GCC Creative Arts Magazine
Spring 1982 Volume 15
GCC Creative Arts Magazine
Cindy Pelletier 10
J. K. Evans 18
Chong Cha Burns 23
Flo Antinoro 24
Aliya Ma-Lynn Tung 27
Helen Baldwin 29
Wanda Selk 1, 4,13
Elizabeth Ann Jones 3,15,26
Cherie Alexander 4
P. J. Luciana 5,21,30
Cindy Pelletier 5,32
Ron Dickson 5, 7, 9
Pam Hardin 5
Brian Lane 6, 22, 31
Alice Burt 6, 7, 32
Deane E. Hurd 7, 32
Deborah Lynn Gunhus 7
J. K. Evans 8, 15
Pauline Mounsey 8,31,32
Rose Marie Welsh 8
Cathy Reynolds 8
Robin Nelson 9
Flo Antinoro 12, 14
Kathy Kope 13
Martin Schneider 13
Cover Design by Carol Paxton
Lea Mackey 13
Helen Baldwin 15, 31
Elinor J. Fisher 20
Sharon Piccone 29
Jackie Morris 31
Helen Ehrlich 31,32
Laura Ombres 32
Eric LaHord 7
Bill Reager 8
Dorothy Ray 9,20
Georgia McCoy 21,29
Betty Abram 27
Malcolm Nuvamsa 30
Nancy Alcott 1, 10, 11,26
Carol Paxton 16, 22
Scott Emmellcamp 25
Russ Ryan 3
Cecelia Flores 3
Marion L. Peddle 12, 14
Shirley Levine 4, 13, 18
Leonard Rivera 6
Ronald E. Ludders 15
Bertha Marcum. 16, 17,23
Shirley Croegaert.. 23
the 11 trave,er
GCC Creative Arts Magazine
Glendale Community College
Assistant Art Director
Flo Antinoro, Helen Baldwin
Margaret Brown, Cathy Darmofal
Helen Ehrlich, J. K. Evans
Kathy Kope, Brian Lane
Pauline Mounsey, Shirley Norris
Art and Production Advisor
Runbeck & Associates
Published annually by
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive
Glendale, Arizona 85302
© The Traveler
Glendale Community College
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
The entire staff of the 1982 edition ofThe Traveler worked hard
this year to achieve a wide representation of the students who
attend Glendale Community College, a good balance of material,
and a finished product worthy of our award-winning tradition.
Of the 28 students who submitted poetry this year, 26 are represented
here. We published work from six of the 19 students who
submitted prose. Approximately 20 students submitted art. We
accepted work from six of those students and requested illustrations
from three others. Of the approximately 25 students who
submitted photography, eight are represented.
The variety of style and subject matter reflects the variety of
students on this campus. Contributors range in age from just out
of high school to grandparents and come from many parts of the
United States, several cultural backgrounds, and even other
parts of the world. The Traveler is truly a "community" college
I want to thank Mr. Griggs for copy reading our Spanish poem,
"Mijardin,"Ms. Brophy, Ms. Grandt, Dr. Herlihy, Ms. Schiedat, Ms.
Vowles, Mr. Bayley, Mr. Brazie, and Mr. Hartley for judging the
literary contributions; and Ms. Goto, Ms. Hamilton, and Mr. Peterson
for judging the art, illustration, and photography entries.
Special thanks go to Mr. Bayley, Ms. Hamilton, and Mr. Peterson
for their advice and support.
I am very proud to be the editor ofThe Traveler, but whatever
success comes to this year's edition is due in large measure to a
very competent and dedicated staff.
We hope you enjoy reading The Traveler. We will begin accepting
submissions for the 1983 edition next September.
Art and Photography Awards
Best of Show for /IIustration, Nancy Alcott; First Place Drawing, Dorothy
Ray; Second Place Drawing, Betty Abram; Third Place Drawing, Georgia
McCoy; Honorable Mention Drawing, Eric LaHord; First Place /IIustration,
Carol Paxton; First Place Photography, Bertha Marcum; Second Place
Photography, Marion L. Peddle; Third Place Photography, Cecelia Flores.
Patterns of lace,
Yellow and worn,
Old and torn,
A time long ago,
Of a love
She used to know.
Pieces of lace,
Tattered and still,
Of the laughter,
Or her will.
They lie on a shelf,
Forgotten and gray,
Of another time,
Of another day.
TO BE AS THE WIND
My soul seeks the places of salvation and peace -
My mind reaches outward for some unyet nameable Truth.
My body lusts after sensuous desires.
My sleep is filled with these contradictory passions.
I long to touch all that is beautiful.
All that is beautiful beckons to me, asking to be caressed.
If I could, I most surely would be as the wind,
Caressing, kissing all that I passed.
TO HELEN OF TROY
Helen, thy name is Greek.
Over all the fertile valleys
All the warring seas
Midst bloodshed, midst thunder
The black pillars of smoke
Roiling o'er plunder
You, Helen, tore Greece asunder!
Yes, Helen, you did!
Famed face, wreathed in myrtle myth!
Did you think of your people
On war-torn homelands fair?
Or lie with lovers languishing
On distant shores so bare.
But you are Greece, Helen
There is no doubt
How they seek you out
Suckling warmly at your breast
Putting saddened hearts to rest.
Men, women and children all find solace
In thy legend - Helen - Beauty - Greek
With the world at your feet.
P. J. Luciana
THE CAPTAIN'S HOUSE
How I shuddered at the door of this house
belonging to times long past -
its dreadful rooms like dungeons
long left to fend with age and decadence,
its withered self standing almost ramshackle,
I wondering what apparitions venture within ...
the old and cracked stained glass windows
laden with soot,
their vivid graces extinguished ...
the walls gloomy with prints of a time
we know little of ...
the marble fireplace blackened and etched
with the pox of its days -
this futile frame so old
yet within the hold
of reinstated glory, but for a care.
One must take great effort when doing such battle
and commence to read plastered walls,
thick with a century's tales.
I've lost again, again ...
the tears come unwanted,
an angry hornet from each eye.
My pawns lie useless, gawking stupidly at the sky.
The castle, my pride, my strength -
shambles now, guarding only shadows.
The horses are broken; I cannot flee ...
