face, and saw in her eyes and
her tender smile the relief she felt for me. Her
gentle words of consolation a"nd encourage­ment
soothed my aching heart, and her sweet
softness was a balm to my exhausted spirit.
Having accepted at last the painful reality of
my father's death, I drifted off to sleep in her
arms. 0
The Quest
In my solitude -
searching to know who I was,
There could be seen a mask
of falseness and pretense.
Hesitantly probing ­deep;
deeper.
Pain gushes forth -
The knife of detection has knicked
the artery to my soul.
Fear rules, Withdrawal becomes
a temporary bandage.
Attempting to pry again - slowly, gently.
Courage or moron simplicity?
Mesmerized
the pain numbs my mind
Can [ ever run away again?
from the worst within?
Or ever know the best?
Being what [ SHOULD be ­not
what I COULD be?
Festering wounds uncovered ­to
air, light, sun and self.
The bandage of pretense -
no longer necessary.
The cleansing wave of knowledge ­what
[was
what [am
what [ could be.
My humanness ­leaves
me humble.
Helen Baldwin
20
Song of the Ending
Dreaming ruins and ruined dreams;
Stone spires crumbling from the sky
To fall from other times and days,
And tumble to the future-lair
Of regretful dreams who cannot fly.
Circling songs and singing circles;
Amber callers raise one voice
Past sky and black between the worlds,
And wonder what it would be like
If they had flown up to take a choice.
Dreams and songs to hail Azure,
Tumed to grey in memories past;
And the dark to new horizons,
Each world claiming to be last.
Winging silent and silent wings;
The only sounds are those of Night
For all is stilled in Death but one,
The Ruiner of the Azure Kingdom ­And
none are left in gold to take flight.
Dreams and songs to hail Azure,
Clear blue memory of the past;
Soon there will be no new horizons ­What
world will finally be the last?
Susan Landerman
Housewife's Summer
Lament # 1
[ could really enjoy
my summer vacation
if it weren't for wall-to-wall kids
for three month's duration.
Flo Antinoro
Loneliness
Loneliness falls like raindrops
On the petals of happiness
And closes the blossom with sadness.
Loneliness hovers like clouds
Above the mountains of inner sunshine
And darkens the peaks with sadness.
Loneliness drifts like fog
Across the forests of hope
And blurs the picture with sadness.
Loneliness strikes like lightning
Into the shroud of serenity
And pierces the curtain with sadness.
And loneliness blankets like snow
Upon the river of love
Freezing the streams with sadness.
But loneliness passes like the wind
Through the field of sadness
And the wilted blossom is nourished into
a beautiful rose
Which explodes into colorful splendor
And warms the garden with its radiance.
Julie Martin
Othello: A Jumping­Rope
Chant
Three lovely bodies on a great big bed
Everyone of them quite quite dead
While Uncle Gratiano is money ahead
Cry Desdemona cry out in your sleep
lago has Othello and his soul will keep
Pretty Michael Cassio rocking in his chair
The magic napkin in his golden hair
Good honest lago put it there
Cry out Emilia in your sleep
Your husband's gone acourtin' for
his soul to keep
The crown and cloth round our
hearts are curled
Armies stand ready with their flags unfurled
It's Cyprus today but tomorrow the world
Cry our Citizens if your souls you'd keep
lago will get you if you go to sleep
Helen Ehrlich
21
Wallace Stevens
Roll Over
The bum hugged his guitar.
He was a man of sorts. The day was smoke.
You spent your life hiding behind
that cracked old guitar.
You never could face up to your
problems as they are.
How sad - people can grow old,
but never grow up.
When I see you doing whatever
it is you say you do
All I want to do is throw up.
Your reply that the world has more
than one drum beat
And the way that you march when you heed it
Leaves my eyes dry, I don't even sigh
When you beg for a crumb 'cause "you need it."
You grope through life without any spark,
you're less than a burned out comet.
In the species of man, you're a parasite,
As welcome as a pile of vomit.
You sit and cry "But play I must,
I do my thing, to me it's just
Because I don't like things as they are
That's why I crawl into myoId guitar."
The bum then yelled:
"Hold it right there, great crusader -
it's my turn to speak.
Now let me ask, just who is right
In this cockamamie world
Some fag waving a lace hanky
Or those heroes on crutches with their
banners unfurled."
I may strum a tune beyond me, yet myself ­But
I'm not alone way up on a shelf.
The contempt for me that you
class as "UTTER"
Excites me as much as when I spit in the gutter.
Ah, those of us who live this way
Do you think us the "poor huddled masses?"
Well, we love to do daily battle with the
like of you self-appointed,
godlike smart asses.
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
I'll continue to stroll my wandering path,
Just as happy as a lark,
I'm not here to impress you or anyone else
I don't whistle 'cause I'm scared of the dark.
Because I don't like the status quo,
For you, dummy, that's the
goddam way things are
Just call this a simple symphony
On my broken down guitar."
Hal Kaplan
The Poet's Words
Where do the words come from
that flow from the poet's pen?
Words that speak of forgotten love
and sad farewells to friends.
Where do the words come from
unbidden in the night?
Words that speak of baby smiles
and seaguls high in flight.
Where do the words come from
that reveal the inner self?
Words that speak of tenderness
and hearts upon the shelf.
Where do the words come from
joyful yet incomplete?
Words that speak of bleeding wounds
and victory so bittersweet.
Where do the words come from
that flow from the poet's mind?
Words that speak of falling tears
and lonely helpless years.
Mike Maulfair
23
Tumblers
I went to quiet my roaring city rhythms
Down to peaceful small town speeds
Where the only sidewalk litter is
Golden leaves or clean melting snow.
He was the one thing that didn't feel just perfect
To me. I waved everyday,
He sat on his shaded porch swinging
And, like a city dweller, he never waved back.
Tumblers was the nickname the town
gave him. I thought
After the tall glass always
In the same hand, forever full,
Filled with dark and autumn amber deep
A drink of bitter into sweet, sweet sleep.
He died and only we two came to pray over his
New ground, Miss Maybelle and I.
"Couldn't abeen called a real good man,"
My landlady said, "but didn't live
drunk and alone
Afore he lost all of those rare pretty pigeons.
They was his hobby after
Day's work was over. He kept their cages
Real clean. Folks came from far away
Wanting to see that special breed of bird fly up,
Up just so high. Then they'd fold
Their wings, dive, roll over and over,
Failing 'til inches from the ground when
Something inside said to fly up again."
"What happened," I said to her,
"He didn't have birds
Anymore." It seemed awkward to
Think he'd ever left that porch to work
With people, to take care of birds.
"Some friends celebrated his retirement,"
she said,
"Shared booze with his live hobby.
Funny. Seemed funny watching
drunken pigeons
Walk and fly and drink and fall all crookedy
24
'Til the first lost its inner direction and crashed.
Couldn't fly up that last second.
He couldn't save none. Not one.
Tumblers, them birds was called. He
Weren't never the same after that party."
Small town rhythms, roaring city speeds,
each tumblers
Filled dark and autumn amber deep
A brief drink of bittersweet
If heart and mind fly up from sleep.
Geraldean Benninger
Morning Glory
The celebration of my soul
is the joy of the sun's return
every morning.
No matter that the day before
I was irritable
and scornful of his warmth and love,
or that he, cross with me,
hid in a sulk of gray clouds.
