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... fflw uHau"an rcolle?e ~~@f!ll~P7P7 a litelt o;ntltolofl1l 1fl()/UlJne 34 1915-1916 f!illta 9}):fiulc . flat fllIuin ~idOi: 4 5 6 7 8 10 14 17 20 21 Elaine ,'latson Organic Chemistry Becky Kohrman Ode to -t he Unborn Majic Tacksee Cab Denise Germonprez 20th Century Meek Bob Harris Autumn Sister Francssca Thompson "THE HEDIA": Television Commercials Tony Clark winner in Prose division The Uh ... Family Hour??? Judy Mihalovich The Citizen's Band Rita Dziuk Satire of People Bob O'Donoghue winner in Poetry division In Memory of a Friend Pat Paquin 24 25 26 Words II Denise Germonprez - Death's Eternal Holding David H. Hietty It's Anywhere You Look For It Diane Gerstbauer 28 Then, Nhen I was Small Gary Hall 29 untitled Diane Stier 30 The Door of Love Kim Solliday Mirageat Lo~ Tide Pat Paquin 31 33 On a Clear Night Mel Arnold 3~ I -See a Friendship Budding Sandra Switzer 35" It's That Time A~ain Hark Trierwieler 36 Fool's Refections Upon a Sombre Day Donna Hyderkhan PHOTOS: Cover print by John Kleiber 9 Tom Kasper 23 Mark Trierwieler 31 Pat Paquin 32 Paul Fox 44 Tom Kasper winner of Photography Division Elaine Watson Won't somebody tell me please? Where do we get these CH3's? Carbons, carbons, everywhere, Coal is black, but I de6lare . If the German Wohler had ever known the chemistry student's ailing groan, ' I think he might have changed his mind. Yet, hidden in chemistry books you'll find No one was there to voice a plea, so he converted ammonia into "p"l This premier, organic synthesis, drew the critic's acclaim. Despite chronic migrane, '1'11 vote the nameFriedrich (Fred) Wohler . to the Chern. Hall of Fame! 4 Flowers: nod and smile , Clouds play tag", Children giggle ... The earth stretches, yawns And is fulfilled. Children are hope, Our forgotten innocence Our future And our dreams. Who would destroy A dream? Or deny our future? A chiW loves Wanting only love in return, Give them a chance To smile And dream And love And giggle And refresh the earth. Becky Kohrman 5 Wonce eye had uh carpet. two. I luvd it. Maharajas on it. It waz black and yelloh, dee and meye brother always played Weed sit 't hair and pretend two fleye on it. Weed jump and play on it. Wonday wee had a fite and the carpet waz broak. Wee tuk it to reepaer shop to fiks it. The man behind the counter sed the car was okay, but the pet was all screwed up. and stormed out. All wee had was a carpet without a pet. So; wee just had a car. car sew wee go~ So, we spitt on his star flor But wee wer two yungto driv a a majic wand and zapped around the rug. It turned around and around and becaim a yelloh tacksee cab. The yelloh tacksee cab waz lots of grand fun. put STP stickers on it too mak it coool, two. wash it.. ~veed Weed even Butt it ran over my bruther wonce and he never waked up agent I waz so mad I spit on it and it rusted, so I threw it away to Hell. Denise Germonprez 6 Identity crushed and splattered Scrutinized in a Petri dish. A being so small and dated As pointless as a drowning fish. Shakespeare perched upon a fork-lift A clo\vn bemused by Falstaff beers. Pioneers asperse the day-shift The robber of their striving years. Who helps bear the loss vJith Hodern Han? Who still can prevail with a wag of the tail? \.v ho shares in our pa in As best they can? Who suf fers the welts From our shoes and our belts? The recipients Of the tension unleashed At amorphous enemies Are cold-nosed canines Too meek to inherit Forever eager to please. Bob Mo;rr.is 7 Autumn Falls down Like Gentle . dusk After a Sun-full Day Plush Happy hours HUR~AH-ing in the Harvest Before bright Beauty Whitens and ~vinter -withers Away ... Sister M. Francesca 8 9 Television today, like vegetables, fruits, and meat, is a staple of life. To take television away from a person would be like squeezing off the flow of blood of a main artery to the heart. Haybe this explains wh o millions of Americans sit through the hundreds of television commercials shown on each station everyday. Besides the fact that there are so many commercials shown everyday, t~ese commercials ' are corny, idealistic, ,misleading, and boring. You may ask, then, why, if these commer

... THE F RE * .INTERIYIITTENT z: (.9 i= ~ f 6 o \L ~ 0 t---= ::c QV ~: ---JI ~ ~ ~ . \J... ----f ~ V" f- 2 0.. Jl '7\::J ~ o~ 700 :3 c ~ (J) ......- - - - - - - ::c ~ SanOl) 1~1~~1~) FIORETTI N\t4 RII1N COLLEGE LITERt4RY ANTHOLOGY \lOLUME . TH IRTY - THREE NUMBER TWO 1974-1975 EDITORS CJ\THY Cf\LDWELL Pfl T PflQU IN fI D\lI)O R' . MR )O)EPH KEMPF Q CONTENTS ................................. .1 .c\i\ I by Bob ~ Je.levin 5............................. 5lINUCI rr and DEWDR()P by Si~ler 6............................. .1 F I WEHE A ~VB by Rita Dziuk 7.............................. 0N PAH'I1N<; by Gary Hall FnU\ci~ I\s-;isi H. .............................CEU:."'I1Al ..';; by Jat~ Randall Jack....on 9.............................. Photowaphy Conlt't'l Winner, taken by Carrie Schoomer 10............................. '1'1 [E lij)PER I lAND by Elaine WaL"On; MICllTY HATE by Denise Gennonprez 11 ............................. \V1IY IS IT S() IlAHJ ).~ by Sandm Switzer 12/1 :L .................. .TIO:IU<: WAS A TIlliE ()NCE ..... by l)jane Stier l-l! IS ......................SUNDA Y SlfNDA Y by I >tmna Hyd~han 16............................. F<)It TIIOSE WII() PICKEl) '1'1 [E FI,oWERS by Pat Paquin 17............................. Drawing by Jolm KJemen l8. ............................WOHDS!! by Jolm KJemen 19.............................COL(. E<;E BUJE..'i by Mel Amold; PESSlPOEMISl1C by John KIemen Xl............................. Art Conte:sl Wilmer, a scratchhoard picture by Mary Kay Riley 21/22................... :... BEFOHE TIlE GUESTS AlUUVE by Terri Daily 2..~ ............................ .IAKE SKA'I1NG by Joseph Kempf 24............................(untitlc(Q hy Cathy Caldwell Cove~ design by Pal Paquin 3 1,4N\ hy Bob \ le1evin I run, but am afraid to wdlk. I hear, but do not listen. I touch, but am afraid to feel. I comprehend knowledge, but cannot spread wisdom. I recite prayers, but do not communicate with my god. I see, but am blind to the living things. I am what I am and cannot be changed. Or am I afraid to chan~? Am I afraid to wdlk, to listen, to feel, to communicate, to see? Do I live for !llYself or do I live for others? I rrust look for my life. I search but cannot fmd. I've refrained from my past joy and cannot find the so called joy of living. Where are you self? Where are you concealed? I now relinquish my life. I can no longer face life. My search has failed; How can I live? But in my desperation, I fmdjoy. I realize man is made for life, and not life for man. I now accept my sufferings and pain. I exist to remain in existence. My knowledge begins to show wisdom. My eyes are open through experience. I grope for the natural world. (listen to myself and not to others. The trees'lass. and Welters are my commwlication with my go . ( no longer run in search of life: (wdlk in acceptance of its existence. ( am wlklt ( am and can be changed. ( change not myself but myself changes me. Ufe is my guide. 4 ~UNLIGHT Flarre against glass Glint on the water Glare on the windshield Moses and the burning bush. Shield Ire , my Father. by Sister Francis Assisi DEWDROP I saw a diaroond in the grass. I looked again. It was not there. How like the dew CAu dream; are. 5 Poetry Contest Wirmer IF I WERE A SUR... by Rita Dziuk If I were a sub, I'd go very deep To try and discover some mysterious power. Into great books on life and its meaning, I'd peep: Why's a rose red, or better yet... ....why a !lower? plane, I'd alWdYS be high; If I were a Wining and dining are the pleasures I'd seek Never caring, never feeling, never w.mting to know why. The flesh is so willing, the spirit so weak. If I were a train, neither high or low. Close to God and nature and people all around. I wouldn't need dru~ or books just to know I'm free and alive with both teet on the ground. I WdS not IUlde for the air or the sea. So I'll just stay t)11 earth and try to he \l~ . 6 ON PARTING as new wine rrellows to s\\eetness, good tirres as they're rerrembered carry their better part to warmth and take the chill from the present. the best of good tirres rerrembered was spent with others - not alone ; others whose rerrembrance is warmth and we carry the warmth and are never alone. by Gary Hall 7 CELEST'~L) by James Randall Jackson Behold 0 're our heads those etemallights that pour their waterr. light into our eyes that twinkle in the stillest ~ts . and still burn on the day that we die. - ' . . .. -- Is there a clue in their transmisBi.on of life beyond ow galactic home? A life we ignore by blatant remission, giving sterility our heavenly dome. Is an overwhelming ~on not of Elliot's taste .Many hope is answered veritably NO! To an ~on made in scientific haste That life exists other than what we know. And are those irridescent ~ints in formation The fearful delirium of man's own mind, Or extraterrestial J!Ubes seeking information On the planet of life of horm-sapien kind. Oh star hight, star light, first star seen tonight, Send me a response so I may rest. That of space, of panets, all the lights, Is Earth aroong all the very best? 8 9 THE "UPPER HAND" Grinding, churning,away, . modern technology regurgitates empirical wisdom. Underneath the cold slither of steel man stands in awe of his superlative creation. by Elaine Watson To thee, Homo sapien, I saydespair not.. ... Computers, though they analyze, predict, and even matchmake do not\)ove ...... It is in this fourth dimension that man outshines the IBM! MIGHTY HATE by ~rtise GenllOnprez 10 And then the man took All the hate that was And he forced it into a bottle And he sealed it. and man Took with all his ntight, The mightiest man of all. The bottle and he threw it. )t fell only ten feet away. For the bottle was much Too heavy with hate. And it burst and the Great forces of hate , Mighty hate. were set Loose again. To man ntis was the beginning Of his end. WHY I) IT ~O H~R D? by Sandra Switzer Why is it so hard to just reach out To touch someone'? You're so close ........ Just across the room. But I sense the presence Of an invisible wall separating us. Separating out thoughts, our ideas, But Joost of all, our feelings. And ...... . This sense of separation awakens something inside of me. I feel as though I could tear aown the wall With my own t\\U hands. Alone. But as I start to \\Urk, I don't seem to be able to rrnke much headway. I try harder, and try to \\Urk faster, But the harder I try, the more it hurts. No, it's not rny hands that hurt. I \\Uuld keep \\Urking as long and hard As need be ........ But... ... . Couldn't you give me a little help From the other side? 11 There wa'i a tree onc~ . J\. very ilf>..autiful tree With fine leaves and shade for all. And the hirds carre and sang in its branches. And the tree was happy. THERE Wf\) A TREE ONCE ... - - But one day carre when the birds' songs quieted and eventually carre to a stop. And they took up with the wind. And the tree was alone and became sad. 'I1lC tree's leaves began to fall. And it felt ue.iy. And unloved. But it was really the same tree; With the same branches reaching. And the same trunk strong. And the same heart wann. The same tree beautiful . 1Q . And a t' had to go. &cause it WdS titre. :\nd your leaves are p::ne now. Does that :,;care you. - 1 hope ~o!. Because I"m giad to see. you j~t as you are. Your leaves will burst out again . And the bird'5 will CO~ hacK Singing joyful wishes." And then he climbed the tree. And kissed it. BecauSe he loved it. by Diane Stier 13 Short Slory Conle~t Winn~r SUNDf\Y SUND~Y by Donna Ilyderkhan The amber rays were gone at last as the sun settled beneath the horizon. Traces of darkness had silently crept in. I-k!r lips muttered a prayer of thanksgiving, it was Sunday . .She took her watch near the window, like a sentry at his post anxiously wditing for a signal. Then she ;hear~ It, so clear and bright playing on t~~ wind like tinkling bells, a tune being whistled off in the distance. ;commg rrearer ~d near~r. It ~as a fOden spoon in half. ll"leY laughed 'till tlleir sides ached. "You fUlmy creature. don't be such a glutton."' She sllliled wannly as she fed him the rest of her dessert She was playing a lmllla again, and she er~oyed it. TIleY listened' to tl~ old phonograph Hibuiil) '.and settled back fo(a relaxing everting. TIle room WJS lit by a solitary oil lamp by her side. It WJS a whalfnglantern she had kept from the days gOlle by. TIle shadows cast from it played upon the wall. He handed her a \wfIl leatller vol~ of Yeats, and she read it to ltim. TIlesc sanle passages she had read countless tin~s before. TIle 'M)rds can~ smoothly from her lips, as images tlashed before her eyes. Her soul WJS stirred and enlivened by the ricImess and bearty of the artist. TIleY 'M!re two people who 'M!re one. TIleir love ran deep. He, so young and she. so old, but t~ was 110 bJIrier. she kept telling herself. She wanted to be with him like this forever. He would alWJYs belong to her. He sat unravelling the strands of ller hair, bruslting the locks to a glowing sltin~r. His face was intent, and ponderous upon the lovely lyrics she spoke. He WJS a gentle man, yet strong in his WJys, loving and so dear. No \wlllan would ever look past this lovely youth. He \Wuld not care if they did. She WJS happy for that reason. No other 'M)man courd take lum from her. Yet. slle knew there was a po'M!r to take him away. nus is what she feared, the glory of the sea. A woman in IUrny senses. not like any other who could use her charms ..... to s\-\eep n~n far aWJy. She had the tempem~nt of a witch and angel that could entice a man to forget all else, Her body surpassed all others. She WJS grace. full of endless Illoven~nt s and excite~nt that called out to a. man. She had ~n , many ~n, but she was never content. She \Wuld take this young man too. What a cruel and wretched sea. She listened to him as he spoke of his beautiful visions of the sea, and she knew his feelings had 'already . grown too strong . She had lost lum. His eyes lit up as he spoke, and they 'M!re filled with such emotion. He would take the sea as ltis mistress. she WJS sure of it now. No woman could fight her and win. She was man's dream of life filled with wonder~nt and a'M! . . Tonight, she would cry herself to sleep, and every night from now on she would spend praying he would retum to her one day. She called herself a selfish fool. She had to live for now and be grateful. She would have to learn and content herself. She had lost one man to the sea and she suffered for it. She had loved too much and drove him awjy. Wasn't 'one illistake enough to teach you? she asked herself. She couldn't lose it all. He was a man now and his interest lied elsewhere, not in the silly whims of an aging WOI1ll11. SIre couldnl change or condemn human nature. She only hoped to guide him and love him. When he goes away: me 'thought. and he will , he will not forget~. And perhapswhenmany years have-. passed. he will co~ .this way again. He will know my arrrn are open to him, and my love will be his, for he will always be mine. "I think I'll go to bed. Have to get up early and catch the freighter. I'll put the light out." "No, no, go ahead darling. I'll be a while longer. I'm reading. Goodnight, dear." "Goodnight, rmma." 1 15 FOR THO)E WHO PICKED THE FLOWER~ by Pat Paquin Pockets full of ashes are all that's left for you Burning money quenched your thirst, and now you're first in line For the old church ladies' prayers. Maybe you'll be saved. But maybe not... ... Or have you forgotten that hliss cannot be hought By selling posies stolen from the neighlxlr's garden? 