I am tied to puny moves, worthless retreats.
My priests ran, too, hiding behind
their golden robes, to peaceful shade beneath
their solid rock.
My beautiful, my queen, my Judas why
have you gone?
I've lost again, again ...
The feelings I have for you
run deeper than the ocean_
But like the unforgiving tide,
you seem to be
forever out of my grasp.
A CHILD OF SPRING
Had he once been a child of Spring
with eyes of Summer's green
who stood beside some stately king
inhaling this same scene?
Had he once been a child of Spring
with curls of Autumn's hue
whose countenance bespoke a thing
unknown but felt as true?
Had he once been a child of Spring
whose heart remained unnumbed,
whose soldiered fears were left to cling
to love that had succumbed?
Had he once been a child of Spring
who bore his land to wars,
whose mottled conscience served to sing
of nature's festering sores?
Had he once been a child of Spring,
ne'er knelt before the flood,
whose hopes did fly on tender wing
and fluttered midst the blood?
Had he once been a child of Spring
who stalked a mirrored prey,
reflecting visions burgeoning
with clouded black dismay?
Had he once been a child of Spring
who wintered foregone time
and suffered till the mournful ring
of bells that yet will chime?
Had he once been a child of Spring?
It matters not his name
who lies beneath this sotted earth,
all epitaphs the same.
Paperdoll people live down the street.
They smile and they nod whenever we meet.
They are always well-groomed.
Every hair is in place.
They're very well-mannered
And move with much grace.
Their goings and comings -
Blurred images to me
Like robots moving mechanically.
Who are those people?
They live down the street.
They smile and they nod whenever we meet.
BUTTERFLIES AND BIRDS
Floating in emerald mantled dream,
Dipping and darting by sylvan stream,
Rainbow-winged, they glide on misted air,
Brightening the world with practiced flair.
Some in silent journey, flower to flower,
Some soaring to touch needled cloud, hour by hour.
Spirited aloft upon blossom-seasoned breeze,
Bowing to branch with ballerina ease.
Muted monarch leaf-basking its silken foil.
Painted lady bud-tasting with watch-spring coil.
Prismed swallow swooping to eddied ripple.
Bee-buzz hummer sipping on nectared nipple.
Announcing the dawn, this sky-dancing bouquet
Sprinkles its baubles in elegant array.
Moss-velvet slippers and with her turquoise crown,
A dainty corsage for nature's verdant gown.
Signaled to sequester by the sun's last ray,
They're cast to act only by light of day.
Night is for cousins, dusky sphinx and snowy owl.
Moonbeam-cooled, the pallid land is theirs to prowl.
Here at God's command, perhaps to cheer our while.
Tomorrow's worries never ruffle their style.
Conditioned to half-lives by the phasing sun,
Where their beings end, there, ours have just begun.
Flighted figures, mere whispers of Creative Voice.
For us, full spectrum of ontogenic choice.
What then shall our beings be? Twigs? Flowers? Trees?
Yes! And quarks, quasars and glowing galaxies.
Deane E. Hurd
A quiet sentinel stands guard, protecting the devil's darkness.
Icy fingers caress my mind, memories wishing for forgetfulness.
Shadowy faces stare close by, and voices rise for me to hear.
The sentinel protects too well, and my hope dissolves to fear.
Bands of steel tighten across my chest, heartache envelops me.
Physical pain could not compare to this ache that will not flee.
Will daylight ever come, oh Lord, bringing peace to a wounded soul?
Will songbirds return once more, singing those sweet melodies of old?
The dungeon is so dark and cold, and still the guard stands tall.
My cries fall on silent ears, behind the dark sentinel's wall.
Deborah Lynn Gunhus
I-- ....:::...=--___ ;B
Whirling witches zero in,
Their targets unsuspecting.
Stagnant brains, withered souls,
Snipe at the young, detest the poor,
Ugliness gives them away.
They hoot and howl, hiss and moan,
Want laughter stopped today!
Sprinkling venom from their cup,
They look down, never up.
Witches fight love and kindness too.
Love and kindness - that's part of you!
Whirling witches just can't see
They're killing themselves with calumny.
Whirling witches with unseen skill,
Zero in for the kill.
Turn them off with a happy smile.
Their brooms will break in a little while!
Death - lover of all and friend of none:
Do not assume to lead me gently
to your bridal bed, no,
prepare to drag me screaming to the rape of
Crush me, but embrace me not.
THE THREE GRACES
Well along the road
he found a rose
He cut it free
then gave it to
the love he'd so
held gently in her hand
more brilliant now
than when it grew
At mystic dawn
the spell complete
from kiss to touch
from earth to flesh
J. K. Evans
lead trumpets and feet
through staccato turns
and muted passages
flow into sunlight
melody for baritone
tuned with morning dew
brings a picture of you
marching in dreams
smiling when you see
me in the crowd
Maybe God keeps me poor
so that I will labor that much more.
I want to give to those I love
precious stones and turtle doves.
And yet I come with empty hands.
God, help me to understand.
I've been blessed to be so poor.
From life I derive much more
than men with servants bending to their knees,
spending money as they please.
The children work by my side;
they will learn satisfaction and pride.
They give me precious gifts with their little hands a
sand dollar that's turned back to sand
because she held it too tightly in her hand.
'Mother you're pretty' and a kiss on the cheek
means more to me than diamonds and mink.
The battles to win will keep me alive worthy
causes or maybe just my pride.
I see God's world before me to take what I will to
roam the beach or to climb a hill.
Now I can see why I'm poor.
God, you've made me so rich, how could I ask for more.
Rose Marie Welsh
Sometimes . ..
something sparks the memory.
Sometimes . ..
someone helps me to remember
all of the happiness, all of the fun,
all of the love.
It's not gone.
It only lingers in a different time,
a different space.
No, it's not gone.
It's deep within me, in my mind,
in my soul.
Sometimes . ..
I almost forget that someone is missing.
Sometimes . ..
I still wait for him to come home.
Sometimes . ..
I don't feel the pain.
But only sometimes.
As I chance upon this angel's snare,
Should I look, and do 1 dare
To throwaway.J.l1Y innocent heart and stay
With one s easy to love today..
But would the morning bring an awful fear
And wonder the reason why I'm here.