We retreat each night
into our own privacy
to gather our thoughts
fold them, and store them neatly.
Then wait eagerly for the dawn
to bring our next meeting.
And when the sun's first rays wake me
I stretch and ready myself
for another day with the
greens and blues of myself.
For I am nature and the sun
my constant companion.
Nancey Mercer
Song of Patchy
Leaves of green
Have golden sheen
From sun and time together;
A patchwork cat
Sits furry-fat,
In chilly autumn weather.
The green eyes blink
And seem to wink
In knowledge of his coming.
But does she know
She soon must go,
And tell with purring humming?
Until he comes again;
He always was my friend.
And now that he who left returns,
Our times, Patchy, must end.
A breeze is blowing
And sun is glowing
As day begins to end.
And like that day
She'll go her way;
I'll lose a feline friend.
A touch of fur
Can reassure
Me of the love I seek;
The trees all crowned
With green and brown
Proclaim the passing weeks ..
Until he comes again;
He always was my friend.
And now that he who left returns,
Our times, Patchy, must end.
Susan Landerman
Close Your Eyes
Close your eyes little one
and dream tonight,
of candy bars
and the seabird's flight
Close your ey~s little one
and set your spirit free
to dance in the sun
and live in the sea
Close your eyes little one
and think not of tomorrow
but drift to a land
where there is no sorrow
Close your eyes little one
and fly free today
thinking of smiles
and Christmas Day
Close your eyes little one
and look up above
to see life's greatest pleasures
and soar in its love
Michael D. Maulfair
Pattern
The wind doth blow and fast she blends
The seeds of weed and flower, creating
Patterns of the earth upon each virgin
Tower. She does not linger on her way,
To choose one favorite place, her care­free
flow of devilish travel she does
With utmost grace. She looks not back
Upon the land, nor doth she even care
For silently she'll fade away as though
She was not there. Come again she surely
Will and then repeat her game, then'
Laughlingly go on her way o'er the mountains
And o'er plains.
Joan Rice
25
I packed away my toys today,
a kiss to each I gave myself away.
"It isn't nice or ladylike for
grownup girls to ride a bike"
I washed my hands and came inside,
and beyond the glass, my world passed by.
I wore a dress and curled my hair,
I sat up straight and tried to care.
I'm supposed to be all grown today,
and speak and act like an adult
they say.
"Give up all your childish ways,
open your books you'll be quite amazed"
[looked in on my toys today,
a tear stained bear and games I've
played:
a kiss to each, nothing does last,
my toys [ found are a thing of
the past.
Lisa G. Williams
26
Anita Steele
Seal Beach
Rainbow sails
drift across white lined ridges
weaving in and out ...
slashing the hazy sky.
Eager waves
race
toward shore .
then pull
away
laughing
in dissolving foam.
The sands dry up
in an effort to
tag the waves
and in a final farewell
sprinkle silver dust
upon their face.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Mother E.
A noble old lady encrusted with years
crying dark tears
sits alone tonight,
still and calm in purple robes
of kings (and queens!)
and a mantelet of forest green.
Though her skin is cracked
(with age), she is beautiful
because her bones are still good.
Her eyes are soft ...
bewildered and kind.
She took a naked land
and clothed it richly in
the soft earth hues:
blue satin (smooth as glass),
bittersweet and fine green velvets,
batistes of marigold, ice blue,
(and lavender!), deep purple,
rich brown velveteens, green brocades,
ivory lace, and a rainbow of
homespun, linen, and chambray.
Now she sits alone,
old, useless,
worn beyond time.
She will sleep deeply
and dream ...
of wearing diamonds to your breakfast table,
and robes of iridescent silk
(lovely)
but you will pull the blinds
(how bright the sun. is)
and shut her out with your trifles,
leaving her alone,
musing ...
"Loneliness is light,
light blue,
(lighter than the sky)
pale as the blossomed morning glory
that gently fades and dies ...
a flower no one picks
a story no one tells
a path that no one walks
a sheep that's ne'er been belled ...
blue as a shasta daisy
newly-sprung in June,
pale as the bluest raindrop,
a sailing lost balloon ...
a leaf looking for a tree
a star that needs the sky
the house that isn't home
the bow that isn't tied.
Loneliness is useless,
shunned, scorned,
defiled, disgraced,
unwanted, unloved
(such an apathetic human race)"
Loneliness, a silent tear.
Breakfast over
we are told
HANDLE WITH CARE
(nobody is there),
but she is
(and nobody cares)
nobody dares because
they see themselves
but they don't see the tears.
A noble old lady encrusted with years
Sheds silent tears.
Lesley Jenkins
Tears
Slamming doors
Peals of laughter
Angry shouts
No time to think ­Tears.
A lonely room
A rocking chair
A window pane
Time to think ­Tears.
Helen Ehrlich
27
Carl Smith
Sea
The sea pulls back from the shore
as from a lover's arms.
Not quite ready to accept
this lover full time.
Skittish and coy,
running back time and again
to embrace the warm sand,
then retreating to the privacy of herself.
Knowing that should she rest too long
on the shoulders of the shore,
her love would try to hold her forever,
and even love must be free.
Nancey Mercer
30
Smile
He came and shared my life one day
and stayed for just awhile
We talked and laughed and played around
and then we shared a smile.
A smile is just a little thing
so simple, free to give
But it makes life so easy
it makes you want to live.
We touched our fingers lightly
as tho that we might burn
Then we held each other tightly
we had so much to learn.
And learn we did a life that day
of pleasures great and small
It started with a smile you see
a little thing, that's all.
Brenda Bailey
Alone on the
Mountain
In the surrounding darkness,
I stand solitarily.
Enveloped in a periphery of gray.
Dressed all in black,
awaiting the lurking doom.
The clouds left far behind,
are part of me, distant though they may be.
The floating ships of silver and purple
were never substantially real.
In the bleakness of the endless tunnel,
I close my eyes and I close my heart,
leaving me feeling cold to the marrow,
and I feel like a wounded sparrow.
With the horizon - in the west,
my mind reaches out to distant corners.
The brightness of yellow images,
in my mind,
make me smile, then - laugh outloud.
Once I reached out for something golden
in the darkness.
But my hand came back empty ...
Brenda Hammond
Visions
Visions are the thoughts of my soul
skipping lightly through my mind,
dancing among my steadily marching thoughts.
I try to separate them
but the visions are elusive,
granting me only a glimpse
of things that have been or could be.
Could I but hold a vision
I would know the truth.
Nancey Mercer
On Being Lost In
A Cloud Patch
The billowy, willowy cumulous
Surrounds me like a shroud,
Forbidding and yet welcoming,
And daring me to think out loud.
It tugs most gently at my sleeve,
And asks me where I'm bound.
It speaks of lands where clouds can go,
Where fantasies and dreams are found.
I'm lost, I say, and with a grin
The cumulous still beckons me
To leave my cares and worries here
And take a journey 'cross the sea­Forget
where I have been before
And what I've left behind.
Think only of my hopes and dreams,
Let fantasies invade my mind.
Now stop, I say to cumulous,
I'm lost and nothing more.
I must come back to earth again,
Please bring my feet down on the shore.
I'm homeward bound, so do not tempt.
Don't lure me with your tale
Of dreams that never will come true.
Dream worlds are much too frail.