16 ., " .. ~ i , I I / \ ." WORD)! !* * J\ ~HORT LO\JE POEM f1ND H~~MONIC WITH PRO~EIC O\JE RTONE) ODOR) by Jolm KIemen If... .......( rmny poem; start here) There only \\eren't 'M>His; You search Alas, they're too difficult to fmd , and Once you do you're never satisfied With the ~lisrna. Memories are sufficiently lucid without coagulated conglo~rated globules of cloudy verbosity! WOROO! And~mories can be instantaneously transferred Bet\\een tm) . By an infinitesimal touch; . Words can't. Too, the exchange of love In tha;e ~mories thru touch Evokes Copious eruptions of effervescent blissation! \\OROO! 18 COLLEGE BLUE) by Mel Arnold Tired, Sleep! No sleep at night 'Cause too much to study \Orking hard to see the light. Sleep in the day To make it all up, Tired, 'cause you slept too much. PE))I POEM ISTle by JOM Klerren Elusiviciousness tacked to Imaginality; Tactical origination for flavour. A Lukewdrmironical Smile For cohesiveness; An Inferno inside. Why? People: personifications of Pretentious Polyethylene Playing pieces, In a cosmispolitan game. 19 QO BEf ORE .THE GUEST)_tlRRI\lE by Terri DJily Micky Mouse had insisted that it WdS 4:30 p.m.. so Michael had left the office. In the Georgetown rain, his 1975 Fiat was patiently wJiting at the curb in front of his otlke building. Michael trnde a dash out tl1e front entrance and down the sidewalk. dodging the raindrops and people. He jerked tlle car door handle and threw his portfolio into tlle blue vinyl interior. In one quick moven~nt. his tl1in fingers slamn~d the door behind hin), tlddled with his blond shag and tunled tile key in tlle iw.tition. He pulled 'into tile rusll-hour traffic and nipped on tlle radio as lle did every evening after work. But this evening was different. He had to hurry to his apartn~nt on] Street and prepare for a dinrter ]).ctive when he 'essed up a bit. In the front room everythin,gwas set just the way leslie had wanted. ' The centerpiece from Dijon's was on the table. The beef stroganotT would arnve promptly at seven o'clock. Michael was wearing his grey and yellow pJaid suit and waiting to greet his guests. Michael oJilfned the tour double-hung windows and cleaned out the ash trays. His watch said it was mettil~sMlflriflVItt~~ ~p~ned to relax. Leslie ~uld want him to. l-r recalled SOJrething six forty-five, so he sat on the couch and tried to relax. Leslie ~uld want him to. He recalled something she had said that first evening at her J?tace. "You are always so nervous. Why can't you relax and just take things as they con'l!?Yould would be much happier." That was what Leslie did. She never allowed things to get to her, And now, while working on her law degree at Georze Wa~gton , she still mmaged to ~rk for the senator and maintain an active social life. She was trujy one m a millIOn ................ . The doorbell rang and interrupted Michael's meditation of Leslie. l-r jU!'l'lPfd up from the couch and hurried to ans\\er. But before opening it, he put on a wide smile. Leslie would want lum to. ~ltS QQ S~ATING by Joseph Kempf 3 below, and around the shore and across this frozen surface of pond a trace of powdered snow. Above, a far sun, hard as diaJTk>nd, embedded in sky of electric blue. Beneath n~, whisper of skates on ice, air sharp in nostrils as knives. I am bird! can feel wings, like Mercury's, grow on skates, feathers sping from shoulder blades. Th~ hawks hang on precipice of sky, cleave winds like whetted steel. Below the surface, gray scaled shadows, alrrost ice, rmve through olive murk: pondero~, heavy-blooded, slow. Up here, swift thrill. But also fear that hird-heart within, skates, and I, like voyagers of old, might giddy sail clear off the edge of this ice-poled world. Q3 As I stand here, wdtching the taillights of your car get smaller 'till they are nothing more than faintly glowing cigdrelle tips, I think that nothing else could make me feel so sad. While growing up, I'd always Iked forward to surruner. Now I want it to Le quick to bum itself up, so that crisp hrown le.aves aoom autunm lr{~t~s, and y!)ur bla{:k (:hevrolet can l)f~ seell once agdin amid the variOIlS VolkswagollH and vans in tht' dormitory parkin~ [()t. by Cathy Caldwell *---------------.. . .  ...

... AIORETTI FIORETTI N\A RI f\N COLLEGE LITERARY ANTHOLOGY . \lOLUME . THIRTY- TH EE NUMBER ONE 1974-1975 EDITORS Pit T PflQU IN C~THY C~LDWELL f1 D\J' )OR . MR )O)EPH KEMPF . )PC~f\l TH~N~) MR PAUL FOX Q- TO CONTENTS Ode to the Mentally Ret arded/Sr. Francis Assisi.. .... .. .......... .. ........... .... ... .4 Somewhere/Greg Bauer ; Hidden Message/Diane Gerstbauer. ....... ... ..... ..... 5 For: HU 210/ Sr. Francesca ... .. ... .... ......... ....... ..... ... ...... ...... .... .... ... .. .. .. ... .. 6 Untitled/Helen Randolph ; Getting Ourselves Together/ Deborah Clay ; Tripping/Beverly Jones ;Brothers to Sisters/ Michael Ware ; An Ap ology / Dean Haklin (collection of poems from the Black Literature Class) ... .7 ,8 Lonely/Gary Hall ....... .... ...... ............. ........ .. ... ............ ..... ...... ....... ..... .. .. .9 (untitled) /Pat Paquin .............. .. .. ........ ...... .......... ........... ..... ...... .... ........ .10 . Whispers of North Winds/ Sue Fullerton .. .. ........ ... .... ....... ............. ...... .. ..11 There Wasn't Enough Time/John Klemen .. .... ........ .. ..... ....... .............. ... .l6 Marooned/ Joe Kempf. .. ....... ......... ...... ...... ..... .... ...... .. ............ ... .... ........ .18 For the Good Times/Gary Hall ; What is Real? / Sherman Crouch ; Trying/Donna Bruns ...... ............................................... .. ...... .. ....... .. ... ... 20 Birthday Wishes/Cathy Caldwell. .... .... ..... .......... ... ..... .. ...... .. .. .............. ..22 Trepidation - Beyond Control/Sr. Francesca ...... ........... ....... .............. ... 23 Tightrope Walker/Sue Fullerton .. .... ... ................... ............... .. .... .... .. ... .24 Won ' t/ Ron Seibal. ........ .. .. .. ... ... ......... .. ............. ..... .... .. .. ................. .. .... 15 Different/ Denise Evans ... ......................... ...... .. ........ ... ...... ..... ... ... .. ... ... 16 The drawing on page 21 is by John Kl eme n , and is the winner of the art contest. The cover photo was taken by T o m Kasper and is the winner of the photography contest. The center photo was taken by Jim Kilps ; the poem ,Back Then , was written by Mel Arnold. The pict ure on page 28 was taken by Mr. Paul Fox. 3 ODE TO TH E MENTALLY RETARDED Lonely boy leaning on a tree Rejected Dismissed Feared Hidden Mocked Neglected Watching life pass you by And your response, my child? Acceptance Re aching au t... Delight! Let us go to school to you , my boy . Sr. Francis Assisi 4 )OMEWHERE Somebody loves me, somewhere. But you don't knowNo , you don't care All you see is you. I used to be- I still am. Why can't you understand Like they did-like I dolike you should? Somebody loves me somewhere And after I leave maybe you'll Love me too. Greg Bauer Crumpled failing l eaves grasp at the wind desperately seeking a hold with tra nsient strife. HIDDEN ME))J1GE Only a few glide down in resigna tion. It speaks , whispers a question within. Does this exemplify .. . life? Diane Gerstbauer 5 Seeds plan ted Soon grow Hopefully Sun-nourished Blossom to Fruititin Literary Making for FOR: HU. Q10 Understanding, comprehension Self-acceptance Expression (free?) Of your own Seeds of life Yielding perhaps Painfully Bitter fruit . But fruitful nonetheless Because being BLACK FRUIT Therefore sweet In spite of Bitter I "Sub-text ! " Sister Francesca ., 6 UNTITLED The ski~ny Doe-eyed ebony-colored Youngster runs thru the alley Clutching his prize possession. A long ago discarded toy of the Sad-faced youngster Who rides ia the big car that Brings my Momma home. To our ebony-colored brothers This sad-faced youngster lives in Another world A world no one not his color can enter Unless .... they carry a shopping bag And wear a white uniform ... . Like Momma . OURS-EL\JES Helen Randolph f-f-- Who are WEL .. ta ke a good look! Where are WE? .... look around! What are WE goin' to do? . ..Think! What does WE mean? W Deborah Clay (T) :r: (1) ;;::::J Return the love I give you Care rnore for me than I am able to care Hold me, cherish me ... . Walk with me to the Earth's end Come see the sun with me ..... ... . Beverly Jones 7 0 "G) ' --I (.!J TRIPPING --I BROTHER) a Speak Black brothers Tell what's on your minds Listen , Black sisters Give your brothers some time His words are not for himself But rather for you Yes , brothers have done sisters wrong But that's no reason for you to do the same ; You sisters must keep yourselves together And help the brothers do the same Heartaches, setbacks have caused him pain Retaliation , loud soundings won't take THAT away. So, listen Black sisters Give some brother your time . Then you can speak and tell him what's on Your mind with words FOR him , not against him. Michael Ware Your persistent voice pleads Like a festering wound Running with bitterness and hate; The scar not yet healed Widens and oozes with pain , Burning with anger, the voice LOUDENS Teeth grit white as the race you hate ; You scream lashing words to ease your hurt. AN APOLOGY I hear you and I listen (Not always understanding) But 1 offer my hand to admit Our mistakes And you only slap it away ..... Still , l apologize! Dean Haklin 8 LONEl Y How quickly she looked away in almost flirtish embarrassment. She was sitting a few tables behin~ me as I pondered upon her reflection in the quiet barroom mirror. I caught another quick glance and a barely noticeable smile which prompted me to turn on the bar stool. As I stepped off, it swung with a thud and she looked up. I noticed a sparkle in her eyes which matched her brownish hair. " May I join you?" She nodded with her eyes and smile. "I'm Al Spenser. What's your name?" "Jean Dougan; it's not very busy here today." "No, can I buy you a drink?" "A daquiri on the rocks, please." "Bob - two daquiris on the rocks." And we talked . "It's a lovely day ; let's walk It was a dry Autumn day with a breeze that left a chill in the shade . As we sat on a benc~ watching reddish le aves fall by, I touched her hand , then held it. We small talked and felt warm in each other's eyes. I leaned to kiss her lips and knew things would go well. I looked into the mirror again and she was gone. Such is the way with a lonely man's fantasies. Gary Hall 9 Silent, lurking behind dark shadows, Negations of negations watch the contradictory movements of confused lives Caught in traps baited with ladies and tigers beauties and beasts companionship and loneliness love and hate; Confused lives, all of usnone of us knowing tangible definitions , definite emotions, assembled dreams , yet all of us aware of the thinness of the lines separating negation from negation Pat Paquin 10 WHISPER) OF NORTH WI ND) Gently she stroked the costume with a four-jointed finger, smiling happily as silver-lavenders rippled and shimmered up and down the soft feathers . Tonight she would be the Windlith, the winter creature, the night creature, born in the crystal caverns of the high mountains , flitting through the night air crooning songs of sleep to the North People and brushing hot cheeks with cool snowy wings only to die and melt away with the first rains of spring. Slowly she slippe d into the gauze and warmth and feathers and stared at her reflection---a single arched eyebrow frowning over lidless eyes, a bony body encased in feathery garb. She was satisfied. The guests would be properly admiring. Quickly her face receive d the last sprinkling of silver dust as the Catleth stretched, yawned, and announced that the first of the guests had arrived . "Thank you, Catleth. And Catleth, please be amusing tonight." She knelt down and murmured into a silky, round ear, "Please', my most beautiful an d clever Catleth ." The lashed eyes flickered for just a . moment and, slowly, the tiny legs tucked themselves u;der the golden fur and the Catleth slid across the floor to the door. The door slid open and into the room on the whisper of sparkling air glided legends of the past, fantastic in their curling cornucopia ears, wild glaring eyes, dagger-sharp claws, and gowns that floated around thin bodies. As each one filed silently by, she made polite exclamations over each costume and then introduced them to the Catleth who let them into the next room softly lisping out remarks that were me t with giggled delight. The room glowed and ripple d with a thousand violet lights that cascaded within the walls. Gay, haunting melodies wove themselves among the lights and the air was scented with excitement and warm, heady drinks that swirled within crystal horns. In a corner a group gathered to watch fascinated as the Catleth blinked lidded eyes and, bored, fell asleep. "Simply fantastic. The creature can actually close it's eyes." In his sleep , the Catleth chuckled. Outside the snow fell. 11 The Windlith glided toward the Catleth and once more whispered into a round, silky ear, "Sing for us, Catleth." The wise eyes blinked and the gold fluff slid off the couch to the floor. A hush fell and a hundred pair of eyes turned to stare at the lonely ball of fur. Somewhere the melody lost its gayness and the tempo became wild. The Catleth began: From the caverns of the Windlith, from the marshes of the Lun, in their shadows it lies hidden, from the shadows it will come. Twisting, turning, spinning, whirling, from the Shadows it will come. To the mountains of the North Ones, to the icy splintered peaks it will wander, it will summon the North Ones whom it seeks. Calling, questioning, never resting, for the North Ones whom it seeks. In the caverns I have sought thee, in the marshes wild and free . .Now come to my home, come away with me. Chilling ,' freezing, never ceasing, again, again, the Mist will call. Those of wiriter, those of snow, hear the summons , fear to go. But the calling Mist is urging and they leave their ice and snow. Haunted, staring, bright eyes glaring, now they leave the ice and snow, in the violet depths they'll fade, beckoned on to some dim.glade. Lost in shadows, lost in gray, no longer catching sight of day. In the morn the snow world glittered, with the sun the iced lakes shone. But none could see the crystal witness, to the Green Glades they had flown. 