Will this be all and will it end
And will he say I'm just a friend.
/; ! •
(5 ... o a
She gave me
something so precious.
make their own place in life and are
also responsible for their own results.
For a long time I didn't understand.
Sometimes I still don't. But I guess it
comes down to one thing. I guess you
have a choice - a bright life full of what
you think are "gold and jewels" or a
peaceful garden scattered with every
color of the rainbow.
Summers passed. Winters came and
went. Time moves always on. I watched
her hold on to her dignity and the cat
by the same name. I watched as she ate
sparingly so that Dignity could eat. I
watched her smile as he played in the
garden. [ watched the utility companies
take more and more of the already meager
Social Security check. [ watched the
city raise her taxes. I watched her as
she sat holding Dignity. I watched them
give each other love.
tall near the porch in the backyard. Nobody
else got to see that backyard. Nobody
else wanted to. It was a crime that
no one wanted to share the beauty of it
with her. Just me. It was a sight beyond
description - something you felt. Hours
on end, I would sit there with her just
feeling the peace.
In the few months before that stormy
day when I found the kittens, the old
woman had begun to fall away more and
more. It seemed that the peace wasn't
enough. Her health had failed and it
looked like she was giving in. But as I
watched her nurse that cat back to
health, the brightness seemed to come
alive again in her eyes. And it was stronger
than ever before.
I never knew she had a family. Not
for sure anyway. I had a feeling. I found
out quite by accident. As I straightened
things in the parlor one day, I noticed
the family Bible. The names were inscribed
just inside the cover - two sons
and two daughters. I troubled myself by
wondering where they were - why they
didn't come to her. Inside I knew they
never had and never would.
I asked one day. She wasn't surprised
or even sorrowful. She just told me that
you give what you can as you go along in
life, and then there comes a day you set
free those responsibilities. The results
aren't yours to have, she told me. They
A Cat Named Di
BY CINDY PELLETIER
ILLUSTRATED BY NANCY ALCOTT
The little one had too
much dignity to
give in, she said.
It was an awful day. Pouring rains and
cold wind. I really didn't want to go to
school. Shivering into my jacket, I wondered
what it would be like to live on a
tropical island, and I had reached the
corner of Brown and Myrtle before the
cold blasting wind finally brought me
out of my sunny island reverie.
I stood still on that corner for a moment.
Not for the traffic, there wasn't
any. There never was. I just stood there,
waiting. Then I heard it. A whisper. A
squeak. A cry. Something ever so faint.
Looking down at the curb, I found the
source of those strange sounds. There
in the rain gutter were two kittens. Soaked
and shivering, they were begging me
to assist them out of their dilemma.
I forgot the rain, the wind and school.
I had a mission of mercy. I had to find
shelter for these kittens.
That's how the old lady came by Dignity.
I rushed over to her house with
both kittens and she nursed them as
best as she could. The little one had too
much dignity to give in, she said. He
held on to life and she kept him. We put
the other to rest in the garden.
I had known the old lady for a few
years. I ran errands for her and I kept
the yard up. Nobody else wanted to. She
was different and I guess that frightened
everyone else but me. Iwas different too,
so it really didn't matter.
In the summer, we drank lemonade in
the shade of a huge maple tree. It stood
She gave me somethillg too, something
so precious. There was no price to
pay - for Dignity or for me. She listened
to my dreams, my hopes, my wishes,
my goals. She never criticized or complained.
We shared so much.
One morning [ got up to find her gone.
Time had won. The children moved in
like vultures. Sell the house' Sell the
furniture! They didn't want it and it would
bring a splendid price at the antique
auction! [ watched them go through their
grieving motions from across the street.
[ felt sorry for them. They never really
knew her. They weren't capable of knowing
The oldest son brought the box across
the street. [ met him in the yard. He
said he had found a note for me and a
box full of her belongings. "Junk," he
called it. [ could see that it had been gone
through thoroughly. [t didn't matter. [
knew these things were true treasure.
There was a book by Whitman and another
by Longfellow. A picture of the
garden was stuck in the pages of her
The note asked that [ take care of
Dignity. She wanted me to have the
gladioli bulbs from the garden. And she
gave me her love.
[ took the box to my room where [
could be alone. [ looked at it and wondered
if this was what life was all about.
[ took out the diary. [t opened where
the picture was placed. On the page was
Life is to be cherished and held in
respect. This attitude will always
bring dignity to the soul. It is this
very dignity that keeps us alive
and so it should be held highest
in our hearts. We should live with
it, and give it to others. My Dignity
will survive me in so many ways.
I put the diary down on my desk and
went across the street. I went to get the
make you smile with my smile
wide and scarlet bright.
We laugh together;
it's expected from both of us.
I'm happy ...
See my face, painted in mirth?
go home and laugh again.
I go home,
take off my mask
*"Pagliaccio" is Italian for
clown or player, from the opera,
Pag/iacci by Leoncavello.
Marion L. Peddle
I sit here in class,
My mind wanders afar
To other parts and places,
Farther shores and distant stars.
But oops! I missed a sentence.
What's that? She called my name?
You say you want the answer
To this literary game.
You want to know the meaning
Of this poem we are dissecting;
What did the author mean by
"Gardens gold" and"dust collecting?"
Oh prof, I beg to differ
That there's meaning here to see.
Let's just read it for the feeling.
Can't we just let it be?
Perhaps the author was once
A student just as I -
Wandering off to distant shores,
A delighted passerby.
I touch you
and you touch me,
I feel you
and you feel me,
on a higher plane
in our home,
within our Fa.ther's House.
CARING, LOVING, SHARING
EACH ONE AN INDIVIDUAL
WORKING, TRYING, ADVANCING
In the silence that yields its secrets
and which holds the thread of truth:
this once supple skin has grown furrows
and my auburn hair has gathered autumn frost!
But until the warm spring earth
has swallowed winter's snow ...
I am still being born.
When tomorrow is already yesterday
and the stream of time grasps and pulls me down,
when the course of my life is veiled in smoke
and I've lost the power to rekindle the flame
when my thoughts walk no farther than my feet
and a hundred pains pursue me one by one ...
I will let my hair down and take off my shoes,
for I have grown old.