The cumulous smiles down at me,
And whispers soft and slow,
You're laible to be sorry, child,
You did not say you'd go.
You'll never know what you have missed,
And with a sidelong glance,
I smile and whisper just as soft,
Dear cumulous, I'll take that chance.
Now I'm no longer lost, you see;
My path is firm and straight.
I've left the cloud patch far behind
To drift and dissipate.
I still have dreams and fantasies,
But I'll not be enticed
Into a Pollyanna world
Where truth is sacrificed.
Sherry Murphy
31
Matty
Matty staggered and then swayed as he
pointed his feet in the direction of his favorite
sycamore tree, its broad leaves spreading an
indolent pattern of shade over the cool, inviting
grass in Stengle Park.
Although he had just left Casey's Pub, the
coolness of the cave-like atmosphere he enjoy­ed
all morning was quickly dissipating. The
noon-day heat, moist and heavy, caused beads
of sweat to form rivulets on his wrinkled brow
and course down his sunken cheeks. His tat­tered
shirt, which showed signs of attempted
mending at one time, clung to his frail frame.
"Just a Iii' bit further now," he muttered to
himself as he rolled the morning paper tightly
under his arm. "Jus' a Iii' bit further."
The cries and squeals of children at play on
swings and see-saws filled his ears as he ap­proached
the familiar park with its graceful
elms and emerald green lawns sprinkled with
benches.
He nodded his head and uttered a perfunc­tory
greeting to Jake, one of his contemporary
friends who was seated on a nearby bench
busily reading a paperback. Jake, annoyed
by the slight disturbance, hunched his back
and shoulders into a shell to form a barrier
against intruders. "Hello," he grunted, keeping
his eyes on the book.
"Wasn't going to stop anyhow, I know he
likesta' read. Can't think why he likes those
westerns."
The fluttering leaves of the old sycamore
tree whispered a silent greeting to an old fa­miliar
companion. Matty stopped. Slowly he
eased down on the grass and began his every­day
ritual of bunching up the morning paper,
stretching out lengthwise, then resting his head
on the bunched paper.
Watching the shimmering leaves above him
made him drowsy and his eyelids, heavily laden
with weariness, dropped. Soon he was drawn
into the familiar depths of sleep which took
away the pain of everyday living, of being alone,
of being worthless.
Suddenly Matty started - a deep piercing
pain vibrated in his leg. "Boze Moiya ..." bub­bled
to the surface of his throat. Instinct told
him to move his body, but a great weight press-
32
M. J. Green
ed him down. Quickly it began to squirm and
lift, and he found himself staring into the wide,
bewildered eyes of Sonny, the tow-headed,
freckled-faced boy who lived in the brown­stone,
three-decker tenement down the street.
The new speedster he was trying out lay in a
heap beside Matty, the front wheel still spin­ning.
''I'm sorry I hit ya, but you were in the way,"
Sonny whined as he pulled the racer right side
up.
"What do you mean I was in the way? Been
sleepin' and mindin' my own darn business."
"f said I wez sorry. I didn't do it on purpose."
"You younguns don't have respect for no
one. No sir, you hoodlums just go where you
please and do what you want," Matty snorted.
"Gh yeah? Well, my mum says you're no­thing
but an ole drunk."
"Now see here," Matty growled, "you just
git out of here or I'll call the police."
"Well, you just go ahead and see if I care. I
didn't do it on purpose, and anyways you don't
own the park," Sonny sneered as he started
to wheel off.
Quietly, Matty picked up the bunched news­paper
and began to meticulously lay and press
each piece flat on the grass until the paper be­came
whole again. Then he folded and rolled
it up under his arm and began the long, lonely
walk home.
Even though his leg was still throbbing, his
mind began to wander and digress until he
envisioned little Timmy. The pain receded as
his thoughts turned to his own son who was
so totally different from Sonny. Tim always
said, "Good morning, Mr. Popovich," and res­pected
his elders. Why, he even had a paper
route when he was this young whippersnap­per's
age. Pulled his papers in a homemade
wagon and saved all his pennies, too. Me and
Molly sure did a fine job, Matty thought as a
smile radiated over the macerated crevices
of his face.
Together they walked along the cracked
pavement, Timmy running and skipping to miss
the cracks, a breeze lifting the straight, wheat­colored
hair out of his eyes. Matty strided along
side strong, rock-ribbed, and forcible, gripping
his large metal lunch pail he carried to work
that morning. Matty chuckled as he envisioned
Timmy pausing to hitch up the pants covering
his scrawny, jointed limbs.
After a few minutes, Sonny stopped wheel­ing
and turned to watch the seemingly regal
patriarch amble down the street. His eyes
narrowed into steel points and a smile curled
on his lips as he observed the old man reaching
down to rub his leg.
"Haw, serves him right," he chortled. "Gon­na
call the police, ole man? Well, we'll see," he
jeered as he guided his bike to a pair of steps
leading down to Mrs. Russo's basement entry.
The wheels vibrated and bobbed as he pulled
the bike to the bottom of the stairwell and
pushed it behind a mass of garbage barrels.
When he was sure it was concealed, he pro­ceeded
in Matty's wake. Matty's eyes, once
like dark piercing lamps, were now fawn-color­ed
with only a flame flickering as they scanned
the row of dirty sandstone houses looming
over the sidewalk he was now approaching.
As he neared the end of the street, he hob­bled
onto the porch of a brown frame house
as worn and weathered as he. He was home.
Sonny darted into the small alley that separ­ated
the deteriorating frame from an adjacent
house and slammed the hanging gate behind
him. Down the dark alley he crept. Quietly he
inched his way along until he reached a first
floor window in the structure.
Must be the kitchen, he surmised, as he
tugged an old barrel on which to raise himself
so he could peek in. His eyes surveyed a small,
paper-faded room containing an old wooden
table with stacks of yellowed newspapers cov­ering
one side. Two stiff chairs, their seats
worn down to the wood grain, were tucked in.
A solitary light hung above the table, its glass
shade laced with cobwebs.
Matty was busy at the stove frying eggs,
shoving the brittle shells off to the side where
they automatically fell down into a brown
makeshift garbage bag. Grease spattered over
the black surface of the antiquated gas range,
as flames greedily licked the bottom of the pan.
Matty shifted it to another burner.
After the colorless liquid turned milky and
enveloped the yellow embryos, Matty wiped
the egg mucous that clung to his fingers on
the back of his loosely draped pants and slid
the eggs onto a cracked plate. Then dragging
his injured leg which was starting to swell, he
shuffled to the table where he sat the greasy
platter on the worn surface. After seating him­self,
he reached for a plastic bag, unknotted the
end and pulled out a slice of bread. He pinched
off a grey furry corner, folded the remaining
portion in half and began to dip it into the eggs,
his gnarled waxen hand trembling, causing
the liquid yolk to drip down his shirt. He wiped
it off with his handkerchief.
"Whew! he's a crazy ole man," Sonny ex­claimed
as he shook his head. "Nuts, that's
what he is. Wait til I tell Mum." He was about
to go when he saw Matty get up and reach for
a tin box placed on the mantle above the stove.
Matty hugged it to his chest until he reached
the table where he placed it reverently.