1Q All eyes gazed hypnotized into the drooping eyes of the Catleth. All figures continued swaymg to the lisping chant that had died and faded away . The music changed. The time was gay and laughing ; partners were grabbed. It was a silly song and nothing to think too long abou 1. No one saw the Catleth slide silently away and fall asleep with a secret smile on the wise old face . The snows fell. Inside crystal horns were filled and refilled and couples laughed drunkenly, clutching an d swaying against the others as they whirled around the room. Then , softly, from outside the snow-muffled world , there came a lament , a plea , a command to follow. They listened and were afraid . The laughter began anew , louder an d forced , and frantic to drown out the persistant call. The music swelled and throbbed and the couples danced faster, becoming fantastic blurs of hot reds an d blues and tangerines . Somewhere from the midst of the blur there came a tinkling of a hundred crystal horns as they slipped from relaxed fingers. In the m orni~g they were gone , silver feathers, masks , and gauzy spark~ing stuff strewn on a crystalline floor. The Catleth opened drowsy eyes and allowed itself a contented smile before giving one long yawn. Sue Fullerton 13 Bf\CK THE N I was a happy man back then . I dreamed of walking on white sand, and kic king empty cans, and pu tting shells in a pan hUe holding yo ur hand. But now the tide has gone away-leaving ma rk s upon the sand Mak ing me feel like a small craft in a large bay Oh God --wh y didn't yo u stay? THERE Wfl)N'T ENOUGH TIN\E I. Routine: I wOKe up with a start, and in one frantic, habitual motion quenched the alarm that had spewed forth those atrocious reverberations. Dammit, I thought, another six hours wasted. I lit a cigarette, opened the window, and thanked God for tobacco and sunshine. II. Synesthesia and random thoughts: It was such a breathtaking scene. I stretched fa rther out the window in order to capture the full spectrum of the vivid surrounding sensualities. A warm, dry breeze, the chiaroscuropanorama caused by the intense vernal sun and the accompanying shadows, the acute odor of ripened animal excrement, and the conglomerated polyphony, arising from the daily farming routine- all converged to form a mental crescendo. It was intense, yet euphoric. I took another puff of my cigarette. I WaS precariously balanced on the weather-worn sill, but it only added to the excitement of having my torso completely engulfed by the exterior atmosphere. I watched in fascination as the ashes from my cigarette swirled and tumbled during their flight to the ground below; I realized that they t09were victims of gravity. Wouldn't it be splended to be weightless. I wondered if Issac Newton smoked? (The story of the fig dropping on his head did seem a little far-"f etched. He probably pondered upon cigarette ashes, but hjstory books might find this explanation of his inspiration somewhat anti-climactic.) On the ground below the window , I noticed an energetic insect scurrying among the flora. Aiming,carefully at the creature, I slobbered, but the expectorate disintegrated before it reached the ground. I wondered why I even tried; I was ne\'.er a good spitter, and after all, the bug " deserved to Jive. 16 III. The beginning of forever: The door behind me had been silently opened, but I knew Peter had entered the room, for the moans and squeaks inherent to the ancient wooden stairway had disclosed the syncopation of his footsteps. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Gimme a couple more minutes." "Very well, but please hurry-the others are waiting." I acknowledged; he smiled and left. I pulled my body back into the room, went to my closet, and scanned the wardrobe. What should one wear when being presented to Him? IV. Evanescent being: . The coroner an d hi~ assis!ant /entered the room, paused only to momentarily survey its interior, and proceeded to examine the corpse. Simultaneously, they removed worn, ring-boun d notebooks from their coat pockets, and inscribed their remarks regarding both the paraphenalia discovered at the death site and the general condition of the body; they affirmed the'probable cause of death was narcotic overdose. Each carefully closed his notebook. Turning to his 'assistant the coroner said, "Well, doesn't look like this rain is going to let up. I know it's late, but what ya say we stop on the way home and drink a beer?" V. Salvation and Eternity: I wept. I took a final drag off the cigarette and crushed its flame on the wood of the window sill. Life was.so beautiful, but I blew it. Peter was still waiting in the hallway. I walked towards him; he extended his hand in a gesture of sincere encouragement. I smiled and said, "Let's go." John Klemen 17 Mf\ROONED Meet Zeke. He installs back seats in cars. Not for Ford, which years ago had a better idea (called the assembly line), but for Cadillac. Zeke drew first air in Appalachia but left West Virginia six years back for the factories of Detroit and a bit of the better life. Now he hits the clock (late) , swaps dirty jokes with the boys on the line calls the Yale foreman a yokel , picks his teeth on coffee breaks. Zeke is a cell of silence marooned in a sea of sound He moves (without motion) on endl'ess waves of conveyor belts, rocks and rolls the furious rhythms of industry, dances the desperate dance of American technocracy. 18 One day after coffee break Zeke inserts something beneath the back seat of a golden Coupe de Ville, clutches a crazy smile inside for the rest of the week. A month later the vexed owner of a golden Cou pe de Ville at last loc ates that rattle beneath the seat--a Coke bottle. Inside , scrawled in grease , a note that reads : "Well, what the hell! You finally found it you rich sonofabitch." Joe Kempf 19 FOR THE GOOD TIME) And those were the good timesI guess Looking back now Trying to be conspicuous In our inconspicuous youth Wanting to be heard and seen In our unwatched youth But, those were good timesI guess Feeling back now We heard each other If no one else did We saw each other If no one else did WHf1T IS REAL? I can see you in my mind Among my life's confusions Are you real within my thoughts Or one of my illusions? Are the questions in my heart Those I can not show? What is real and what is not Does anybody know? Yes, those were good timesI guess Thinking back now What we saw and heind Sherman Crouch Had little meaning We were too busy Trying to be meaningful Still, those were good times-I guess. Gary Hall TRYING a blade of grass a spear of green shoots its fragile way Towards heaven. Donna Bruns QO John Klemen Q1 BIRTHDAY WISHE) On this special day of yours, You have a wish to make . You probably can't wait to gobble Your greal big chocolate cake! Maybe you're wishing you could live In that "most congenial spot" , Knowing you could duel and joust Far better than Lancelot. Perhaps you're wishing for a mask And a big white horse to ride, So you could round up various villians With Tonto at your side. It could be a cape you're wishing for, To fly far faster than light. You'd scour the universe on your quests, Avoiding Kryptonite . Blowout your candles, make your wish, I hope it will come true. My rowdy, precious little brother, I wish I were there with you. Cathy Caldwell QQ TREPI Df1 TION - BEYO ND CONTRO L Whispered warily Wonde ring Whe ther you Would (or could, Hear Here in My heart Where I Woefully (woun ded'?) Warily Whispered ' "Why?" Sister Francesca Q3 TIGHTROPE W~LKER Poetry Contest Winner i have known for some time now that i would-be a tightrope walker someday even as a child i practiced on walls and fences ~he tense excitement holding me up off from the ground now that i am older, i can try the real thing starting, like most beginners, with a guide to hold my hand and steady me one of the main rules is never to look backwards or down but always straight ahead to get the feel of the ropes the first ropes can be one of the most frightening times of your life but the giddy feeling of height and freedom posesses you until you live and breathe the thin air and taut line beneath you on my first try, i remember balking on the platform with fear and ' apprehension my guide then took me by the hand , once starting, to never look back i looked for a moment downward and nearly fell when i found my guide was also on the rope then, i realized there was no other way for him to be there beside me please never let go of my hand ' my balance is yet unsure Sue Fullerton Q4 .WON'T Once in an age a man finds a golden locket - something very special to the birth of his freedom and key to eternal happiness He doesn't wish to lose this locket nor does he will this treasure any treatment unfitting a goddess. She brings his dreams to fulfillment and his expectations to a close - a joy no one, no face can match nothing can destroy it. Within this locket lies the truth of a man's heart and the destiny of his soul. His spirit clings to the catch, waiting for it to open . Ron Seibal Q5 DIFFE RENT Short Story Contest Winner The year was 1959. I had finally reached the age of maturity. I had just turned six that year. I learned something that I knew I would remember for the rest of my life . It all happened during that summer. One day I was out side playing with some of my friends . We played for a long time and then we all went home for supper. As I walked down the street singing to myself, I saw Joey coming from the opposite di rec tion. Joey was a very good friend of mine , so I called out to him. He looked up at me , and then he did the strangest thing. He crossed over to the other side of the street, and then he started running without saying one word. I really thought he was acting weird . When I got home , I told my mother about it. She told me not to worry because he was probably just upset about some thing. Since I knew my mother was the smartest woman in the world, I believed her and forgot all about the incident. As the days went by, I never saw Joey any more. It was as if he had moved away, but he had not. I decided to go find Joey and ask him why he did not come and play with me and my friends any more. I went looking for him ; I found him at the playground. I ca lled his name , and he saw me and started running. I decided to chase him to find out why he was running. Finally he stumbled and fell. 1. ran up to him and asked him why he was running. He would not say anything, so I asked him if he had gone crazy . He looked up at me and sai d, "Listen,1 did not want to have to tell you this, but I guess I had better. My mo ther said that I can not play with you any more because you are different." Then he got up and kept running. I watched him until he disappeared. I stood there , and all I cou ld do was keep repeating the word "different, different, different" over and over. It sounded like a loud echo in my ears. I started walking slowly down the street with a frozen look on my face. I thought to myself that maybe I had just imagined that he said that. No , I cou ld be wrong, he had actually said that he could not play with me any more because I wa s different. I looked down at my sk in , and for the first time I realized that I was di fferen t. It really hi t me hard. I t was like a slap in the face. I was Black , and Joey was not. I had never thought that my being Black would make a difference , especially to Joey or his mother. I had the biggest lump in my throat. I went back home to my room an d just sat there staring at the wall not wanting to believe what I had heard. My mother asked me what was wrong, but" I could not tell her because I was too hurt. Q6 The weeks went by and soon summer was over. I saw Joey occassionally, but he was always with his friends and I with mine. When school started we were in the same class, but I never talked to him. In fact, I hardly talked to anyone. I had built a wall around me, and I did not want to let anyone in. Then one day Joey told me he wanted to talk to me. He asked me why I never talked to him. I told him it was because of what he had told me, that I was different. He looked at me and he said, "I am really sorry about that , but my mother told me I had to stop playing with girls, and since you are a girl that left you out." I looked at him and said, "What did you say?" He told me again that he had stopped playing with me because I was a girl. I could not believe it. He told me that now that we were in school we could play together again because there were a lot of games for both boys and girls in school. I was one of the happiest girls alive. In fact, a few weeks later I received an invitation from Joey's mother to his surprise birthday party. As I think back over that year, I realize that I learned a lot. I know now that I can not always blame everything on my being Black. I learned that even though some people may not like me, that is no reason to find fault with everyone. I also learned never to jump to conclusions. Just think, I teamed all of this at the- beautiful age of six. Denise Evans Q7  ...