When today has become tomorrow
and I forget what I couldn't remember,
when the morning's sudden flare of passion
dissolves into fragments of pallid sunbeams,
when teardrops chase one another down my cheeks
and loneliness is the silence of weightless words ...
I will let the grass wither and the flowers wilt
for I have grown oid. '
THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE
THIS TIME IT'S ME ...
I The Night Before
Over cocktails at the Regency,
between the linking cigarettes,
he counted out the hours
on the surface of the bar.
Consoled by friends and others
who brought him to this place,
he wished that he
had thought things through.
Elizabeth Ann Jones
I thought it would be easy
Seeing you again.
But, it only made me realize
True feelings never end.
Things are so much different now I've
ripened in the rain ...
Blossomed in the sunshine ...
Wiser for the pain.
J. K. Evans
EXECUTION IN L.A.
II Dawn the Next Day
They gave him a last cigarette
and put a blindfold to his eyes.
His final words, on late night news,
video-taped in cold sunrise.
His body pitched artistically,
though mouth betrayed, in mock surprise.
They left him in pre-natal pose,
to be a breakfast fit for flies.
III The Third Day
It is no rumor.
He is alive.
Some saw him near the place
they call the tomb,
where he's living
with the angel
who rolled away
Arizonans of all ages were joined by a few out-of-staters
last October 18 at the annual Rio Salado Community
College 1O,OOO-meter run, sponsored by radio station
KDKB. The course begins in the desert of Phoenix's
Papago Park, runs along the canal, through some city
streets and back into the park via a "killer hill that makes
it one of the toughest courses around," according to
Richard Marcum, whose efforts were cheered by wife
Bertha - when she wasn't taking pictures. Although
that hill reduced many runners to walkers, Bertha's
camera caught one sprinter as he crossed the finish
line. All finishers received water - and a commemorative
Layout by Carol Paxton.
Copy by Karen Edelstein.
~ fl.~. &11..41[5
I've been here a week. Mostly it's rained, but yesterday I went
out on the patio. The bottle of Tequila I opened last night is
finished and I need a drink. No more tequila though, which is
all you can get from room service. That, or raisin wine. Have
you ever tasted raisin wine? I suppose I'll have to go down to
the cocktail lounge. I don't want to, but I do need a drink.
What I want to do, is stay in this room. Not that it's any great
shakes as a room mind you, but, you see, I have this terrible
premonition that I'm going to get killed in Juarez. It's not that I
mind dying, although it's not at the top of my list of things to
do; it's just that I'd prefer it didn't happen in Juarez. If I'm going
to die anywhere, I'd like it to be in Acapulco - or the French
The cocktail lounge puts me in mind of Rick's place in "Casa·
blanca." You know, seedy, but not without its charm. It's
crowded, considering it's only seven-thirty, and everybody
is wearing white suits. Everyone, that is, but the woman sitting
at the far end of the bar. She's wearing a black, see-through
blouse and a tight, grey skirt. I wonder if she's wearing any
underwear at all? The idea fascinates me. She fascinates me.
Since there are no seats, I stand in a spot where I have a perfect
view of her profiled breast. I order a vodka martini. It's large.
The breast, that is, but not too large. Her one visible nipple is
reminiscent of Faye Dunaway's in "Network." I order another
drink and continue to study the object of my affections.
The bottle that has been supplying my martinis is almost
empty. Knowing it was nearly full when I started, I look at my
watch. It's almost midnight. The place is empty now, except
for the two of us and the bartender, who, for those of you
who remember the movie, bears a strong resemblance to
Marlon Brando in "Viva Zapata." It's time to strike up a con·
versation with the light of my life, but as I turn to offer a witty
opening remark, she gets up and leaves the bar. I'm in a panic.
Should I follow? Should I stay? Do I dare to eat a peach? I might
get killed out there. This is, after all, Juarez.
The street outside is filled with people. It reminds me of the
crowd scene in "The Day of the Locusts." A small boy, a dark
version of Mark Lester in "Oliver," asks me if I want to buy
cigarettes. I tell him I don't smoke. He offers to sell me some
contraceptives. He's got me there. I hand him some money
and place his wares in my coat pocket. I look around for my
darling and see her just before she turns down a side street.
Racing to catch up with her, I turn down the same street and
find myself in the midst of a Gothic setting much like the scenery
used in "The Third Man." From an open window, the
haunting sound of zither music breaks the silence. In the
shadow of a building, I can make out the shape of a heavy set
man standing in the doorway. As I try to focus on his face, he
steps back into the shadow and disappears. She, meanwhile, is
entering an ominous looking building farther down the street.
I run after her, slowing for a second at the spot where the
mysterious figure stood. The doorway is empty. I continue
until I'm standing in front of her building, intoxicated and out
The hallway is dark, but at the top of a flight of rickety stairs a
light shines from an open doorway. [ bound up the stairs:
George Segal in "A Touch of Class." At the entrance to her
room I stop, watching, while she undresses. My god, she's Not
wearing any underwear. She looks at me. I look down at the
floor. She speaks, I look up. She asks me in. I thank her. She's
twice as beautiful as before and I'm filled with a strange sense
of adventure. Entering the room, I take the package of contraceptives
from my pocket. I'm not that adventurous.
Early the next morning, I make my way back to the Hotel
Juarez. It's raining, but I feel as happy as I've ever felt in my
life. Turning onto the street that leads back to the hotel, I do
a Gene Kelly shuffle and burst into a rousing rendition of
"Singing in the Rain." God, what I wouldn't give for an umbrella
Back at the hotel, I call room service and order a bottle of
tequila and a bucket of ice. My heart is overflowing with love
and I feel a celebration is in order. What a night this has been,
what a rare mood I'm in, why it's almost like, a knock on the
door. I open it to a heavy set man carrying a tray with a bottle
and ice. I study his face as he steps into the room. He looks
a bit like Orson Welles in - "The Third Man?" "The Third
Man!" Oh, my god! I bolt toward the door, but it's too late. I
see a flash of silver, hear a slicing sound under my chin, feel
the warm, sticky flow of my own blood running down my shirt.