His dark, rapt eyes became transported with
emotion as he opened the lid. Sonny wasn't
sure what was in the box as the old man chan­ged
positions and had his back to him, but it
must be valuable, of that he was sure. Why else
did he hold the box so close and why did the
expression on his face change? Why, that ole
man is hoarding money. Maybe enough for that
pocket computer I been wanting. Well, we'll
see who's so almigh,ty tomorra, ole man. I'm
gonna get that box. I know when you sleep
in the park and ain't home so it's gonna be
real easy.
"Where're you going without your bike,
Sonny?" Mrs. Russo, who lived in the same
tenement, queried as she swung a broom
back and forth on the sidewalk causing clouds
of dust to swirl. The sun was just starting to
spread its rays over the sleepy city, and Mrs.
Russo was trying to get her chores done before
the noonday heat arrived.
Sonny shrugged his shoulders and avoided
her dark, beady eyes as he mumbled, "No­where'n
particular, just walkin."
Mrs. Russo paused to tuck a damp strand of
grey hair into the knot she always wore at the
nape of her fat-layered neck. Now, he's sure
acting strange, going out so early in the morn­ing.
"Sonny," she called after him, "want to
earn a quarter? All you have to do is move the
rubbish outta the basement entry to the side­walk."
33
"Naw, I'm too busy right now, don't have
time," he called over his shoulder as he broke
into a run.
While Sonny hurried, Matty sat perched on
his stool at Casey's slowly sipping his usual
warm, flat beer, listening to the idle chatter
of the millworkers who had just gotten off the
12-8 shift. It was good to hear voices and be
amongst people, he thought. As Matty sipped
his beer, Sonny reached the old frame house
and retraced his steps of the day before, mak­ing
sure he slipped the rusty bolt on the gate.
Wait a minute, he thought, the window's prob­ably
locked. I need a brick - a big one. He sat
a new-found brick on the window ledge as he
elevated himself on the same barrel he used
before. When he was sure he was steady and
surefooted, he gripped the brick in both hands,
slowly moved his arms above his head, sucked
in his breath and closed his eyes. He swung.
The glass shattered and fell away from the
frame. Sonny winced as the large fragments
fell to the ground and reshattered. Silence
followed. He waited a few minutes and then
reached in and twisted the double lock on the
sash. "Yikes," he howled as he grazed his wrist
on a jagged piece of glass. Crimson blood
oozed from the torn pink flesh. He rubbed his
wrist down the thigh of his jeans, the blood
turning the fabric a deep purple. Cursing his
luck, he pushed up the lower part of the win­dow,
poked one foot in, then the other, then
dropped his body into the room.
Must and stale grease filled his nostrils as
he crept across the floor. His eyes quickly
scanned the room until they rested on the box.
I'll wrap my jacket around it so that nebby ole
women won't see it. Quickly he wrapped the
box, then scrambled for the broken window
where he perched before jumping and breaking
into a run.
I'll just whistle and take my time, he planned
as he reached the tenement. As soon as the
coast's clear, I'll sneak down the basement
steps.
After he was sure he was alone in the cellar,
he opened the box and reached for the money.
Why, you somna bitch ... you bitchen ole
man. It ain't money! Nothing but lousy pictures.
His fingers balled up and clenched as his face
clouded into darkness, anger seeping into
34
every fiber of his body. "No money at all," he
cried as he kicked the box into a corner. That
drunken ole man. Well, I'll still fix 'em, he
thought. I'll just stash this junk in the rafter.
You'll never get it back, ole man, so don't hold
your breath.
Mrs. Russo, her florid face and neck glisten­ing
with sweat, was dragging the trash laden
barrels up the basement steps when Sonny
vanked open the heavy garbage streaked
door.
"Why, Sonny, you're just in time to help,"
she exclaimed as she paused to rub a pudgy
hand across her damp forehead.
"Yeah, I guess so," he mumbled, focusing
his eyes on her dark stockings which were
rolled into the shape of donuts encircling her
ankles. He reached for a barrel.
"My God, what on earth happen'd to you
hand? What've you been doing to hurt your­self,"
she cried. "Did you do it in the base­ment?"
"S'nothing, Mrs. Russo. I just scraped it in
the park. It's fine. Let's get the stupid barrels
out, I've gotta go an' eat lunch."
Several months melted away before Sonny
noticed the old man missing from under the
shade of the sycamore tree, its broad leaves
now turning and falling, spreading a golden
blanket on the grass.
Wonder what happened to the ole devil,
Sonny thought. Could be he moved or some-
thin'.
Sonny could see Mrs. Russo's heavy body
collapsed on the grey stoop leading to their
brownstone as she sat airing herself, her head
cocked to one side like a giant bird, intent on
the sounds around it as he sauntered up the
street. Think I'll ask Russo where he is, she's
such a nebby ole woman, I'll bet she knows.
"Hi, Mrs. Russo, how you feeling?"
"Just fine, Sonny, just fine."
"Remember that ole man Maw said was
nothin' but a drunk? Slept in the park every
day.?"
"Yes, I remember him. The poor old man."
"Well, I ain't seen him round so I wez won·
dering where he went. Do ya know?"
"Yes, he's around, pour soul, picking and
prodding through garbage cans everyday."
"What fer?" he asked, puzzled.
"Seems someone broke into his house this
past summer and stole some kind of box. He
called the police and all, but they never did
find out who did it. None of his neighbors seen
or heard a thing that day. Seein' he was so
hysterical and babbling in broken English and
his leg was so badly swollen, they took him
to the free clinic. He kept crying for his wife
and children, but everybody knows that Molly's
been dead for the past five years, and the
children are all gone for themselves. Uses a
cane now ... Emily said he keeps saying a boy
hit him and that's why he limps."
"You wouldn't happen to know anything
about that, would you?"
Heat started to surge within Sonny, bringing
a deep flush to his face.
"Naw, I don't," he stammered.
"Sonny, how did you cut your hand that day
you helped me move the trash? You never
did say."
"I don't remember," he faltered, trying to
force back salty tears which sprang to his eyes
and stung.
"Sonny, if you did somethin', tell me, 1prom·
ise to fix it all up if I can ..."
"Well, if you don't tell my maw. She's so
mean since Dad left."
"Sonny ... if the welfare workers ... reform
school ..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I took the box outta his
kitchen, but it didn't have money, just a bunch
of ole pictures. Weren't worth a thing so I
put it in the rafter. 1didn't want the ole man to
have them cause he was going to make trouble
for me and Maw."
"Why, Sonny, why did you have to do it?
Matty always minded his business. Never hurt
anybody." •
Sonny nervously shifted from one foot to
the other, then blurted out the rest of the story.
"I wez trying out my new bike in the park,
and 1kinda went too fast and ran into him. He
wez so mad, he said he wez goin' to call the
police. So 1got mad and wanted to fix him back.
I tried to tell him it was an accident, but he
just wouldn't listen."
"Sonny, get the box. We'll take it over to
Matty right now. I'll pay him fO!; the window
and you work for me."
Together they went to the old house and
knocked on the door. No one answered. As
they turned to leave, they saw Matty hobbling
down the walk, his cane probing in front of
him. The hair framing his face was completel:-;
ashen, his frail, wasted body weighed heavily on
the cane. His soft frosted eyes that usually
has a flame flickering appeared to be extin­guishing.
Sonny, frightened of retribution, hid behind
Mrs. Russo's ample torso, as she greeted
Matty.