... I ( '. ; '\ ,) J \ ~ l \ I ) I FioRETTi MARiAN collEGE liTERARY ANTl-toloGY VOlUME Tl-tiRTY-TWO NUMbER TWO 1973-1974 Ed iT OR kAT~lEEN qiESTiNq AdvisOR dENis kEllEY STAff CAT~Y jAiMiE . piNTO 2 CAldwEll pAT pAQuiN CONTENTS 5 6 8 9 10 12 13 16 17 18 20 26 Pain and pleasure ... /Pat Paquin Time and Years/M. Annette Unser If the world ... /Denise Germonprez Love is a balloon/Mel Arnold Boredom .../Bob Morse mornings of complaisant ease .../Kathleen Giesting Entreaty minus monetary benefits/sr. m. francesca, o.s.. thud 'n blare/Michael Lee Wallace Acting out the game of love/Creative Writing 104 I push .. ./Mary Kay Riley From the sky and out of the rain/Sr. Marya Grathwohl, O.S.F. smile laugh frown .. ./KathleenGiesting Photographs on pages 11 and 19 are by Carrie Schoomer. The photograph on page 28 is by Jaimie Pinto. The cover design is by Theresa Belles. The print on page 4 is by Mary Kay , Riley, and the center print (pages 14-15) is by }aimie Pinto. 3 Pain and pleasure come together, Walk hand-in-hand through fields of spring wheat, Acres of tender memories: Reminiscences of once-upon-a-times Like April showers in December, Bringing tears and, often, smiles--Slices of life like sliver dimes treasured in a porcelain bank Already spent---yet their worth not forgotten, but always longed for, Always loved. Faded photographs in black and white, Re-envisioned in Kodacolor. Words echoing their short-lived truth over and over and over and over in the caverns of the mind. Two divisions reunite in a fairy tale . daydream ..... Hands still held Minds still linked Peace still alive. Pat Paquin 5 TiME & YEARS M. Annette Unser Herb left this morning as he has for the past twenty-five years or so. He nibbled at his breakfast, slurped down his coffee , pecked me on the cheek, and managed to have the car in gear at exactly 8: 15. I stood at the window and watched our trusty old Ford ramble down the road toward the florist hot houses where he has worked for well over twenty years. I drew in a deep breath when the car was out of sight and turned to go about my own business. I had to tend to the usual household chores that women busy themselves with so as not to notice the time and years slipping by. I jotted down a rough draft of this week's shopping list. My grocery bills are noticeably smaller than they were when Andy was still here with us. With a strong growing boy around I had to have plenty of food on hand. Also , Andy had a multitude of friends, and of course they were always stopping by for an after school snack. It's strange what memories a simple shopping list can bring to mind. A note jusjhad to be dropped to my sister who iives in Boston. She has three levely children---they've all grown so fast. She was a tremendous help to us this time last year. She came down for frequent visits. But now we do most of our gossiping by maiL I suppose I should go to Boston someday just to get out of the house again. Herb keeps telling me it'd be good for me. I washed what few dishes Herb and I used at breakfast and began straightening the rest of the house. Our house is old; it has aged along with my husband and me. It's really too big now that there's just the two of us rambiing around in it. But we'd never think of selling it or moving---this is our home and has been for many years. I began my cleaning rounds in the living room making sure the rug was spotless, the pictures hung straight on the walls, and the sofa pillows were fluffed to show theirsoft plump appearance. I climbed the short flight of stairs to the upper level. In our room I made the bed and put away the clothes scattered here and there about the floor. I.have the same movements each time I venture to straighten our room. It has become such a joyous routine over the years, I don't mind it in the least. After all the years we've iived in this plain and simple :room I still find it beautiful; the memories fill it to the hilt with love. 6 I delayed long enough in appreciation of our own room and sauntered down the corridor toward the other bedrooms. Of course I knew I needn't worry about cleaning these rooms for they seldom have use but as we grow int~ set patterns in our lives it is very hard to change or alter an old habit. The guest room is very small but quite hospitable and homey. The walls are painted with a sky blue pastel while the bedspread and curtains bring out a more earthy floral print. A comfortable chair and matching ottoman are parked in one corner and a huge boxy chest of drawers stands in the other. The bed is well made with clean linens for it has been quite, a while since the room housed a visitor. One year ago to this very day my sister and her husband stayed here. They didn't bring the children that time; they thought they might upset Herb and me. We had such a crowd in the house that day. So many relatives and old friends that we hadn't seen in years and all of Andy's friends were here too. It was quite a houseful. After reminiscing, I turned and closed the door confident that the room was neat and ready for a guest should one ever come. The next room was the third and last bedroom in the house. As the preceding this room needed no cleaning, but seldom do I pass it that I don't stop to peek in. These walls are coated with a beige tone and the furniture, drapes, and bed spread bring out dark masculine browns. An old baby bed perches on its stick legs in the corner. My eyes nearly passed over it without hesitation for it's one of those pieces of furniture that has stood . in that spot unnoticed and unused for so long that we've taken it for granted. Today I sat and gazed at it. Close examination reveals that in years past it was well used. The top railing showed wear with the rubbed shine of the finish and small teeth marks indented into it. On the miniature mattress was folded a tiny wIllte quilt edged in blue satin. A small tattered te ddy bear was now the sole occupant of the minute, cage-like bed. Oh, how I remember little Andy clinging to that bear for dear life until dropping off to sleep. Then he'd gently let go as we all must let go our symbols of security at some time or . ' other. But children surely don't stay that little very long. Soon he collected the" pennants for his favorite teams, then posters of famous quotes and modern race cars. These masterpieces still adorn the walls with bright contrasting colors. His high school team pictures and the pictures of girl friends stand on the bureau. How they do grow so fast as time and years slip by. I lifted myself off the plaid bedspread and smoothed the wrinkles as my sight became blurred by the tears of year old memories. I glanced over my shoulder at the age-.old baby bed placed in an insignificant corner of the house for storage purposes . and agam thOUght how swiftly his years with us were over. My time has flown, I realize I had better prepare Herb's supper. ThIS afternoon we're eating early so we can take some flowers to the cemetery. 7 If the world Were on fire, Would all the plastic people . Melt? Truly they should. After all, There wouldn't be room In a world afire For Tupperware Teachers And Polyethylene Preachers--Would there ? Denise Germonprez 8 lOVE is A bAllo ON Love is a balloon Lifting me higher and higher Into the clear blue sky Toward the bright warm sun That is you. Mel Arnold 9 Boredom so I cut my nails I must not concede anguish by biting them. I am modern man! I like my insanity pent and dignified and sunny-side up. Bob Morse 10 .11 mornings of complaisant ease lying abed sleepdrunk drugged by golden liquid poured through venetianblinds. broken patterns on the walls of my refuge pushing themselves, museshaping into my mind. fat and lazy pigeons waddling in the townsquare. trees clutched_by summerbreezes . . but for you, i am alone. i hold you, loveclose happy just to sleep. Kathleen Giesting 12 ENTREATY MINUS MONETARY bENEfiTS I spread myself Open (vulnerable) Before you (Who are so venerable) Begging, beseeching That you tread lightly When you walk For what is Loving But willingness To accept the Beloved's "step"? Still, being as I Be Because I love better Less discriminating Than sensibly (And oh-----ever so sensitive) Therefore, SOUL-full-Iy Do entreat you Tread lightly When you walk My heart is Fragile territory. sr. m. francesca, o.s.. 13 Tl-tud blARE ' soft warm drops crimson with death pulse against needle pricks, wet 'n driving. limbs thrash overhead rebellious of violent 'winds, nowhere intent, darting inanely, then subsiding as mad-dog patient in strait-jacket ether. below contest of night 'n day; pain and void. shock slams sullenly drift into frenzied sleep--frenzy of onlooker, passerby, spectator in grim panorama life. rain-pain sharers, vicariously precarious, peeking over chasm waiting, anticipating oncoming certainty. fight in monster metal (crushed light-pole cripple) is their fight afterall. Michael Lee Wallace  ACT ING OUT T~E GAME of lOVE Is that the light of love I see you wear Or only a costume donned to playa role? Can a lovely face pretend a look of care Or must such brightness truly reflect the soul? We smile and make our entries right on cue, Delivering lines we've often said before, And though we strain to make them sound like new, They flop on stage and stagger out the door. I fear that mask of love so gaily put on, Though lovers in love love even love's show; Just once I'd like to see your face grow wan Or drop a tear before we turn to go. Remember, love, that plays are never free And what is real is you, is me, is we. Shakespearean sonnet communally composed in Creative Writing 104 Spring 1974 (Patty Blankenship, Bruce Council, Sr. Marya Grathwohl, Joanne Johnson, Joyce Joyner, Greg Leggett, Donald Kuehr, Joseph Kempf (instructor) I push through the dusk's cloud of haze to sit alone with nature as my only companion. the flower's gentle nodding and sweet smell entices and allures. this momentary fascination passes into oblivion as the fog sets in. the air is filled with bittersweet spices from faraway places. i lay down only to let the warm grass blow softly around me crystalline visions pass before my eyes as i laugh at the fog and humanity. Mary Kay Riley 18 19  RAIN OUT An early morning rainbow, unusual indeed in the city, vaulted the downtown skyscrapers as I neared District School No. 18. Hearing shouts of excitement and surprise, I quickened my pace---difficult to do with an armload of t eacher's manuals and a How-Tall-Are-You-Getting chart---and rounded the corner just as Kelly wriggled out from under Harry, snatched . up a jar, and b~ke for the street. Decidedly healthier---Kelly was wheezing already---though heavier, Harry soon closed the gap and was grabbing for the jar when I caught up with them. Action stopped abruptly , as when current is cut on a movie projector. I fought to stifle a laugh; that wouldn't do now, but surprise strate~ies always worked so beautifully. Six years of teaching had taught me that. Harry twisted around and grinned from his position on the curb. He tottered momentarily before regaining his balance and usual third-grade composure. "Mornin', Miss Cataldi!" "Harry, what is your problem? Kelly, what's going on here?" Two simultaneous questions begot two simultaneous responses. "He tried to take my jar!" Kelly's voice was indignant and pitched even higher than usual. Tears were streaming down his face, and when was the last time someone had bothered to iron his shirt? He was tall for his age and decidedly too thin, unhealthy thin. "I did not!" Harry was shouting in rhythm with Kelly's repeated "you-did-too 's! " "Wait a minute, wait a minute, one at a time! Kelly?" He hesitated. Undivided attention always confused him. Aside from his quick-flaring temper, he was engagingly v~lnerable. And gentle, too, especially with small and fragile living things. How could anyone neglect him? Harry stood beside him: stocky, strong, his whole body held in a The story evolved in the two expected, and contradictory, versions, the teller being, of course, the innocent party. A helpful and sympathetic knot of bystanders, the earlier cheering section, added accurate details or solemnly nodded verification of their champion's stroy. "All right, all right, everybody! Let's---" But look what's happened to the poor caterpillars," Kelly's high-pitched voice whined insistently. With that, he thrust the mud-daubed, fingerprinted jar in my face. The caterpillars were a sorry sight, all balled up under a jumble of leaves, sticks, and pebbles. The immediate alleviation of their apparent state of tension, and ours, seemed imperative. "They need to feel safe, fast. All of you can help. First, let's get quiet; "---Could caterpillars even hear?