I slump against the wall and watch my life draining onto the
She steps into the room, behind the fat man, and sits down
on the edge of the bed. The way she crosses her legs puts me
in mind of Lauren Bacall in "To Have and Have Not." He puts
the tray on the night stand, pours two drinks and sits down
beside her. She takes a glass. He raises his. They turn to look at
me. Unable to stand now, I slide down the wall. They clink
their glasses and he says something to her, but I can't make
it out. She laughs and I feel very much like Richard Burton at
the end of "Becket" - No, more like Donald Sutherland in
"Don't Look Now."
YOUTH AND TIME (IN A HURRY)
You are youth my dear,
Strong and young with mind so clear.
Vital, sensitive, but can you cry?
Do you feel that life is passing you by?
Swift and fast it's here, it's gone.
Time ... Time goes on and on.
Can you keep up with the pace?
Does time show upon your face?
Don't rush, don't hurry, time will pass.
Savor life to the very last.
Put life on your tongue, add some spice.
Go slow and taste it ... It's very nice ..
Elinor J. Fisher
~ o' ./
'. , t
THE GARDENIA BUSH
Northern ladies are used to seeing Gardenias
Stuck and wrapped in milady's corsage
One or two perked stiffly on a proud shoulder
Is a feat of the belle of the ball.
Southern ladies can wake up one morning
And know by smell the Gardenias have arrived.
They can drift out into the garden in their
Nightclothes and gaze upon a bush laden and drooping
And burdened with Gardenias.
The bush is so heavy with blooms it can hardly hold
What to do?
The ladies snip for school children to take to teachers,
They snip for tea parties and coffee klatches,
They snip for sick people and weddings and graduations,
Dances, receptions, office desks and kitchen window sills.
The bush bears every spring
Knowing it will be snipped.
There is a bush in my neighbor's yard.
They've moved away long since.
Every spring the blossoms bloom
Hoping to be snipped.
P. J. Luciana
When t summ ad spent its load, A't"'~
we all nt down 0 Gethsemane for the weeke~d)::::..
There we sat around demYstifY~.ng "-
ali the known world
and waited for confirmation.
When the autumn arrived and
the wind chill factor man
told us we were cold
then we believed it. .~:"..' .;.~ •...
. '" if'...,~.)...1\0 ~
When the winter thundered into
and took a room at Studio 54,
we all waited in lines
to be ultra, hyper, new and improved.
We were the chicest fish in
a sea of pretenses.
When the spring packed its bags and
moved to Orlando to retire,
we watched it in live, slow motion
That night, with the grey beard
of winter blowing in the window,
we pulled the cover over our heads
and hid from sleep.
The Eagle and the Cosmos
:.c ____ tJ)
to see the arrangements made by
two parents soon after the girls are
born. They are not allowed to date
with any other boys.
Korea is Americanized in many
ways, but the freedom of girlhood
isn't. American girls are free to
spread their wings like eagles and
explore every field of opportunity,
getting closer and closer to becoming
equal to boys. Korean girls
are bound in old traditions like the
cosmos flowers in the garden, getting
farther and farther behind the
advance of time.
Originally from South Korea, thirtynine-
year-old Chong Cha Burns has
been in the United States for ten years.
For the past two and one·half years,
she has studied English at Glendale
Community College. She intends to
continue this course of study until she
can "take notes and understand the
instructors." After that, she says she
might study creative writing.
learn all the domestic skills whether
they like it or not.
Most girls in American leave their
parents' home at the age of eighteen
and go out to explore the new world.
They can experience the adventures
of single life and gain the knowledge
of independency. If they choose to
stay at home and go to school, most
of them will get a part-time job
and pay room-and-board to their
parents. Often it's a small amount
and American girls keep the rest.
The Korean girls can not leave their
parents' home until they're married.
If they get a job, they have to give
all the money to their mothers and
ask for an allowance.
Most American girls choose their
own mates. They are free to date
any boy they want and get married
whether their parents approve or
not. In Korea the girls' marriages
are arranged by their parents before
the age of thirteen. It's not unusual
BY CHONG CHA BURNS
The American girls are like the
eagle in the sky. They have freedom.
They can spread their wings
as far as they want and go anyplace
they want. In Korea, the girls are like
cosmos in the garden. Their feet
are bound, their domain limited.
In America when a girl is born,
the father will say, "It doesn't matter
as long as she is healthy. We will
love her as much as a boy." In Korea
when a woman gives birth to a girl,
her husband will say, "Well, next
time try to have a boy."
The girls are loved and treated
as well as boys in America. They
can participate in any sports activity
or wear any style of clothes
they want. Korean girls may be
equally loved, but they are certainly
not treated as well as boys. Moreover,
they can never participate
in any sport that is considered a
boys' sport. They are separated from
the boys at the age of seven, and
they have to attend separate schools
Girls are never forced to do anything
in America, and they are encouraged
to do whatever they are
best at doing. Korean girls have to
or, you can put your feet in tennis shoes, but you can't
make them run.
BY FLO ANTINORO
ILLUSTRATED BY SCOTT EMMELLCAMP
I am not an athlete. I am a housewife, a born-again college
student and basically just an ordinary, clumsy person trying to
get through life without hurting myself. As a child, [ tried different
sports, but in a span of two years, I ended up wearing two
casts and fracturing my skull. By the age of 11, the concept of
self-preservation became clear to me and, with wisdom beyond
my years, I decided to give up athletics forever. Since
then, my favorite activities have been reading and eating.
As an adult, I sincerely believe that I get plenty of exercise
walking from the couch to the bookcase, stopping at the refrigerator
before going back to the couch. Every once in awhile,
I stretch my body to its limits and take an alternate route; [
bypass the fridge and detour down the length of the driveway
when [ hear the ting-a-ling of the ice-cream man's bell. There I
stock up on enough calories to get me through another fifty
pages of whatever I'm reading.
I could have happily lived the rest of my life this way, completely
unacquainted with the smell of a sweat sock, if it weren't
for my college counselor. He informed me that, if I wanted to
graduate, [ must take several credits of phys. ed.
"Fizz ed.?" I asked. Apparently the man didn't know who he
was talking to. I informed him that I'd been a housewife for
13 years, so I knew blender recipes backwards and forwards.
Furthermore, since I wasn't getting my degree in home ec., [
thought that fizz ed. was unnecessary.