"Matty, 1found your box for you. Sonny took
it, but he's real sorry."
"What's that you say," Matty muttered.
"Box ... yes, my box ... it's gone ... my pic­tures
are all gone ... Molly is gone. 1have no­thing,
nothing, nothing."
"No, Matty, here are all the pictures. Some
were ripped, but 1fixed them for you. You have
them all back."
"No ... my Molly and children are gone ...
I will watch the sun go up and come down
until no more." He shuffled past them and
went into the dank house.
Sonny started to cry, the tears pouring
forth. "I didn't mean to hurt no one like that,
Mrs. Russo, honest. What can I do?"
Mrs. Russo looked down on the small boy
who had suddenly become so docile and con­trite.
"Not a damn thing, just go on home and
leave him alone," she said as she slowly started
to waddle down the street. 0
35
D toD
(and Back Again)
Through the years ... we've grown.
As two vines along a garden wall,
intertwining with the honey blossoms.
Hurting as the thorny stems.
silenced ghettos, wincing alone ­hands
clinging tight, we've flown
to misted moors beyond our moon
bathing in each other's light.
Weathering the seasons as they come and go,
chilled words of icy winters -
radiating looks that melt
with summer's joy.
simultaneous-traveling, our courses
bumped like stars
you the soft and glowing one
stepped across the universe to me.
And as the moments speed through
our shared years - we cling as
fragile children to bittersweet memories
of that far-away and distant meeting
and give love to strengthen tomorrow's tasks.
So when the lone, last shadows glance
To miss the Earth's wide curve
The stars shall see another meeting
Behind the silver clouds
Of those who once again shall share
Eternal seasons joy.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
36
Mary Jane Spence
My little girl
has
honest, dark eyes
(a night full of enchantment)
her skin
soft tanned
like the fisherman's skin
from my land
man of many seas
(of so many hopes).
My little boy
has
an expression of splendor
in blue
so refreshing!
and the two of them
have such
beauty
so much complexity and happiness
that
they
are
my most tender world of today.
Maria Rebeca Bannister
Beyond The Dream
The aura of light that encircles your face
dances upon the stars with grace and shim­mering
beauty.
The fantasies of yesterday venture to the
edges of the universe only to be lost in the
vacuum of time.
The reality of today slithers like a snake
through the sea of darkness.
And behind it, the dawn.
Reach toward the Heavens and drift in the
tranquility of the unearthly terrain.
Let loose your limbs and fly with the sun
to a new dimension.
Slip through the translucent lining of your
dream.
And follow the luminous etchings of your mind
Let yourself be swallowed by the serenity of
your innermost feelings.
Soar with your illusions to the depth of your
being,
And behld infinity.
Travel to the corners of your imagination and
look beyond the dream ...
Peace cascades over my total existence into
a deep pool of sunlight,
For I have looked beyond the dream ...
And found you.
Julie Martin
Stumble, Stumble
Stumble, stumble,
Bump and bumble,
Getting out of bed.
Fumble, fumble,
Trip and tumble ��Wake
up, Sleepyhead!
Helen Ehrlich
If we are to teach our children
Don't we need to let them grow
And let them find out themselves
Their limitations, their boundaries
And what they have to surpass us
Their imaginations, talents?
By their creativity
They will revive our examples.
Deborah Jonas
The Old Man
There is an old man who walks by the sea,
You can see him anyday you go by,
I say hello, but he just stares at me,
Then looks away like he's about to cry,
He walks up and down the street very slow,
And moves his lips and mumbles to himself,
Once he asked me how hard the
wind would blow,
I thought he was dumb and laughed to myself,
He must have known what I had been thinking,
For he turned and started to walk away,
Then he came running back and was laughing,
I was afraid when he told me to stay,
But I did, and we talked about his life,
He said he had friends buried by the sea,
I know now that one of them is his wife,
Another of them will soon be me.
Deborah Jonas
37
Cindy At Fifteen
By the time a daughter reaches five years
of age, her parents may believe that certain
moral, ethical, and logical traits that form her
personality have already been set. This may be
true of some; however, my daughter Cindy at
age five was the complete opposite of now at
age fifteen. The contrast is amazing.
At five years of age Cindy had the maturity
level of a ninety-three-year-old woman. I often
had the impression that she was raising me.
She would sit in her rocking chair and expound
knowledge that usually comes only with age.
She had a way of actually sounding gray. Her
younger sister and baby brother thought of her
as the guru of the nursery set, always knowing
the right answers. My opinions were the only
ones, other than her own, that held any validity
for her. She treated me as her equal ~ a pal
whose opinions were truly valued.
She became the conscience for the whole
neighborhood, and her sense of right and
wrong could rival that of a Southern Baptist
Minister. "Death before dishonor" was the
code she lived by.
In kindergarten, she was "teacher's pet." She
loved to learn and was proud of the fact that
she could already read books. She spent many
hours reading stories to other children. By this
time I, of course, was convinced that I was rais­ing
a genius - a magnificent product of Dr.
Spock's child raising techniques.
She was very petite in stature, feminine in
nature, and impeccable in dress. Long blond
hair was curled nightly and fluffy, frilly, dresses
were her trademark. Her hair was never out of
place, and neither were toys. Her room was
arranged to her very strict standards. I had to
be very careful not to upset the order of this
arrangement.
Poor Cindy was usually dismayed at her sis­ter's
behavior. Theresa always leaned toward
the wild side; eating snails and running out the
front door stark naked were two of her favorite
ways to shock Cindy. Naked bodies and under­wear
were things that could only be discussed
in whispers.
Now, picture in your mind a big, disjointed
lunk sprawled sideways in a chair, who has to
make a big effort to grunt a "hello." She's wear­ing
her boyfriend's dirty cut-off levi's and a hal-
38
Jeanne Tretta
ter top five sizes too small. This is Cindy at fif­teen.
She now has the maturity of a fetus in
the womb whose world consists of itself and
nothingness.
Her younger sister and two younger broth­ers
try to pretend that she doesn't live here,
but that's practically impossible since she has
become a permanent fixture in the bathroom
in front of the mirror with the telephone re­ceiver
stuck to her ear and the stereo knob
glued to her finger.
My opinions are still important to her. She
uses them as a guide to her behavior. What­ever
my opinion is, she does the opposite. She
feels that in the past ten years I've become
increasingly stupid and am no longer capable
of decisions such as: what her bedtime should
be, where she goes, and when she should be
back. When we go shopping, she walks ten
paces ahead of me so that no one will know
she's with me.
Her sense of right and wrong have turned
into a big gray area, where half-truth will get
you by and if you don't get caught doing some­thing
wrong, you've come out ahead. I've
burned Dr. Spock in effigy several times and
tried to sue for malpractice for warping my
child's mind.
I keep getting these notes from her teachers
telling me that she's verging on fail. Well, that's
no surprise, really, since she's acquired an
aversion to books. The only book reports she's
turned in in several years were Jaws and The
Deep; she also saw both movies.
She spends a fortune on Goodwill rejects
that she passes off for clothes. Her clothes
blend with her environment, although, for the
past year I've bee'n afraid to enter her room. I
keep imagining big hairy things growing under
all the piles of clothes, souvenirs, posters, rec­ords,
shoes, and 'stuffed animals.