---" arguments can be scary for caterpillars. You boys help with my books and the chart, please? Harry, 20 your things. Yes, thank you, Stephen." Felt good to let my cramping arm relax as the chart was eased away. Kelly, at my side, carefully cradled the jar. "Harry, here's the key. Why not run ahead to get the bug-keeper out of the closet? Bottom shelf!" I had to shout the last because he was already across the playground and nearing the building. We followed at a slower pace, "'cause of the caterpillars," as Kelly had suggested. Usually Kelly's classmates did not follow his suggestions quite so readily. He always, always had so many of them; he 'meddled,' they often complained. Jerry ran ahead and struggled to open the cumbersoJIle wooden doors. They sagged, stuck, and were in need of general repair, like much of the building they 'protected.' It was an old structure, ready for retirement after long years of service. Its innards had been built and rebuilt to accommodate a grade school, high school, orphanage, church, and grade school again. Quite a cycle. I often thought of it as being a patient building, accepting its own creaking floors and pounding pipes. It had become as familiar and homey as an old armchair, despite the sometimes schoolday tension. Before entering, I turned for one last glimpse of the arching rainbow and noted how the last of the night's rain clouds were shredded before the wind: at least the children could go out at noon today. Thank God. As we started down the long, locker-lined hall, I spotted Harry standing in our doorway. "Got .it!" he called, giving his red curls a shake as he held the bug-keeper aloft; . "All right, football player." I said. We were closer by then. "How about a pass to Jerry?" Jerry fumbled, then recovered. "Here you go, Kelly," he said as he worked to open the bug-keeper, his crossed eyes wandering off in the direction of the stairs. His smile, though, remedied everything that was wrong with his eyes. His nose crinkled. "Thank you, Jerry." We entered the room and assembled around the display shelves, one teacher and fourteen third-graders: curious, excited, concerned. How were the' caterpillars? "They're relaxing already," Kelly whispered an octave above Middle C, as he snapped the plastic dome cover of the bug-keeper into place. A month ago it had been grasshoppers and a week before that a assortment of unidentifiable crawling things. "Next time, why don't you let Harry see what's in your jar? And Harry, you could ask before snatching---" 21 Suddenly into the midst of the peacemaking, Jerry announced from the window that the rainbow was quickly fading. "Where do rainbows come from?" somebody wanted to know. "From the sky and out of the rain." Good answer indeed. The week wore itself down to Friday. The caterpillars had apparently recovered, were even eating. We left them to a weekend of solitude and Monday came early. But it always did. Monday sunrises were generally slow, sometimes never. This was one of the never ones. And it was cold. The bell rang and seven students still weren 't in: Dana, always late ; Carol, must be sick; Flip, probably can't find his shoes; Irma, Sandra's babysitter, (she always said her name like that---was she eVflC just Irma?) had called to say the car wouldn't start; Stephen, usually early; Kelly, catching more bugs?; and whoever sat behind Jerry. "Whose empty desk is that?" I asked. "That's Andre's place. And I saw him playing in the park," from David, being very emphatic. " I can't find my lunch money, either." Shelly was at my elbow. "Somebody stole my lunch money, too." "Oh, how do you know that, Shelly? Did you have it with you when you left the apart ment?" Two tears welled up; how did she get that scratch across her face? "Just a minute, Shelly." An eighth-grader was at the door asking how many third-graders wanted tQ buy a copy of the school paper. Have to note that on the board right now , to remind me to remind them to bring money tomorrow. A frantic voice jerked me from my mental note: "Miss Cataldi! Miss Cataldi! Look! Somebody has been messing with the caterpillars. They're GONE!" Surprise, indignation, anger---all an octave above Middle C. "Please, Kelly---" He didn 't even have his coat off and his books were all in a pile on the floor with his lunch. "How do you know somebody did it? Let's take a look . .. " By the time I got to the back of the room most of the children were there too , a tight, anxious knot. Oh, where was Shelly? Let's see . ... "Shelly, remind me to give you a lunch ticket at noon. You can pay for it tomorrow." But that couldn't help much ... Now, Kelly's caterpillars. "There they are!" Jerry was triumphant. "In those green-grape things hanging from the top of the bug-keeper. They 're in there! " Kelly was dubious. Harry supported Jerry. They bounced the idea around a bit as Louis turned to get my attention. An alert student, his eyes seldom lacked lustre. His face and head had all the vitality and dignity of a Greek sculpture or the young David. 22 "Butterflies," he whispered. "Can I run get the 'B' encyclopedia?" Hardly a minute later, as he reentered the room, he announced, "They're called 'chry-chry-sa-lis-ses!' Cold over the weekend and they turn off the heat in here, too. I'll bet the cold made the caterpillars make these green grape things." Louis the scientist with a vast store of facts also had an unbelievable capacity for knowing how to link them. Was I wishing for more Louises? It was so easy to teach him to read. "We're going to have butterflies," somebody chanted. "Two of them. " "How long will it take?" "What kind of butterflies will they be?" Harry demanded. "Monarchs," Louis replied steadily. "Orange and black monarchs. It says here that they migrate---" "What's that mean?" Harry again. "--fly south in the fall. By the middle of October they're usually in Georgia. " "My grandmother lives there, Miss Cataldi. " Diedra always had an interruption. "It's ' the ' middle of October already. Our monarchs are going to be late. ' .. " "---and some go all the way to Mexico and Peru." Louis was still reading aloud. . , . The weeks edged away. One of the green grape 'things fell ' off and 'died' while the other grew steadily darker. No more caterpillars, a monarch was growing. "Get in here, everybody! See what's happening in the third grade! Jerry's shouts perforated the lunches-and-books-and-Iockers confusion of the long hall. Diedra was already into the second grade room with the announcement; first-graders, hearing the pitch of excitement, responded adequ,ately and typically---at top speed. But the armed and legged tumult that descended upon the bug-keeper fell quickly hushed. The monarch was just pushing himself away from the tattered chrysalis and with massive effort was pumping fluid through the 'piping' that, umbrella-like, spread the petalled wings. The miracle billowed up before our eyes, like clouds do in time-lapse photography. "I can't see!" Harry complained from somewhere miles away. "Your plane will be departing in fourteen minutes. Gate nine. To your right, rna 'am." 23 "His name 's King Arthur, " Kelly announced helpfully to the attendant and anyone willing and lucky enough to hear. "He'll drink sugar water from off your thumb." He held the bug-keeper up for all to see---a flash of black striped orange, brilliance enough for anyone's day. The decision to fly King Arthur to Georgia via commercial airlines had been arrived at logically and happily. He had 'hatched' three weeks behind the usual monarch schedule. An emergency airlift would surely be a welcome assist to an already lengthy itinerary. But it was a sober departure delegation that stood in solemn order along the observation windows and sang the butterfly song, 'Fly, Orange Butterfly ,' as the plane taxied to the runway and some distant place called Atlanta. We all took hands then, and threaded our way out of the Labyrinthine terminal. We found the station wagon, four rows and two light posts from the exit, and the children climbed in, subdued beyond recognition. "Now remember , I stop driving if third-graders get too---" Why did I feel I had to say that? . That evening at the PTA meeting, I let my thoughts wander as the perenniel how-to-raise-money discussion stretched to an award-winning duration of 47 minutes. I slouched down into the chair a bit to relieve an Anacin backache. Today had been too long. Diedra's ride had not waited for her to return from the airport and subsequent drive across town had been fraught with traffic---everybody wanted to get to supper soon. Then, after a quick and cold dinner, back to school for this PTA meeting. Deeper slouch. Then stiffly erect. Felt some better. The decision . was made by hand vote to postpone the money-making ..decision to the' next meeting. Wish I could postpone tomorrow's test; still had to write it up and type it. Then, there were the area covers to make for math and the usual stack of SRA papers and bookreports to check and chart. "Fly, orange butterfly,". . . be kind to your butterflies, Atlanta. "Miss Cataldi?" Mrs. Johnson. At every PTA meeting. Her hair was set and perfect, make-up faultless, even expensive earings that dangled. Class. "Dana came home today complaining that she didn't get to go to the airport. Now, I feel that every student should be given the opportunity to participate in dass field trips. Luckily, Dana has already been to the airport several times. She flies by herself now to Oklahoma to spend the holidays with her grandparents. Now how did /you decide who would get to go? I don't want to interfere with school policies, but perhaps---" "Mrs. Johnson, we could only get ten children into the station wagon. I did send a note home early in the week asking if any parents could provide---," all the usual explanations. And had I been fair in choosing the ten who got to go? "Well, you're the teacher." she said rather inconclusively. 24 "Yes, I'm the teacher." My name goes on their report cards and the 'permanent records' . . . Let's see, my car keys? Atlanta . . . Yes, fly an orange butterfly. Weeks passed, grew into months. Once Diedra drew a butterfly in the corner of her English paper. The assignment had been to write a friendly letter. Hers was to the grandmother who lived in Georgia. Kelly's asthma got worse and he missed a lot of school. The stack of papers and books I sent home included an assortment of friendly letters fur him. Jerry faithfully marked off the winter holidays ' on the calendar. Daylight shortened, then lengthened. We climbed out of the winter solstice of snow and cold to feather-light showers, another rainbow, and redbuds flowering. Kelly brought in some earthworms. Harry took down the outdoor birdfeeder from the classroom window. Third graders began to act like fourth graders:super energetic and irrepressibly rowdy. It got harder and harder to get to school on time. My tardy list to the principal daily grew longer. What to do about it? "Try candy," another teacher suggested. I say down to the beginning-day rituals. "How many are taking a got lunch today?" Then we heard them in the hall. Heads turned. A few people stood up. "He's back! He's back!" Harry had gotten to the door first. "He's outside on the playground!" Jerry was tripping over Harry. Oh, iLonly his parents would look into getting him some glasses. "~sawhim first." That had to be Kelly, in the midst of the group, smiling and jumping, healthy with spring and friends. "Who?" Demanding. "King Arthur!" In perfect unison. And loud. The class was already in a rush down the hall. Outside, we overtook a spring breeze as we crossed the playground at Olympic speeds, then stopped, hushed, . at the grassy space where Harry was indicating our reigning monarch: bright color in the tangle of greening mulberry branches . . . . Thirty-seven third graders danced orange rhythms to the just-spring chants of butterflies. Lunch-counts and tardy slips and bells and teachers and studentE: would always be, I supposed, or maybe never were. Wasn't it enough to celebrate returns? . "We've been looking for him all this week, Miss Cataldi. We knew he's come! Aren't you glad?" Fr.om cocoons spun of hectic and humdrum, butterflies flower to ljeautIfy our days. As rainbows do, and children. "Yes, Harry, I am glad." And reached to tousle his shining curls. 25 Smile laugh frown London Bridge is falling down falling down f a I I I n o i w n Bombs keep smashing all around Mary feeds her child Mrs. Wilson mends her hose Johnny Paxton blows his nose Streetcars clatter uP and do wn taking people out of town Reverend Posey has a thought Can't be beat with Molly Green can't have known that he was seen in Mrs. Wilson's bedroom "A simple visit," he told his wife, "she's frightened by the bombings." Molly Green has gone now too Nothing left for her to do All the men have gone to war Hup two three four Hup two three four Down the street and through the door they carried him. No more need Johnny smile at me The cost of coffin nails is up supply demand unquestioning of all the meaning in a ring Ring ... Ring ... Ring Is anyone there? Hello ... Hello ... please don't hang up say something! 26 dead air heat gila monsters s I I t h e r under rocks seeking nonexistent shade shelter from the tyrant sun beating on the barren land All the world is gone to sea washed of its humanity When I turn and look at you why don't I get a human view? where have all the soldiers gone playing jacks with atom bombs who is picking up the pieces? Sunrise/ dawn/light/the seal was it this way before long ago when no men walked as no men now are walking or riding or whizzing along in shining metal shells burning themselves out ashes remain fertilizing a land grown so infertile as to reject the blood of Isaac were it offered a broken worid gaping at the universe in dazed astonishment at what it has become she who once thought herself the star demoted to a chorus girl with nothing to say kept on out of sentiment "She will realize soon f'nough.'; 27  ...