In very patient tones he explained to me that phys. ed. was
short for physical education, as in sports. Noticing the look of
fear on my face, he quickly assured me that I didn't have to
sign up for football or wrestling. He showed me a list of all
the sports offered, everything from archery to yoga. With so
many choices, I couldn't make a snap decision. I told him I'd
think it over and let him know.
Driving home, [ passed some joggers and I remembered a
piece of pro-fitness propaganda I'd read that claimed regular
jogging could melt inches off your body without dieting. Then
I remembered how my body had looked in the shower that
morning. From the sales of my feet to just above my knees, [
was in pretty good shape, but from the knees up, my body
was going downhill. There were distinct bluges of spongy
skin collected along the sides and backs of my thighs and they
popped out again at my abdomen where they gathered into
one large bulge that resembled a giant, silvery-striped marshmallow.
In short, I looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in drag.
I decided that jogging was the sport for me. If I was going to
sweat, I wanted something to show for it - namely, baggy
The first day of class I showed up at the gym and looked at
my fellow classmates. Half the class was young (read under
30) and wouldn't know cellulitis if they sat on it. The other
half was made up of people I could identify with: Those in
jogging shorts had colorful varicose veins decorating their legs
and the ones in warm-up suits had tell-tale lumps distributed
unevenly between their knees and ribcages. I gravitated toward
the latter group and plopped myself down on the exercise
mat between a forty-ish man with a pack of cigarettes
tucked in his sock and a pear shaped woman whose T-shirt
proclaimed, "I Survived Menopause!" Kindred souls, we
watched the youngsters try to outdo each other in meaningless
Then the door of the gym was wrenched open, slammed
shut and stomping toward us was a grade "A," jumbo-sized
contender for the Mr. Universe title carrying a clipboard.
Around his neck he wore a nylon rope and dangling from this
rope was a whistle and stopwatch. His name was "Coach" and
he was the instructor for Jogging 101. I felt intimidated just
looking at this specimen of physical fitness. But intimidation
was a minor emotion compared to the terror I felt when he
thundered the outline of the course for us: We would spend 20
minutes of each class "warming up," run one mile and 20
minutes "warming-down." Looking pointedly at me and my
new friends, he acknowledged that, for some of us, it may take
awhile to work up to the one mile. A shrill blast of his whistle
signaled the beginning of warm-ups.
The first exercise consisted of standing up with feet spread
wide. I could handle that and my confidence rose. But then
he wanted us to lean over from the waist and (get this) not
only touch the floor, but reach to a point six inches behind
our ankles and then touch the floor. If we got that far, we were
supposed to hold that position for a count of 10. Extra points
were given if we didn't fall over.
I didn't get the extra points, but I was the first one down on
the mat for Coach's next sadistic maneuver. It also started
out deceivingly easy. We sat on the mat with our legs spread in
a wide "V." Then leaning forward, we were supposed to grasp
our right instep with our hands (instep? Is knee close enough?)
We held that position for a count of 10 and repeated for the
left instep (knee). If that wasn't enough to make our hamstrings
surrender, we were told to remain seated and lean
over from the waist until our chests touched the mat. In a
quavering voice, I protested that my chest wasn't big enough
to touch the mat. In frosty tones, Coach told me that it had
nothing to do with chest circumference. To prove this, he
pointed to a young girl who obviously still wore a training brashe
was serenely resting the side of her face on the mat.
Somehow I managed to make it through the next 17Y2 minutes
of warm-ups. At the end of the 20 minutes, I realized how
these exercises came by their name. They're called warm-ups
as in, "I've died and gone to hell." continued
Then Coach took us outside and pointed out the track. The
younger members of the class loped off like a pack of happy
puppies. My group took off more slowly, with some of them
even breaking into a run before the 200-yard marker. I stayed
where I was, surveying the track.
About eight feet ahead was a gopher hole. I saw myself with
a broken ankle, hobbling around on crutches. Beyond the
gopher hole, the jogger's path graded up to a berm. I saw myself
lying in a tangled heap at the bottom of the four foot incline.
Farther on, part of the track ran parallel to a golfer's
driving range. I knew deep in my heart that when I got to that
section of the track, a strong wind would come up and blow
a golf ball off its course. The ball would veer right and hit me
in the head, knocking me out cold.
I was wondering who I could get to babysit my kids while
I lay comatose in the intensive care unit when Coach interrupted
my thoughts. "What're you waiting for?" he barked.
I leaned my head back as far as it would go, looked him straight
in the eye and answered. ''I'm just waiting to feel the full effects
of that runner's high, sir." With that, I took off in an uneven
Between walking, running and hopping, I was able to dodge
the gopher hole. At the incline, I shifted my legs into four-wheel
drive and lurched along the top of the berm. I rounded the
bend at the quarter-mile mark and out of the corner of my
eye I saw a convenience market. A lesser woman would've
given in to her vices and stumbled across the street to the happiness
of a cigarette and a cold can of pop. But not I. Out of
the corner of my other eye, I saw Coach watching me.
I continued on. Recalling the story about the little engine
who could, I chanted to myself, "I think I can. I think I can."
But my legs had a mantra of their own and screamed back,
"No, we can't, you crazy fooH"
When I had covered a total of half a mile, I staggered back
to the starting point. I begged Coach to call an ambulance for
me, but he refused. Instead, he herded us back into the gym
LITTLE KITTY "NO TAIL"
Little kitty "no tail'?
You run kind of funny
And you ain't worth any money.
You don't land upon your feet
(The way other kitties do).
But you always make me smile
With the sunny things you do.
Elizabeth Ann Jones
Warm-downs are just like warm-ups except for one difference
and that difference isn't in the direction, as the name
suggests. It's in the attitude of the person doing them. In warmups,
I hoped the situation would get better. In warm-downs,
I was convinced that physical exertion was the pits.
Finally, c1as~ ended and we were allowed to go to the locker
rooms to shower, change and resume our normal lives.