I no longer have to worry about her sister's
shocking her. If she had classes on sex, she'd
be an honor student. Now the only naked body
running out the front door is her own.
Instead of trying to convince myself that
someone switched children when I wasn't look­ing,
I've decided that the cycle will continue,
and that in ten more years she will be the op­posite
again - if I can just live long enough. 0
Steve Clayman
Fly free
and let
your spirit
lasso the wind.
Soar smoothly
and give yourself
to the sky.
Merging
together as one
living force.
Glide gracefully
arching and dipping
on gentle wisps
of warm thermals.
Let go of all
worldly cares and
lose yourself
in the thrill
of a magical
flight of freedom.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Goodbye
You said goodbye so silently
You never said a word.
Is this your way so tenderly
So you're never even heard?
Tho my ears heard not a word you thought
My heart was listening strong.
It told my ears to listen
For soon you would be gone.
You don't know me at all my friend
Or you'd know that I had heard
The thoughts that swirled within your head
Flying wildly like a bird.
I knew I'd never hold you;
You're like the wind, so free -
For I'd never want to trap the wind,
It's such a part of me.
Brenda Bailey
Growing
Freeing my spirit, using my mind
Opening my eyes, no longer blind
Savoring my talents, accepting defeat
Living each moment, enjoying each week.
Loving myself as I've never done
Sorry for moments already gone.
Gazing at sunsets, up with the dawn
Free from the game; no longer a pawn.
Happy with people, serene when alone
Tranquil to know that inside I've grown.
Accepting reality, yet still chasing dreams
Knowing that most things are not
what they seem.
Loving a man who doesn't exist
Yet sure that his love is all that I've missed.
The nights will be lonely, as time passes slow
But the pain will subside as inside I grow.
Ann Murphy
39
Golden Going,
Eternal Flow
Dreams are following me
Through the popcorn fields,
Soaring from darkness into light,
And turquoise horses prance
Through areas of destiny
Waiting until they can take flight.
My future and my dreams
Come to protect me,
With the songs of others yet unseen,
And so we flyaway
From the ancient worlds,
The lands of crimson and green.
Droning voice,
Assaults of Reality;
Calls of Falsehood
Flying in the night.
But I am away,
Finding worlds of Everfree
And calling my own way
In the place of Goldensight.
Dreams held me firmly
Until I learned to soar
On winds where mental eagles cry;
Now I turn away again
But memories eternal
Guide me through a living lie.
The ancients come about,
Protection of the mind
But freedom in a burst of blue;
I always go where
The violet Stone will lead,
But now I'll leave behind another few.
Devil-calls,
Red and black to find;
Ancient prison bars
Become the yielding light.
Soar into the years
Of the reaching mind,
Into day of Coming
From the Youth of Night.
Susan Landerman
40
Cloning
There is an advantage
to being a clone,
you'll always have someone
to call your own.
Flo Antinoro
Know Me
If you really want to know me
Come inside my head
I'll take you on a journey
Through all the books I've read
If you really want to touch me
Reach out and take my hand
I'll lead you to a sunny path
Where we'll walk and understand
If you really want to hear me
Please listen while I tell
Of all the many feelings
Some you may have as well
And if you want to love me
Please allow me only this
Love me for the whole of me
Not only for my kiss
There's times I'm not so pretty
Like I'd like to be for you
But you must know the real me
And I the real you
So now we'll both be honest
That's the only way to be
And if this love is real
It will also make us free
This love could last forever
Or maybe just a day
But through it all we've come to know
It's helped us grow in our own way
Dianne D. Martin
Mary Jane Spence
3% Years Later
The years between us vanished
And we'd never been apart.
Old dreams and old memories
Were only yesterday.
The love and longing
Long hidden, emerged
Fuller and richer for time
Spent growing.
Reaching, touching, feeling·
Knowing words are unneeded.
Love without guilt -
You taught me more.
Thank you for words unsaid
And love explored.
For strengths revealed
And dreams released.
Wanda Lea Fowler
Wondering Of God
Everyone is talking about power,
and the conversation is our heritage,
it is our history and our civilization;
power to live, and power to die,
power to know, and power to act.
We have discussed it endlessly, and
we are finally beginning to understand
that posing some meaningful questions
is a task so awesome that even the best of us
must approach it with the greatest humility.
Joseph Feldman
41
Facing Tomorrow
I'm afraid to face tomorrow
When today just struggles by;
Facing a world that's full of sorrow
It's hard even to try.
But wandering through my memories
I see a light from behind;
I know that God once entered my heart
And I. never need to be blind.
Has your mind ever wandered through
snow-white clouds
And settled in the land of dreams,
Where the world, untouched by human hands
Is exactly as it seems,
No guessing, no crying, no heartache at all,
Just the birds, and the trees, and the sky?
But then you remember it's only your mind
And your heart is flying high.
That's when fear builds for tomorrow
When I realize today's slipping by;
I try avoiding all its sorrow
But I only keep asking why.
So I wander through my memories
And I see a light from behind;
I know God's there to help me through
And I never need to be blind.
Go ahead and dream your trouble away
Let your soul flow in the river of love,
Just you and God in a paradise
And the flight of a peaceful dove.
God can cause the pain to go
Even bring a rainbow or two.
And He'll make the dreamland a part
of your life
And He'll pour all His love on you.
That's when I can face tomorrow
After today drifts safely by;
God helped me face all the sorrow
He made it easy to try.
We wandered through my memories
He was the light from behind;
Together we entered my daydreams
And he told me I needn't be blind.
Julie Martin
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
Love
Invisible,
But so evident.
Ever lasting,
For a while,
At least a lifetime.
So complete,
But dependent.
So peaceful,
And quiet,
Tranquility.
Deborah Jonas
Tomorrow
This poem has no purpose,
It is written for those who listen
And who understand its meaning,
But mainly for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is the answer
For the people who can see the wind
And those who can hear the sunshine,
Because they make tomorrow.
They know yesterday is gone,
And tomorrow will soon be today
And then soon becomes yesterday ­By
the time it's born, it dies.
The sun falls into the sea
And then the night darkens the world
And conceives a new chance for life
By bringing another day
To light the world again.
Deborah Jonas
43
The Perfect Ending
To A Perfect Day
I shoulda known it would be a bummer of a
day when I put my pantyhose on backwards.
I poured the water into the top of the Mr.
Coffee as I do every a.m. of my life and went
on my destructive way unaware that I hadn't
put the pot under the Mr. Coffee and fresh,
steaming coffee was bathing my countertop.
Stepping out the door and hoping that a
change of environment would alter my course
to a more productive day, I was halted by a,
"Mom, I don't have any socks."
A late start any day is a bad omen but on a
Monday the repercussions can last all week.
Traffic presents many opportunities for put­downs.
On a morning like that the other drivers
should be considerate enough not to blow
horns at me even if I change lanes in front of
them.
By 8:00 a.m. I was beginning to wish my
mother had had a headache that Christmas
night in '37. The dpy loomed ahead like an
obstacle course and I thought of Sandburg's
poem, "... I have miles to go before I sleep."
The press release draft was stuck some­where
in the back of my mind, and I couldn't
dislodge the words. A call from the client re­minded
me at a newsletter deadline on Wed­nesday.
An afternoon meeting presented a
fine opportunity to study the habits and be­havior
of the animal I call "bureaucratus rex,"
normally an amusing diversion for a dull meet­ing.