... FioRETTi FioRETTi MARiAN collEGE liTERARY ANTl-loloGY . . VOlUME Tl-liRTY-TWO NUMbER ONE 197~-1974 Ed iTOR kATJ..lE EN GiESTiNG .. WiT~ T~E ~Elp of MARG iE bEdEI JOAN RyAN 2 . C O N TENTS 5 6 8 9 11 12 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 28 Requiescat/Cindy Pio A Modern Christmas Story/Kathleen Giesting Goal/Michael Wallace mad fly .. ./Joan Ryan "Mei "/Michael Wallace In the mysticalland .. ./Kathleen Giesting In Mourning/Elaine Watson Days,melted .. ./Pat Paquin Stand tall, walk .. ./Herb Finke Notes to an "Owl" I know/Sr. Francesca Thompson Reflection on Love/Joseph Kempf Life .. ./Donna Meyers The Ocean/Linda Hagan The Flaming Sword/Joe Rea coming down .. ./Donna Meyers Photos on pages 4,14, and 22 are by J aimie Pinto. The cover design is by Kathleen Giesting. The artwork appearing on pages 7 and 19 is by Mary Clare. Chris Auberry is responsible for page 18. REQui ESCAT Cindy Pio Today, early, the horizon glowed golden for a brief moment. And that grand star stepped slowly, majestically ou t of the night, and created day. Earthlings stirred, aroused by the brilliant birth. And most commenced to just live, simply and naturally. But self-named "homo sapiens" (so-called for feigning intelligence) set about contaminating today, cluttering its fleeting seconds with sorrow, with frustration, and always, always the thoughts and ideas and plans for the future. He fancies himself a divine architect of some sort, this "homo sapiens," laden as he is with all his groundplans and blueprints for the superstructure he calls tomorrow. He plots and graphs and toils, and yet the finished product wobbles a bit, not at all what he had in mind, nothing at all like he'd planned. So daily he begins anew, cementing his dreams together with mounds of hope and not just a touch of fear. And yet.. ..... Red, exhausted, the aged sun neared its sepulcher where daily it dies and lays itself to rest. Yet it lingered, only momentarily, and then carried with it to death the very child to which it had given birth. To~y . passed on thus, ignored, uncelebrated, unrealized as a tomorrow fulfilled now forever yesterday. ' A ModERN C~RisTMAS Kathleen Giesting To begin this story in the traditional manner we will begin with --- Once upon a time, long ago but not too far a way, there lived in Indianapolis a small boy who longed to grow up and become a Santa Claus for the Salvation Army --- ringing bells for collections on the street corners of Cincinnati (everyone knows that Cincinnati is the only place to be a bell-ringing Salvation Army Santa). Well, this little boy's name was Tommy and he had been certain ever since his third birthday that he wanted to become a Salvation Army Santa. Now he was six years old and Christmas was coming again. Tommy decided that it was about time he started his career before the ~ield got too filled up (he had been noticing an awful lot of Santas around lately). So Tommy decided to ask his friend Max , the policeman , who knew almost everything, how it was you became a Santa for the Salvation Army. (Tommy wasn't a religious fanatic or anything --- it's just that he 'd never seen any Santas that weren't from the Salvation Army.) Max , your typical "County Mountie" and all around nice guy, told Tommy that he _ was too young to be a Salvation Army Santa Claus. Tommy was crushed. He was certain that if he didn't become a Santa this year, there woul~ never be another chance (you know how hard it is to get any kind of job nowadays) so he decided to go straight up to one of the Salvation Army Santas and ask him where he could sign up. The first Santa he approached was grumpy from the cold and ringing his bell with very little enthusiasm. fIe simply ignored Tommy's even being there . The Santa on the next corner was a kind old gent though, and Tommy asked him how he could become a Salvation Army Santa. The old man laughed and said, "Someday, if you really want it, you can be just like me, collecting money for gifts for poor people. But right now you have a much more important job to do." Tommy was puzzled. "What could possibly be more important than bell-ringing Salvation Army Santas? "he asked. The Santa smiled at him and said, "Enjoy your young years and spread the joy of your youth; it is worth more than all the money in my pot." And Tommy smiled as he walked home, kicking a stone before him. 6 GOAl Michael Wallace World spins, spirals top-like taster Spinning to spin in nano-second flash Cadence unbroken in unsyncopated motion Auto-men , computomen spitting sounds furiously In sane aggressive in a blind order maddness Faster they hiss in their hurried machinations Clocks accelerate, gears clicking in timeless sea Of rush--rush--rush,. clack hiss. "The goal, the goal," their frenzied cry travels at the Deafening speed of vibrated air. whooosh! clang. Seven hundred head-splitting miles per cycle Bombarding bothered eardrums, beat , beat, beat! Nerves flash, synopses active in neuro-chemical haste Message after message after message after mess ..... . Information .. .communication .. .integration. . Now no time to lose! Reassemble . Imperative. Must respond: tune impulses to the rythmn Ascend descend rise 'n fall round 'n round . Lubricate the friction, perpetual motion in time warp fashion. Redesign now! efficiency now! how? Atomic energetic hourglass hands whirling, ripping Tearing away; tick-tock, rip-rock. precise vise . Squeezing the slow. Zipping through the wires No slow , no slow. Go! Go!! Go!!! Streaking in and out faster faster! Straining mach schnell mach schnell No room in workd breathing speed, for snail Popping reds amphetamine gazelle Light show laser scintillation Time disappears in eyeless whir Blurring headlong hurtling where? Remember the fable: tortoise and hare? "The goal ," they cry echoing falling through the distant universe Like a black leopard in heat Impaling herself in sexual fury on the jagged release of death. 8 mad fly, bouncing inside the lampshade, the light makes you crazy. I'll turn it off. mad fly ; you lie in darkness. was it better to be crazy in the light? Joan Ryan 9 "MEi" Michael Wallace Today I went to the museum Me and myself stayed home For I went alone Love statue swallowed me whole though I had the strength to fight me won and I fell in I put no stock in such a thing, love Foolish to invest with no insured return but me needs you(whoever you may be) me foolish and timid please let me in I bought butterflies and bells to win the I in you though the you me like is really the me you I strut and swear like poppa bear and me squeaks in fright at the sight of Goldilocks You may have my porridge And don't mind I, he's just me . 11 In the mystical land of Hush~a-bye far and far away A young girl caught a young man's eye and he to her did say, "Where tend thee now my pretty maid? Where do thy footsteps wend?" So prettily the young girl said, "I go to seek a friend." "A friend you've found, Your friend I'll be!" the young man cried in joy. "And we'll sail away O'er the sparkling sea we'll all our time employ in seeking shells and wadif!g brooks and tending flowers sweet. We'll question how we e'er deserved to share a joy so meet." The young girl's eyes with tears brimmed full "My friend you ne'er can be. The friend I seek I needs must seek he has been promised me. I dare not tarry on my way he waits; he comes for me. I ne'er shall seek the sparkling shells or wade in babbling brook. My love was promised ere I was. My love too soon he took. He stole me from my mother's arms from hearth and home and kin. He wooed me with the promises of-Oh!-what might have been! We go to a darkness never lit by fire or moon or sun, Where smiles are merely fancies hardly half begun. 12 'Tis cold and bleak--this bitter place where sun has ne'er been seen I hesitate, yet hurry on I move as in a dream. A nightmare now-the Fates did spin Those woeful sisters three charting a new life for him, cruel death for me." "Why go thee then?" the young man said, "Come fly with me, come flee." "I needs must go," the young girl said, "He waits; he comes for me. Wedded now must I be his We walk in death and life I needs must live and die in him I needs must be his wife." Eternal circle--circ1e round the lifeless trees of winter frown the young man the young girl part springtime lives in lovers' hearts summer sees them smile anew autumn too soon brings the dew life has tarried far too long-Death will sing the victory song. Kathleen Giesting 1~ IN MOURNiNG Elaine Watson Today I glanced over my shoulder, and it was you. -There you stood. I could feel the glares from the corners of our eyes, pulling together as with magnetic force. Still, neither of us possessed the courage to meet face to face. The memories of all we had shared were tempting me to speak, but pride arrived promptly on the scene tieing my tongue in a million knots. When I think of our impromptu encounter, the lump that was in my throat suddenly reappears , and seems to grow like a cancer as I remember that our romance is dead. The disease with which we were stricken was stubborness .with its complications, jealousy, anger and pride, Why is it that the warmest of romances fade like a suntan in mid-September? 16 Days, melted like waxen drops Sliding off a candle Harden in a cold unity at its base; Each day , each drop a piece of the whole Transformed by an uncontrollable natural force : be it fire, or be it love When each pays its toll, The Whole will never be the same. Pat Paquin 17 Stand tall, walk tall Soldier, little boy. Momma calls, the sun's down. up the shallow moon __ birds wane, owls wax swallow pride, sleep. Herb Finke 18 NOTES TO AN "Owl" I kNOW ~~- ~ .-:=:.c- I have Seen the Shadows in your Eyes That speak to me Of your Sorrowing-sadness And your Heavy ladened Heart I wo~ld not . . ' Wish you walk Or make your way Without some Darkness .... (As long as you grope or stumble not all alone, devoid of light .... ) I only ask That when you must Travel In the deepening dusk There always be STARS To brighten up your Nights! Sr. Francesca Thompson 19 RE.flECTioN ON LOVE Joseph Kempf We two , composed of such mind stuffs and flesh, caught ourselves one night striking egos together like steel on flint and conjured reflections so bright they made thousand-faceted mirrors of our bodies. Later a single leaf falling shattered the image. Somewhere in Greece Narcissus /struck blind/ vanishes from mirrors of the world, slips beneath the silvery surface and drowns. 20 Life only the far side of death a line so easy to cross over and so beckoning at times, so lonely at times, so rough bleeding, crying, hating, useless, yet every moment yielding something to hang onto. give up and you lose the might have been dreams despair, and you waste the could have been joys consent and you live in the maybe world of happiness today and the possibility of another tomorrow. Donna Meyers 21 OCEAN Linda Hagan I often find myself longing for the ocean. It has an air of complete and uninterrupted freedom about it, making me feel as though I'm in a place of solitude where I can bring my never-ending dreams to rest. Its outstretched arms embrace me with many thoughts. Its immensity spreads a feeling of eternity throughout my cluttered brain. The quietness projects a feeling of loneliness, down to the deepest depths, exploring in me what is left to be uncovered, and reminding me ...... . I see laughter in the waves as it goes by gurgling, bubbling, enthusiastically flowing, unwinding its way through the world. It's a place of dreams -- the waves coming up to meet them and then taking them away while I continue to hope that they will reach someone on the other side, far away. Even being such a quiet cove, it is supplied with a certain friendship. I can find promises, I can share hope, and I can surely share my emotions. For the wind blowing the waves encompasses the entire span of emotion. But exactly exactly what this emotion is I really cannot know, because the tide always changes. T ~E FlAMiNG SWORd Joe Rea The day had begun with unusual natural beauty for the community. As the clouds of dawn made their formation you wondered which one of the many brilliant colors would predominate over the others. The appearance of the sun made that guesswork needless. Its strong bright rays supplied the answer as the day took the form of a cloudless, hot and muggy extension on our lives. I would not go to work today for the community. There was other work planned for me. I had perpetrated a pretty heavy offense. It seemed that I had not been happy for a while. Disaffection with the group and with life in general had warranted some controUing help. The community's controlling device of psychotherapy was in store for me, or rather, I was in store for it. I The modern air-conditioned psychiatry offices in the medical complex were pleasant to walk into that day. No one paid much attention to me as I came in simply because there was no one in the waiting room. I was alone in that spacious place. An old familiar feeling of uniqueness came creeping into my skull. "So here I am alone," I thought, "I must be a special case." This attitude, I vaguely felt, was in essence the reason t hat I was standing here now. "Come on into the back, Mr. Bnrrhus," the old nurse smilingly beckoned. "The doctor wiU be with you in a moment." . The office resembled the outside hall and waiting room in that it was cool and comfortable. However, it differed from the passive simplicity I had just left as it appeared ready for action. The affect in there must have been transmitted by the large amount of apparatus. The situation was also made more pressing by the reduced amount of space in which that equipment could somehow close in and pounce on you. "Hello, Mr. Burrhus," said the voice at my back. "I am llictor Renniks and I have come to help you." "Y ou want to help me, doctor? " "Sure, I would like to see you happy. I want to see you in a peaceful relation with the community here. You must be at one with your environment. This is what I want, Mr. Burrhus." "You are welcome to try, Doc." "O.K. Go lie down on that couch over there and we can start talking." "Gee, Doc, I have never been analyzed before. I almost got brave for a minute until you said that. You have just appealed to my warped and . stereotyped misconception of head-shrinking. The next thing you will want to know is if I ever hated my father." The g,9od doctor did not laugh. It was just as well since he would have had no one to laugh with. "Actually, Mr. Burrhus, I will try to do the most talking. In answer to your statement about hating your father, well, we probably know more about that than you do. You are the third generation of your family here in this particular community. Your personal history is carefully filed downstairs and is very, very complete." "That is fine, doctor. Now, tell me why you people have to go digging up those files." "Your case is not extremely peculiar, Mr. llirrhus, but it does warrant some serious consideration. You show signs of some slight maladjustment. Your behavior is characteristic of those small, scattered groups on the outside of all the established communities who refuse conformance with society at large. You do know to what I am referring? " "Yes, Doctor Renniks." The small and scattered groups on the outside made up society's behavioral hermits. For some unknown reason these few had not complied with society's standards. They refused the set environmental pattern offered to them and instead sought other modes of living. All evidence had shown that this small band of humanity was apparently failing. The voice of Renniks began to push my inner voice into the back seat for a while as it took over the wheel. "Those people out there will not last with their system simply be. cause they have no system to begin with," said Renniks. "Science now knows that all human behavior is a function of the variables in a given environment. Whatever you do or decide not to do is dependent only upon outside factors. This, llirrhus, is called a behavioral repertoire. We all have one. It consists of the responses we make to certain stimuli. Every response will either be reinforced or left unreinforced or possibly punished. Thus, the probability of any action which will be taken depends upon the reinforcement or the lack of it." This was elementary stuff learned by our grade-schoolers. However, in my case, a refresher course must have been considered necessary. I inwardly writhed with doubt as the doctor continued. . "There are unfortunate by-products in controlling behavior," he explained. "I like to call them anomalies. This is especially true if control is excessive or inconsistent. If this happens then we get escape, revolt or maybe passive resistance of some kind. In escape there appears the anchorite from the ethical group. This type may renounce citizenship or be anti-social. Revolt consists of counter-attacking the controlling agent through criticism or active physical fighting. Not behaving in conformity with controlling practices shapes passive resistance. 