But my life hasn't been normal since that first class two
weeks ago. It isn't normal for every muscle below my nose to be
so sore that I can't walk upright, straighten my knees or put
my legs together. It isn't normal to be gripped in a spasm of
excruciating pain with every movement from combing my
hair to tying my shoes. Getting in and out of my subcompact
car is a study of agony in slow motion. When I went to the
drugstore to buy a large, economy bottle of liniment to massage
on my aching body, I prayed to Saint Jude to help me to
get out of my car before I was arrested for loitering.
The liniment doesn't help much, but if I rub it on immediately
after my physical torture class, it does make it barely possible
to sit through my next class, English humanities. I shuffle
into this class, whimpering in pain and reeking of eucalyptus
oil and menthol. The person sitting next to me is a matronly
woman who is the epitome of stuffy, literary intellectualism. As
soon as I collapse into my seat and she gets a whiff of my liniment,
she wrinkles her nose and starts to sniff and look around.
The physical pain is hard enough to bear; I can't handle
ostracism on top of it. Taking my cue from her, I wrinkle my
nose and make a great show of sniffing and looking around, too.
Then I turn to her, raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders,
trying to throw her off my scent, so to speak. Maybe I'll get
into shape and have no need for the liniment before she catches
on to who the smelly culprit really is.
I've been wondering, though, if I've permanently damaged
my body by trying to get it in shape. Maybe I'll spend the rest
of my life walking hunched over, with my legs spread and
bent at the knees. Oh well, at least in that posture, the bulges
in my thighs and abdomen won't be so noticeable. 0
BY ALIYA MA-LYNN TUNG
A fine morning of the New Year found
me in my parents' house in Kuala Lumpur,
Malaysia on my yearly visit to them.
Dressed up, I skipped downstairs; no
one was up yet. Roses adorned the
garden, and orchids in hanging pots
waved in the breeze. They had bloomed
after much care and plant-food feeding.
Armed with a pair of scissors, I meant
to cut a few for the occasion but discovered
the rose; grew at least four
buds close to one another on a branch.
Cutting one would cause the others to
wither before reaching full bloom. That
would be cruel. Leaving them as they
were, they would beautify the house all
My seven-year-old nephew Tiny and
eleven-year-old niece Marsitah, who had
stayed overnight, ran down to say Happy
New Year to me. Then we all greeted
my parents who were ready for breakfast.
Mother said, "Oh, yes, we must give
the children their red packets." These
are money wrapped up in red packets
and give to children on New Year
Day by elderly people. Hardly had she
finished her words than the two children
stretched out their hands. I followed
suit simultaneously. Looking at my
parents, I felt so young. Time flashed
back several decades when Iwas just like
Tiny. Looking down at me then were
such a handsome couple. How they had
aged! Kindness and charm shone on
their faces now, however, with a silent
expression of nostalgic melancholy.
Tiny led the way, his
to reach our
Over the breakfast table, Tiny was
pestering Marsitah to accompany him to
climb the "mountain," a piece of clearance
on a high site about half-a-mile's
distance from Dad's house. Marsitah
had promised Tiny earlier, but was trying
to put it off. I told her it was wrong to
break one's promise. But if she was really
reluctant, I could take Tiny there in·
stead. Tiny was surprised and looked
at me to make sure. His mother, younger
than me by six years, would never condescend
to that. I confirmed my statement.
Holding his little fat hand, we
started our journey. Marsitah was soon
seen running after, calling; she wanted
to go with us.
To study child psychology would be
amusing. Marsitah deemed it a painful
task to go with Tiny all by herself, whereas
following us was a pleasure. Nevertheless,
we three musketeers marched
on. Many villas were built around this
hilly residential area. Some were delightfully
designed. Plants, especially orchids
under protection, attention and good
nourishment, grew as delicate as princesses
smiling bewitchingly to demand
appreciation. A few of them, tomato
red, came out in exuberant clusters and
glowed like lanterns.
In between houses of the same level,
there often existed a narrow path or
trail. The construction workers used
these trails to save them from going
through much lengthy road. They crossed
from one house to another using
these trails as stepping stones. Tiny led
the way, his secret shortcut, to reach
our destination. These trails consisted
of muddy spots and little holes filled with
water. We had to be very careful not
to dirty our new shoes and garments.
Weeds grew high on both sides. As we
proceeded, apprehension of the sudden
appearance of snakes or other bad elements,
including men, took hold of me.
Luckily, that portion of the treacherous
road soon passed. We followed some
zigzagging trails and flights of crude,
makeshift steps leading higher and higher.
Tiny, much too fat and heavy for
his age, showed his vigor and compe·
tence by being the first to reach the top.
Marsitah, thin and tall for her age, came
next. I lagged behind! I could have been
faster if I tried harder. I did not. Not because
there were no trophies waiting
at the top, but due to my poor heart. As
one grows older, cares and worries form
a harder bondage on oneself than one's
real physical condition.
What a relief when all three of us
reached the "mountain" at last! Automatically
we began to run without any
Time flew back and
I tasted once again
the fun of just
reason and yelled our heads off at God
knew what ... ! I forgot everything. Time
flew back and I tasted once again the
fun of just playing. Thrilled at the cool,
open air, how elated and free I felt! I was
once again in the kingdom of childhood
- blissful, exhilarated.
Spiky grass and wild flowers grew rampant
against the hard sandy earth in the
fresh air. Tiny and Marsitah helped me to
pluck ferns and wild flowers as I told
them I would arrange them when we arrived
home. These wild blossoms instilled
us with a touch of self-reliance and
freedom. Using them to decorate the
house would be something of significance.
"This site is ready for another villa.
When a house is built up, we shall have
no mountains to climb," observed Tiny,
feeling already at a loss. "Look there!"
Tiny excitedly pointed. "Over there is
another hill!" Yes, he was right. Surrounded
by shrubs, forest and pinetrees,
a greener hill like a piece of green
jade caressed by the vast, blue sky, aloft
and celestial came to our view.
"Aunt Aliya, when you come here next
year, perhaps we could climb up there!"
Said Tiny. "And the year after, we shall
find somewhere still higher. Right, Aunt
"And there will always be another New
Year Day for the three of us to climb
our mountain!" said Marsitah gleefully.
"Yes, and why not." I said with increased
courage, forgetting all my health
The image of my grey-haired parents
suddenly emerged in my mind. Involuntarily,
I shuddered. Then I mused: while
my parents are still alive, I shall always
belong to a younger generation.