Impatience spoiled the sport.
I bounced like a ping pong ball from one
trauma to another until the work day came to
a blessed end. As I punched the button for the
elevator, relief cautiously crept into my
thoughts. I began to think about the rest of
the day - home to make supper for the family,
down to the airport to pick up the boss, then
off to the Board meeting. " ... miles to go before
[ sleep."
[ automatically went to the mail box as I
often do on the way to the parking lot, pulled
down the door, and deposited my purse. 0
Kay Causer
44
Point of View
You are the most logical and practical
person I know,
except when it comes to me.
You alone have no need for material things
except when it comes to me.
You're content with both feet on the ground
and the sun's warmth,
except when it comes to me.
Then you reach for the moon and the stars.
Never realizing that I am content
with both feet on the ground,
and the sun's warmth,
except when it comes to you.
Nancey Mercer
Housewife's Summer
Lament # 2
There are camps for children,
YMCA, scouts and others.
What this country needs
Is a good camp for mothers.
Flo Antinoro
r!:.
1,1, ::.....,.,. .
\
.\\
.
l
1.
.."-_,. '1..~~,,_.
.,.,t~~
~7
:~;:~~
i l il·
L. Hillary
45
Alarming Bells
The bells clang urgently,
echoing against my caverned soul.
The noise rubs not so gently,
encompassing me as a whole.
Its direction cannot be found.
Not being flLing from the sky,
and not emmitfed from the ground,
the prevalent question is - why?
Sirens scream with beckoning anguish,
yet [ hesitate.
[s there a fire to extinguish?
Why do I wait?
Am I waiting for formidable training?
Where should I begin?
Standing here I'm not gaIning
This is a sin!
In fact, do these bells ring for me?
Am I alone?
Are they reaching the rest of humanity?
Or is it me they own?
Am [ a lone hearer who must wake the town,
warning that a great fire is approaching?
Or are these illusions of solitary sound,
on my mind encroaching?
Why must [ have heard these bells?
Why not one who has a plan of action?
He who has an idea that sells,
and is deaf to public reaction.
As [ ponder my problem,
my insecurity pops through.
[s it a problem?!
Oh, what am [ to do?
Confidence!!
Ha, surely not in myself, or my brother.
Confidence!!
[t can only be in Another.
[ will be made ready,
if the fire overcomes our guarded security.
And lead with a hand so steady,
to wake people from their drunken immaturity.
46
We will fight the fire,
that has consumed many a harvestable branch.
With a God given ire,
our skin will not be readily blanched.
Only now I see that others have heard,
and have paced and wrinkled their brow.
Their courage, too, turned to curd;
and could not warn the town,
until the fire lit the orchard,
showing the prime path towards town.
Steve Small
Phoenix July 24
The winds of the
desert storm
push against my door
locking me within
the walls of a prison.
The rain slithering
in sheets across the
street that leads far
away from the heat.
The tormented clouds
wrestle with the sun
in a battle for power.
The winds of the
desert storm
are carrying
away
the dust of the city ...
and you.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
Souvenirs
Counting the stars above
Catching every other one
Crying, I discover
they never live long enough
to stuff gently into my pocket
Sharon K. Williams
Half a Life
Incomplete
Missing something
Not quite fitting
It once was full
Of love and happiness
But then you left
And here I am alone/
And here I am alone.
Deborah Jonas
Bob Zitlau, Jr. 47
Laurel H. Colen
Words
Words to tell of moods
that should be felt,
a precaution to let you know
it's five o'clock
and all's not well.
Your cue ...
the stage is set.
I, your audience,
await your words.
A counter spell to make the black mood
the depression vanish.
You're as powerful as Merlin
you open your mouth to speak words.
But your lines are wrong.
Merlin don't you know?
You're casting spell on top of spell.
1 feel the weight of double sadness
the curtain falling
1 feel the weight of words.
1 should have known
when 1 wrote the play
and set the stage
that the show would close
a one nighter
for lack of words.
!'lIancey Mercer
Visions
My thoughts are drifting
Through seas of fantasy;
They emerge from the clouds of today
And try to touch the sky of tomorrow.
Pale images cascade over dreams
Glittering gold with iridescence
As they absorb the light of my being.
Fragments of lucid memories
Reflect the colors of the rainbow ...
They run together blending, igniting,
And forming a blazing pool.
From within me swells a sensation
That sets my intrinsic self afire.
1 touch - it explodes and 1am
Enveloped in a shimmering veil
of illusive flame.
1 lie in a field,
a bed of wine-colored roses;
Their perfume lifts my spirit
to be caressed by the wind.
My mind has gone to the depths of infinity
And reality is no more.
It evades my vision for it cannot compete
With the realm of my utopia.
1 absorb the rays of tranquility
And 1 inhale the obscure ecstasy.
1 cannot see - 1 feel.
This world is within my reach
But it is intangible.
So 1 experience, instead, its sensuality
And 1am lost in a vanishing shadow,
The shadow of myself
That had no concreteness but remains
the image of another dimension.
Suddenly, my soul liquidates and flows
into the river of substance.
It meanders, it erodes,
It melts my crystal mirage
And washes me onto the alluvial entity.
1 awake and my being is refreshed
For 1 am saturated with happiness
As 1 encounter the intense captivity
of your eyes.
Now 1 don't need my vision
For you are the focal of my domain
And in you, 1 find love.
Julie Martin
49
A Brief Glossary
of the
Terminology of
Parapsychology
Have you ever thought about the increditble
- and as yet untapped - powers of the human
mind? Have you wondered how some people
have expanded their consciousness to a
cosmic level, while others still have trouble
holding their own in tic-tac-toe? Well, it's true;
there are things in the universe that we cannot
understand, even on the second reading.
"Rubbish," you say? "This man ought to be
pistol-whipped," you say? "Ha," I say. I'll have
you know I have overwhelming evidence to
support all the claims made in this glossary, and
the guys in my ward will back me up.
Remember, the human brain might very well
be the most complex thing in the universe, and
it certainly is the ugliest.
Astral Body - a replica of the physical
body, but composed entirely of high-frequency
modulated electromagnetic energy and Elmer's
glue. By himself, the astral body is master of
space, time, and dimension, which makes him a
barrel of laughs at parties. But he generally
leads a pretty quiet life, and is content to stay at
home and work on his stamp collection or
maybe go out for some Chinese food once a
week.
Astral Projection - the separation of
the astral body from the physical body. This is
very easy to do, as one's astral body usuallu
loves to travel - that's why he took the job.
Extreme care should be taken in selecting an
astral projector, and you must first determine
whether your astral body is a regular 8 or a
super 8. Finally, moderation should be used in
this practice. After all, you wouldn't want to go
around projection your astral all over the place.
Astrology - the study of the effects
celestial bodies have on human behavior.
Astrology as a science began when the great
Greek philosopher Myron Schwartz found
that, every time Venus was in the sky, he had
50
Steve Clayman
an uncontrollable urge to play monopoly.
When Venus was in the constellation Pegasus,
he would insist on being the little doggie; when
it was in Lyra, he would spend the entire game
in jail and giggle; and when it was in Orion, he
would sell everything early, convinced that
either a depression was near, or that a Trojan
was moving into the neighborhood.