24 "These anomalies have al ways nept up in history. dodoI'. How do you propose to stop them'! " "The controlling agell<'ies deal with tht'm by intensifying their practices. The escapee is captured and confined mon' securely. The revolt is put down. A Thoreau is jailed or a Gandhi is assassinated." "Then how do you explain the success, small though it be, of the outside groups? .. I queried. I must have toucllt'd a sensiti\e nerve and very happily noticed that it somehow innervated the mouth for he stopped talking and replaced that action with a small, <-rooked, and possibly worried, smile. "Nothing is perfed, IiHrhus," he whined as he stood up to look out the window. Those outsiders were a real problem to all of the communities. It must have affected the doctor more than he let on. Like any form of government the behavioral control system had to present an air of infallability. This was reasonable. If by some chance those outsiders proved them wrong in the smallest way then the loss of face would be dangerous. Any results would then ultimately fall back on themselves. For any with such high confidence the gnawing pain of self-doubt is a tough one to bear. It was better that they stay away from the strange ones. They would not conflict but merely consider the others irrelevant, unimportant. The doctor quickly continued, "This system offers a set and preplanned behavioral environment. The variables that stimulate us to certain responses have been calculated and controlled. We have the means to our de~tiny. " . "What about the question of personal freedom? " I broke in. "Can il e~ ist in this set environment geared for some destiny'! " "This system offers freedom. The freedom from aversive consequences. What is more. it offers security. This is the seeurity from aversive events. Plans can be lIlade to avoid behavioral disasters. People conform to set moral codes with virtuous aspects emphasized. Ultimalf'ly, bad qualities of behav. ior will be effaced." My mind had be~n to wander as was the usual custom. This lack of concentration on anything was deemed to be a basic fault of mine in conforming with the community. In the past I had often tried to make a soft bed of excuses for Ill)' ego tn lie on by ('onsidering this problem nothing more than ex(:essive in trospection. Ilt t whatever ti tIe was applied the result remained the same. Tlwre was always mild distrust at what was said, vague doubt for what had been done and a very r('al fear of any promises made, A voice slowl)' be!!an to struggle ~ith Illy attention. Then it finally won the fight. 25 "Think of it, Iltrrhus. All non-virtuous behavior might be eliminated. Aggression and domination, words once very common in our language, but less so today, could eventually know only a position in some thick, archaic dictionary. " "And how might this universal concept of good virtues be used? " The doctor looked puzzled. "Why, to obtain happiness." "What will happiness bring us? " "Survival, Burrhus, survival." "What if we cannot get this happiness and its consequent survival by just imposing set virtues for all to observe? Maybe to survive we are meant to be aggressive and to dominate by using hate and fear to fuel our struggle. Suppose that happiness is not the key to survival?" "Happiness not the key? Iltrrhus, that is ridiculous!" "Yes, it seems so. It seems so ridiculous that it might be just what we desperately need to get along in this ridiculous world: We should be subduing a tough world with tough values. That old idea about fighting fire with fire is trite, but it has not lost its cogency with me doctor." "Look, Iltrrhus, the environmental control aspect is the only way we can go. By this we must achieve the great goal." "Doctor, you imply a master plan concocted by some behavioral heads. How can you be sure that it is on the right track?" "Right track!" exploded the doctor. "Iltrrhus, that ridiculous question is not worth the miserable breath it is wasted on!" The positions of inquisitor and defendant had really been turned around. I wondered if the good medicine man's indignation was genuine. Or was he disturbed because the psychic prey had turned predator? "Iltrrhus, as I have implied before, the mechanism of behavior control is aimed at the most positive and valuable goal conceived. That goal is the nearest perfect happiness of humanity, the final and grandest achievement which is possible for our kind." "Iltt what is the perfect happiness?" I implored. "Does such a thing exist? Can it exist?" "Yes, it can exist," he retorted. "Our job now is to find the means of forcing it into existence." . "And this means is not in the realm of personal control?" "Individual steering will be disastrously wrong." "But this set plan may be wrong. What you are asking is that I accept either glory or damnation by employing some set and unalterable life plan. I cannot endure that thought, doctor. I have to take personal chances and experience mistakes. Without that, existence is not complete. If I take personal action and if in the event that I happen to set fire to my hell, then I 26 can be justified in burning there. Iht I 'w ant to actively light the match. I don't just want to be given the book of matches to hold for someone else. " A new sensation permeated the room. There was a huge deep silence. It was the impossible kind you hope for when peace needs to be attained but it was the same type that is dreaded when it does come. The doctor was the first to bring sound back again into that hot day which had suddenly become very icy. "There is always the outside, Burrhus. lli you feel you belong there?" "I feel that I am obliged to belong there, sir." "Very well then, you can leave tonight. The community will furnish you with enough to get you safely to the outside." "Thanks, doctor." With that we left and ,as earlier that morning ,I again faced the sky. The sun was setting as I began to move. I was headed toward the sun and knew that the night's stars would not be far behind as they would follow me in the same direction. Looking up into the shrinking sky I think I saw an angel with the flaming sword you sometimes hear about. However, either he or I had become so di~orient~d that he seemed to hold no position ' in space nor purpose in time. Was there ever a unique paradise tor him to . guard? Was there ever a positive direction in which the sword had to be pointed? That brilliant and hopeful sunset began to parallel my slowly evolving insight. It was my right to secure that sword for myself and to wield it in a fight for destiny. I had to find my own paradise,and, if I did find it, to guard it with my own sword. Again catching sight of the sun, I thought of my ~word and prayerfully challenged heaven to take up its shield. Donna Meyers coming down is always hard but necessary to taste the joy of rising.  ...

... ~~ FIORETTI ~-------f \lOLUME THIRTY-ONE 197Q-1973 FIORETTI MJ\RlfiN COL LEGE LI TERfiRY fiN THOLOGY CO-EDI TOR) ~HERRY ELLEN DUGflN MEYER ~ D\J I)OR BERN~RD HEf\D )T~FF KI1THLEEN G\E)TING EMilY BRIC~NER CONTENTS PRO)E flND POETRY 6 The Voice Is Quiet / Kathleen Giesting 7 Mind Is Up High ... I Pat Paquin 8 And God Wore Motley / Sister Francis Assisi Kennedy O.S.F. II WaIls / Patty Gorman 12 I Cannot Be Two ... / Kathleen Giesting 15 Gently Swaying / Mary Kay Riley 16 It Comes Only ... / Mary Elmlinger 18 The Search / Sister Jacquelyn McCracken O.S.F. 23 On My Hill / Mel Arnold 24 We Pass As Strangers... / Kathleen Giesting 25 Murder, Maim ... / Donna Jean Meyers 27 My God Is Not ... / Mary Kay Riley 28 It Is Good ... / K.X. 29 (When Do I Love ... ) / Kathleen Giesting 3 30 Concrete Poetry: Reality Revisited / Compliments of the Editors 32 Movin' Groovin' Women / Sister Francesca Thompson O.S.F. 35 I Want to Feel... / Ellen Dugan 36 Surrounded by You... / Donna Datsko 38 Ballad of the Betrayed Soldier / Ken Hornbach 40 Humanity: If Just Died / Kathleen Giesting 42 The Long Wait / Carol Jones 45 Here Am I Alone ... / Kathleen Giesting 46 Student Teacher's Lament / Sherry Meyer 47 Time Gr~ws Up ... / Ellen Dugan 48 A Wintry Night / Mary Werle 49 Cardboard Blues / Lou DeZutti 50 Electronic Communion... / Donna Datsko 51 I Am Myself... / L.F.P. 52 Welco~e to Richmond / Sister Jeanne Dailey O.S.F. 57 Black and White / Emily Brickner 58 And Many a Man ... / Ellen Dugan 4 PHO TOGRfl PHY Pages 10, 17, 45, 49, 58/ Jamie Pinto Page 60 / Tom Kasper Pages 34 and 37 / Courtesy of the Yearbook flRT WORK Cover Design / Sherry Meyer Pages 22, 26, 41 / Mary Spragg 5 the voice is quiet barely audible it has been long since the Muse has seen my pen tracing out her words on the page her powers of dictation have lessened (so few come to take down her wisdom) the wisdom can always wait it is men who demand and need it now it is such men who do not know the Muse when she seeks shelter at their door. they seek it not there their logic tells them it cannot be there it cannot be so easy a quest they .cannot hear the Muse they once heard they are too grown-up for the dream growing ever more closed. the Muse no longer has the po~er .to greet them her wisdom is for those who wIll hsten she does not force doors. 1~f1THLEEN 6 GI)TING Mind is up high Take it down Put the right one On the ground Sing a chant for nature's wealth Make a toast to Everyone Time is passing Rolling by Picking up speed Getting high Smell the scent of future life Pick a loved one For you friend. Second coming On the stage Clapping voices Silent rage Heavy sounds weigh down the air I was here but Now I'm not. PIlT PIlQUIN 7 flND GOD WORE N\OTLEY He did not consider Being God A thing to be clung to But empties Himself And ... no room in the inn The foxes have dens The birds nests The Son of Man no place to lay His head "He raised my son." "He cured my daughter." "He speaks with authority." "He casts out demons." 8 Can any good come out of Nazareth: a carpenter's son, a wine-drinker, a rabble-rouser? Render to Caesar the things that are his. By whom do your sons cast them out? Will you also go away? Lord, to whom shall we go? Let us follow Him to death. Hosanna! And 'darkness covered the land. )I)TER FRflNCI) f1 ))1 SI 9 WALLS some people smile so sweetly give so much stoop so low act so sorry yet never feel very deeply. PflTTV GORMf\N 11 I cannot be two when I am one I will not be I refuse this life you embrace Laughing and sneering at your hypocrisy I must now pity and fear your dividedness For it seeks to be mine I will not be Two each incomplete alone but uncomplementary together The contradiction is one I refuse to embrace as a part of my life As the parts of my life: consumer ---- worker hedonist ---- servant It cannot be my life If I tend the machine that robs me of my soul It will not be my life Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I serve none but mankind. Where have they hidden them the souls of my fellowmen ---the ones they snatched in the grand promise of returning them later all polished and bright They could not have been destroyed. Too valuable a treasure to suffer the destruction that is met by their masters ---- they are hidden somewhere . confined ---- denied release ---- for they would aid my fellowmen they would stave off their destruction that the machine feeds upon. I must find them before I too am destroyed .. ---- for I cannot be sure even of my own soul ---the shadows are so deep. 1Q The moon hangs low The machine does not sleep The machine does not ever sleep but it si quieter in the moonlight as if it feared what the moon might tell The earth is quieter now but the quiet of the earth is tension nature waits to spring up ---but its realm has been overcome The machine continues its humming knowing only three words of the ancient Veni, vidi, vici. needing only three words to maintain itself no others apply. no others sing out the assurance of the machine as those of Caesar as he came saw conquered but where is the Brutus to strike the first blow against this Caesar? Frightened I was born in fright live in fright do not wish to die in fright never once being unafraid The assurance of the machine into whose realm I was born does not assure me could never assure me of anything except my fear 13 The machine does not like fear fear breeds desperation causing men to die for just causes wasting their potential to serve the machine. The machine is calming ---soothing ---humming away it appears to be hardly enough to fear I fear what cannot appear in man's view of the machine My fear is large hidden inside of my soul or if my soul be taken from me in the depths of what humanity is left. My fear is my humanity. I fear for my humanity Some of it already destroyed As the machine seeks duplicates not finding them ---"creating" them from the wealth of humanity offering the poverty of automation Artificial desires met by artificial pleasures but not quite met ---an emptiness in man's memory ---in mankind's memory of what it had been when it ruled the earth, when the machine served it ---this is the source of fear Man's fear is his humanity Man's fear is his hope. \\ATHLEEN GI)TING 14 gently swaying to the sensuous rhythms of stony sadness, i see my soul caught in the essence of endless time. thus suspended, i' surrender to the visionary's light and answer to your crying need to love. MF\RY 15 ~,4y RILEY It comes only in the end to be my world against yours. And which of us is to say there are more treasures to be found in Spring? MF\RV ELN\LINGER 16 THE )Ef1RCH Reaching the top of the hill, Sarah Strickland peered down at the encampment of tents and buses which seemed strangely out of place among the portly hills of Nashville, Tennessee. Laughing aloud at the thought that she, too, must look starkly different to the inhabitants of the Farm, she was stunned by the shattered silence and by the realization that for the first time in a long while, she was completely alone, isolated from the people below. isolated even from her own body. She ceremoniously stretched out her tan lanky arms over the panoramic view before her as if to get in touch with some mysterious unknown reality, but her arms flailing blinkly about her revealed nothing but the crispness of the dusky air. She took a long hungry breath of the clean air and exhaled gently and lingeringly, savoring its freshness. It's what she remembered most about being a child '- air was a favorite thing of hers, like a doll or teddy bear was to most children. She used to love its tingle thro~h her nostrils and its dry wetness on her face. And her favorite season was spring because she liked everything about spnng air more than any other kind of air. And ... that was when she was free ... to be a child, to be an air-lover. In the valley below twilight shadows were beginning their nightly ritual. Like well-practiced thieves, they crawled subtly and stealthily over the unsuspecting earth and left no evidence of their deed except the nakedness of the falling dusk and the twinkle of the recently lit lanterns in the makeshift dwellings of Stephen's disciples. Although daylight was slowly and quietly vanishing, Sarah could still make out the individual settlements of the camp. With anguished eyes she searched for the dome tent Gary shared with ten other fellows. He called it the dome tent because a few yards down the hill front it stood a large wooden honeycomb dome - the frame for their future building. She closed her eyes, hoping to erase not only the impressions of the dome tent but all impressions of the past six months of her life. Experiencing the darkness of the blind, Sarah was amazed at how real Gary appeared to her behind her sealed lids. He was beautiful - and - young - infinitely young. His eyes were those of a child, not so much gentle or untied, but candid, open, daring. She squinted fiercely, trying to remember the color of his eyes. She had met Gary at last year's New Year's Eve party and noted immediately that he was different from most people. His shabby clothing, his hair and beard, long and unkept, certainly did not compliment the turtle-necked, beer-drinking young men. Gary was eating a tangerine. 