I do mix well with a still younger generation,
always looking forward to another
New Year Day. 0
Aliya Ma-Lynn Tung, who describes
herself as "a very young 55," is from
Singapore. She has been in the United
States for two years. Although reading
and writing in English are very time consuming
for her, she has pursued her
study of literature at Glendale Community
College since last summer.
BY HELEN BALDWIN
Like a bolt out of the blue, Mr.
Brown demands an essay using as
many trite expressions as possible,
and I almost hit the ceiling. It stands
to reason he doesn't have an axe to
grind, but is simply doing his job.
Quick as a flash, I'm convinced he
has his sights trained on me, and I
feel like a rat caught in a trap.
God forbid, I'm shaking like a
leaf, and my thoughts are as clear
as mud As a rule, I wouldn't be
caught dead or with my pants down,
playing into the hands of cliches.
Well, there's no way to dodge the
issue, but to tell the truth, I'm at a
loss for words - you know what I
Nevertheless, I shall persist to
the bitter end, burning the midnight
oil, so to speak, to prove I'm equal to
the occasion. In conclusion, realizing
that this may well be an acid test
of my ability, I say, better last than
'" ~':"'-':"'- ~ ---Ic.J
QUEEN OF SWORDS
I am not what I seem
I am not what you think
I am not the Queen of Hearts.
I am the Queen of Swords,
Queen of Sadness,
Queen of Woes,
Queen of Lost Loves
and Lost Souls.
Before anyone ever came
There was a land
Where game raced freely
Clattering rocks to the
Bottom of the canyon.
P. J. Luciana
Time ... and the wind
Hushed are the
Once free foot-falls
In the winding arroyos.
TO THE SCULPTOR
jeweler of carven images
poet of confident profiles
weaver of enigmas:
Did your fingers ...
mingling with banners of light
and thunder of drums,
reach from the lofty pillars of gods
to gnaw at stamens of stone morsels
of wood, metal and clay ...
carving webs of earthly elements
into new grain and cavities?
Did your hands ...
plunge into secret water and sacred truths,
wings of air and sheets of wind,
to capture the white foam of cold
the heat of rebel lighting
the silence of glacial tears
the songs of rawdawn and nightshine ...
into this particle of permanence?
Arcs, broken lines, shifting forms
dust of flesh, cluster of linkages
obstacles, passions, triumph!
I lie at your feet and drink the water.
SHOW US THE WAYS
Poetry is the magical guide,
although we tend to shunt it aside
and read prose,
the proverbial rose.
But after the introduction,
we understand the production
and follow that beam,
much brighter than it seems,
and let poetry show us the ways
of bygone days.
Subway artists toil,
Iron horses sport spray paint coats.
The ghetto's Van Goghs?
The old church was just as I remembered simple
red brick, white front steps.
Smaller, perhaps, but then everything had
seemed large when I was young. I neared
and stepped into the cool, dim memory.
The same smells were there - damp wood,
musty books, extinguished candle wicks.
I trailed my hand along the wooden rail
as I climbed the creaking, narrow stairs
to the balcony. I stepped near the wall
to be silent, and glanced down to see
the bell rope swaying from the breeze
through the open door. Many years had
passed since I climbed those stairs,
but everything had stayed the same -
the curve of the stairs, the smooth feel
of the rail, the narrow door at the top.
I slipped through that door. There were
the same old wooden pews and the familiar
round stained-glass window with the Eye
in the center - looking at me. It always
looked at me. Even as they buried me.
THE LETTING GO
Glazed eyes glare at me.
This is no tiny bird,
as one might suppose,
viewing it from a distance -
Its size frightens me.
Crouched in its cage like a wild thing,
it relinquishes none of its majesty.
Power surges and hums
through great, motionless wings,
and its breast shakes with the
rapid panic-beat of its heart.
Summoning strength, I let it go,
watch the great wings unfurl,
try their power, then gather momentum
as he circles once around the sun
and is gone.
I walk alone upon the beach,
My shoes are full of sand.
I stumble like a sailor
On his first return to land.
About me sprawl the ghostly forms
Of swimmers long gone home.
The racing clouds are mirrored
In the silver, moon-tipped foam.
Driftwood glistens dry and white,
Culled from some distant shore
Where seabreeze-whispered melodies
Remember it no more.
A single fisheye gleams at me,
The waters ebb and flow.
On the night horizon summer
Steamers come and go.
The midnight sky is peaceful,
Not a star is out of place.
Then why does wind-spray mingle
With salt tears upon my face?
Tiger tails, and creeping snails,
And bells to ring at noon.
A diamond ring, and a song to sing,
And a smiling bright full moon.
A kitten soft, a sweet hayloft,
A time to cry or shout.
A pond to swim, a jungle gym,
And a park to dash about.
A green hillside, a place to hide ...
A ship to sail the seas ...
A kiss of love, the stars above,
Little boys the girls to tease.
A silver star, a land afar ...
Or a magic carpet ride,
I think all this in happiness ...
That I silent keep inside.
rooster crows morning
dew old wood bare
fence rail pasture
My eyes are full of water.
My nose a tickle and sneeze.
Who said Arizona is
Good for allergies?
In the garden
white moths flittering.
all things frittering
away the hours.
On the pool
Our lives enhancing
sweet smells entrancing
fill the air.
Midst the flowers
bees go bumbling
dark clouds tumbling
in the sky.
In the trees
Dead leaves fluttering
bright leaves cluttering
up the ground.
A slick hombre
Called Lariat Bill
Shoed some critters
Over the hill.
But they kinda
An' 'twar too far
To the prizzen.
Wall if tis Bill
Va come ta see,
Rare back your haid.
Look up that tree. _
Deane E. Hurd
En el jardln
todas criaturas perdiendose
las largas horas.
En la charca
luz del sol desviandose
Nuestras vidas realzandose
aromas olorosos fascinandose
lIenan eI aire.
Entre las f10res
abejas van tropezandose
nubes obscuras tumbandose
en el cielo.
En los arboles
ardillitas van tartamudeandose
ardillas nueces recogiendose.
Hojas secas agitandose
hojas subidas esparciendose
en la fierra.
Click tabs to swap between content that is broken into logical sections.