Atlantis - a continent in the Atlantic that
sank approximately 10,000 years ago. The
exact cause remains a mystery, although
scientists have developed a complex theory
that uses a perfectly synchronized combination
of electromagnetic radiation, sunspots, psychic
forces, and rickety lawn chairs to account for
the mishap. It's either that or the earthquake.
Clairvoyance - the ability to discern
objects not visible to the senses. This is
especially useful to girl-watchers, players of
hide-and-go-seek, and people who like to close
their eyes and run toward brick walls.
Deja Vu - French for either "Buick" or
"Linguini," this is the feeling that one has
already experienced an event that is unfolding
in the present. Deja vu has always been
extremely common except during the Nixon
administration, when most people felt that
once was quite enough, thank you.
Extrasensory Perception (ESP)
- any knowledge of an external event gained
through senses other than the known physical
senses. Some radical theorists have tentatively
suggested that this power is centered in a
certain part of the brain, for when the brain is
removed, the power vanishes.
Hypnotism - a state of consciousness
exactly like sleep in every way, except that the
subject is wide awake. Hypnotism is widely
misunderstood; many people confuse it with
hypnosis, which is actually a complicated
religious tribal custom of eastern New Guinea
involving crawdads, pocket calculators, and
large amounts of broccoli. An hypnotic state
can be induced by simple rhythmic suggestion
or by having the subject concentrate on a shiny
object. If this doesn't work, a crashing blow to
the forehead should do the trick (use a blunt
Leon J. Breshears
instrument, preferably a tuba). While under
hypnosis, one is extremely receptive to
suggestion. There is one famous incident in
which a hypnotized man was told he was a jar of
parsley flakes, and to this day he makes a very
good living as a garnish.
Levitation - This is the ability to cause
one's own body (or any other object) to float
around without any visible means of support, a
trick many of my relatives have been doing for
years. When levitation was first discovered, it
was widely publicized as an inexpensive and
pollution-free means of transportation, which
explains why we haven't heard about it since.
Mysticism - a philosophy aimed at the
spiritual union with the Universal Spirit.
Spiritual unions have made great strides since
their formation a century ago, for every spirit
now enjoys adequate pay, good working
conditions, and free dental checkups.
Poltergeist - A noisy, rambunctious
ghost, the poltergeist delights in harmless
mischief such as throwing books, rattling
chains, and sending your name in to the Book­of-
the Month Club.
Precognition - knowledge of the future
not obtained by the known senses or rational
inference. The most accurate exponent of this
ability ws Lord Duncan Yo-yo of 12th century
England. Lord Yo-yo actually predicted the
invention of the W-2 form! (True, he also
predicted that armies of left-handed oysters
would overthrow the Monarchy and dominate
the world for all eternity, but let's not be
picky.)
Psychic Photography - the ability
to use the mind to influence or create an image
on a photographic plate. For most psychic
photographers, the left and right earlobes
control the shutter speed and focus, flaring and
contracting the nostrils widens and narrows
the lens opening, and a good goosing releases
the shutter.
Telepathy - direct transmission of
thoughts from one mind to another. Telepathy
was first detected by Dr. J. B. Rind of Puke
University when he discovered that he could
"send" messages or images to his assistant
using only thought waves, pure
concentration, and very quiet whispering.
When his colleagues refused to accept his
work, he gelded all their vacuum cleaners in a fit
of pique. A broken man, he now lives in Upper
Volta where he is doing meticulous research on
the powers of levitation in the proud Gnarl­Gnarl
jungle tribe. The work is coming along
fine, and he says he has enough wire to last for
years. 0
51
Bob Zitlau, Jr.
52
I have cried,
I have laughed.
I have felt rain,
I have felt sun.
I have listened,
I have talked.
I have seen,
I have been seen.
I have caused pain,
I have felt pain.
I have understood,
I have been understood.
I have loved,
I have been loved.
I have lived.
Brenda Hammond
How Many???
How many other girls know
you like­your
pie - apple and ala mode
rainy days
early morning
striped carnations
coffee black
long hair - loose
never up
Like the song - I wonder
but I really
don't want
to know
Alice Wilkins
The Meat Market
Standing there with a drink in your hand
Staring into space, playing the game
And he saunters down the line
Looking up and down, rating each one.
Grade A, Grade B, Grade C
Which are you in his eyes?
Tonight maybe Grade B
The hair turned out, make-up's good
Outfit fits just right. But .....
You laugh as though it doesn't matter
He's not good enough for you anyway.
But as he goes by, you know it does.
It's always the same slaughterhouse
You ask for the pain each time you go.
Opening your heart for someone to rip open.
And as the tears roll down your face
You see a truth you can't deny.
Grade A are the winners and
Grade C the ones who cry.
Ann Murphy
53
Mother,
Woman, Wife
Strangers in bed
Liars in life
He, My husband ­I,
his wife.
And in between a child
Unaware of our hypocrisy;
Happy in his world that has
a mon and a dad ­Never
seeing the cage
that surrounds us both
like monkeys in a 200.
Traveling a path whose bumps
he cannot feel. Loving him.
He gives us joy, love, laughter ­Yet
the emptiness inside me grows.
The mother in me is complete;
The woman needs so much.
I tried to kill the woman ­Bur
she exists in a dream..
And I can't destroy the dream
without ...
destroying the mother.
We are one.
Ann Murphy
Adolescent Mind
Lost in a crowd of feelings,
Thought weighed down, and hindered,
By tendrils, vines, and creepers
A heavy mist obscuring
Light, from rationality.
Thick, heavy clouds oppressing,
All deep, sweet feelings of joy.
A sense of imperfection
Pervades. Sham" in helplessness
Horror concealed; face cast down.
Self is lost, in guilt, and pain.
Crushed by the total horror.
Fleeing freedom, feeling fear,
Wish escape from awareness.
Involve in being-human ...
N. Genevive
Lying in your arms,
quietly ...
after the storm of passion.
Fingers interlaced
in a minute of
peaceful tenderness.
The room is dark and cool
and envelopes us
in secrecy_
Your eyes looking into mine
perhaps seeking an answer ­a
reason for all this.
Your hands running
through my hair
as my fingers trace
the outline of your cheek,
your chin,
your lips that seek
out mine,
shutting out my question
of why.
Debbie Rinaldo-Bauer
54 Bob Zitlau, Jr.
A Valentine for
Glendale College
and AWARE
-10 have had a chance at life,
when I was drowning.
To have had food and shelter and time
and the emotional space of
breathing free.
To start becoming me.
To wake at night and wonder about
Solar Motion, the Celestial Sphere
and the Pleiades.
To brush my teeth and ponder probability.
To drive to where the center of the world is
where the questions to be asked
are almost within grasp.
where the music to be heard
hangs incessant in the air.
where such marvels wait
for mutual consideration
in such ambient coloration.
The world is new and so am I;
and this ...
is a state of grace.
Grace Cassidy
The Game
In winning-
Who is to say who won?
Did I?
Because I walked away ­or
Did you?
Pauline Mounsey
Charley Brown
Gone A'Traveling
Where have you been, little one?
Old lady in the mirror -
Child that grew too soon '­Where
have you been?
I have sailed uncharted seas
in cardboard boats with paper sails
Soared the skies -
on wings of cellophane,
Helen Baldwin
55
wishes to thank
79 issue. Our staff
e writing, drawing and
o on to ther magazines.