18 Sarah listened carefully and noticed the cool confidence of his voice. . "Perhaps that's the risk you have to take," he was saying to a plump, mIddle-aged woman. "Picking up hitchhikers is a dangerous ~isk," she replied emphati~ally. "Where do you come from?" Sarah asked. Realizing that she had mterrupted their conversation, she blushed. He didn't seem to notice. "Ann Arbor, Michigan." Impelled by a desire to get to know him better, Sarah asked, "Where are you headed?" "Wherever there's air to breathe, energy to share -- wherever ther are people." Awed by his manner, Sarah couldn't de.c ide if he were poet or actor. Looking into his clear, guileless eyes, she concluded that he was neither. His seriousness unerved her. She didn't know why. A little cynically she commented, "It sounds like you're looking for Utopia." For an instant, Sarah's thoughts flashed back over the two years spent in the convent. The sound of his voice aroused her ... "sixty-five miles below Nashville." Sarah opened h~r eyes. The cool breeze stung them and made them water. .Gary was right. Nashville was beautiful. And as Gary put it, it was the kind of place you could go to get your head together. She again closed her eyes and thought of the farm, a back-to-the-soil, open air monastery, embracing 500 folks - men with long beards, women with long skirts, and children with glowing cheeks. Sarah remembered that first Sunday morning she and Gary had walked to the hillside meadow before dawn for community worship. The thin ribbons of light acroos the sky hinted at the coming day. Sarah, waiting expectantly for the rising sun, sat on the damp ground beside Gary, along with her thoughts. Everything about this place freed yet held her. There was something about the air here that caught her. Stephen, the spiritual priest and teacher of the Nashville community, began to speak, breaking the silence of her mind. "We are responsible for each other. No individual can reach final Enlightenment until all of humanity reach~s it together. We have an agreement here that no soul is private - we are each other's soul. Anytime we see something in each other that isn't straight, we try to help each other be straight and keep each other ~rowin~." 19 "No soul is private." At first, Sarah had thought that she had been building a wall around herself. She thought she was being an individual. Then it broke wide open. . . They had just finished evening meditation. Judith began the comm~mcahon session. Sarah felt she could relate openly to everyone, except Judith. Sarah didn't know what it was - there was something about her. It was such a little thing to Sarah. Certainly not important enough for Judith to mention. "Sarah." Sarah recognized that tome of voice. Fraternal correction was on of the most difficult practices of the commune for her to accept. "I think you're ego-tripping. You're not sharing yourself. You're being selfish. I say 'Good morning,' to you and you just nod and don't give anything back; I need the energy you can give me. " A painful silence followed. Sarah knew they were waiting for her to answer. She felt stifled, smothered by the people and by the air. Gary spoke. "If something's buggin' you, Sarah, let it out. You can say how you feel here. We'll understand and try to help you." "I don't know if you can understand. I don't even know if you can help me. I do know that I am not just an extension of all of you. I want to be my own person, and not someone you or Stephen teU me to be." . Sarah took in the hushed silence, which fell upon the group like a pall. She usually had little to say in the group sessions, speaking only when she felt she had to in order to .avoid calling attention to herself. She sensed the surprise of the members of the group at her slightly violent tone of voice. "Stephen tells no one who to be and neither do we. I think you're copping out on us, Sarah. Maybe yours wasn't real from the beginning." To Sarah, Gary sounded strange and unlike himself. She would never have believed he could be so hard. He was always gentie with her. The session had ended badly. Despondently, everyone had left except Sarah and Gary. "What's with you, Sarah? Why are you so uptight?" Gary had asked impatiently. "I just can't." "Can't what? " "I can't do it their way." "Just like that? All of a sudden you've decided you can't hack it because of tonight?" QO "It's not just tonight, Gary. It's been happening over and over." "Why didn't you come to me?" Gary was visibly upset. "And tell you what? That it isn't what I thought it would be? Tha! I'm not like these people as much as I long to be? That I'm not free to be like them?" Sarah was glad she decided to wear jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her long skirt and peasant blouse. The night air was becoming cool. She had pulled her long brown hair over her ears and secured it loosely with a rubber band. She wished now she had let it hang loose. It always felt warm and gentle against her back. She gazed at the darkenmg sky. A cluster ~f stars suddenly popped into sight like dernels of corn exposed to heat, Sarah thought. Her mind wandered over her childhood days when popping corn was a Saturday night ritual in her borne. . She looked at her watch. It was 7:30. The bus was leaving at 8:05. If she hurried she could walk to town in fifteen minutes. She didn't relish the idea of being alone on the Tennessee country roads once it got really dark. Sarah turned her back to the commune below and headed down the dirt path leading to the main road. "You have to listen to the sounds within you ... " She couldri't remember who said that. Vaguely aware of the night sound pervading the atmosphere, she listened intently to the air swirling within her. It was calm and quiet. Q1 ON MY HILL As I lie on top of this breezy hill I can hear the water trinkling down by the mill. The breeze blows the clouds, I can feel the warm sun. The birds are singing; the fish having fun. Yes, all seems perfect on this solemn summer day Oft times I wish they'd never go away. Then I remember deep within my mind Of how warm you are, how soft, how kind. How I love to hold you and gaze into your eyes, How I want to be with you and cry when you cry. But it's all in my mind, these thought of you, Cause you're so far away and there's nothing I can do. So, I'll keep thinking of you on these warm summer days. And I'll hope and I'll wish and maybe I'll pray. That maybe someday I can have my win . Of being with you on top of My Hill. ME: L t1RNOLD Q3 We pass as strangers now when once we used to walk side by side chatting in the many golden afternoons. We now merely nod and pass each other by and if we pause to speak there are no words save those that fill a silence with their noise ---- and mean nothing. Have you grown up so much in such a short time that we are sundered so ---- 9r have I so changed without my noticing that causes your fears? there stands a wall. How did we not note its building silently in the pauses replacing trust with lime and mortar? the words are nearly gone. the caulking nearly seals the once wide door. I~ATHLEEN Q4 GIESTING murder maim claim love cry die lie leave behind lonely only me DONNf\ JEIlN MEYERS Q5 My God is not silent. he speaks to me through the beauty of nature: the gentle blowing winds the rolling of thunder, and rain falling around me drenching my soul. M~RY Q7 1\f1Y RILEY it is good, i think, to sit.in the silence toward evening and contemplate the day's worth, and my own. did i live each moment enough? or could i have lived more? i count the day's worth in the friends i have made and add to that those i could help. was it enough, i wonder. i listen to the thoughts around me and i wonder if i am a part of this world, will i be more tomorrow? THANK GOD FOR THE CHANCE always a tomorrow to make up for today. yes, it is good, the silence. even if it is incomplete it is my own. and i can think of my tomorrows and hope that i.ll work with them. Oh God, i i don't want to become old. being old is a reminder of lost yesterdays and tomorrows coming to an end. help me work with my tomorrows. ~.x. Q8 I (when do I love) no time sometime all the time -- never II (how do I love) dreaming smiling laughing - in tears. III (what do I love) the trees the earth loving you -- dying... IV (why do I love) for you for me not to be - alone. ~f1THLEEN Q9 GIE)TING 'j N\O\J , N', GRO 0 \J IN' WON\ N (Dedicated to the members of NBSC) Bent-bowed, burdened, beaten Hurtin' That's me! Weary, woe-filled, worried Wantin' That's me! Hungry for the goods Of life and eternity Seekin', searchin' Reachin " rechin' Wretched Rottenin' in mind Un-resigned That's me! Blues-brimmed, bruised Miss-used Confused That's me! Sought, sold Bought Caught ... body Caught ... mind Trapped, webbed in Sin-sick Soul-seared Looked down to Down-Iookin' Forsooken That's me! 3Q But the wind's blowin' fresh Times changed Sun's started shinin' And now ... NEW days NEW ways NEW ME! Blues turned to GLORY hymns Body and souls stretchin' To the Sun For I am Sun-kissed Sun-loved Creature, child of the Son Provin '> groovin >, movin' That's me! Groovin' to the sun Son Good sun, bright sun God-Son Who 'sgivin ' STRENGTH, DETERMINATION, EXAMINATION POWER Changin' power Movin' power People power Heart to comfort The Brothers who yet weep Gives me a goal Deep, deep in my soul Solid support to the Brother and Sisters . To bring And ever, always In my heart a God-song To sing ..... . AMEN! ALLELUIA! Right? On, on Right? ttttttll. h ton ....... R Ig s"\s"TER FRftNCE)C~ THON\PSON I want to feel the arm Of winter take me by The throat and almost strangle Me with cold winds and Mounding snow drifts. Alas! My would-be attacker Has only strength to prickle My ire with misty drizzles And cold-catching chills. ELLEN DUG~N 35 Surrounded by you -trees of life take root in my mind. Harbored from dangers by a barrier of carefully interwoven dearests and darlings, Watered with.a mixture of salt and you, They bloom myriad experiences and an occasional leaf How fortunate they are (am I) DONNf\ 36 DflT~KO BALLAD OF THE BETR~YED SOLDIER Scene I (At home) He went away scared, he did, he did, 'Twas just in the prime of life; But his country called him, it did, it did, He must leave his newly wed wife. "Never I'll go," he said, he said, "Never I'll leave my wife." "Y ou must do your duty," she said, she said, "And help to resolve this strife." "Is that your desire?" he said, he said, "To keep this country free." "Defend it proudly," she said, she said, "Forever I'll wait for thee." "If that's your wish," he said, he said, "I'll go as you desire." "Remember me always, " she said, she said, "At times when things look dire ." "I'll write you often," he said, he said, "And you write often to me." 'Til love you always," she said, she said, "And together in spirit we?ll be. " "A love is strong," he said, he said, "Oh wife don't you agree?" "A love is strong," she said, she said, "More right you could not be." "I shan't tarry long," he said, he said, " 'Tis a gun that I'll now pack." "I'll always be faithful," she said, she said, As her tears she did hold back. So off he went, he did, he did, To fight his country's war; "Of him I'm proud," she said, she said, "And shall be ever more. " 38 Scene II (At war) "I thank you major," he said, he said, "For honors bestowed on me." "Y ou 've earned them son," he said, he said, "Helping others to be free," "Twas me beloved's wish," he said he said, "That I should go to war." "A fine wife you have," he said, he said, "And faithful ever more." "J ust one thing more," he said, he said, "I want' to ask of thee." "At your service," he said, he said, "Y ou 've been a good soldier for me. " "I've waited so long," he said, he said, "And fought so very hard ... " "Go home and see her," he said, he said, "She waits for her desired." "Thank you, oh thank you," he said, he said, "And when shall I return?" "There's no hurry, son," he said, he said, "It's for your wife you yearn." Scene III (Back home) "I'm home, I'm home," he cried, he cried, "I've come to see my spouse," But his voice went unanswered, it did, it did, As it echoed through the house. The note on the table, he read, he read, It said that they were done; "I'm sorry my dearest," it said, it said, "But I'm going to have his son." The soldier went out, he did, he did, And was never seen on this sod; He went back to the army, they said, they said, That is -- the army of God. ~E:N HORN~f\CH 39 HUN\~N ITY IT) U)T DIED. And there on the subway around the town twice we met a young lady who told us, quite nice, that she had been orphaned by such an affair. we thought that by now we'd the feel of the air but J-2 stepped out and fainted right there. we'd no time to stop; the situation could worsen, so K-I and I set to our dispersing. we went to the mayor to tell him our task unlike a captain ---he wasn't the last, to desert his ships when the party was past. it was then that I noticed the lack of the patter . of K-I's slow footsteps, following after and the lack of the patter of anyone's feet. I died in the street among all the hate ---could they have been saved? did we come too late? l~fJTHLEEN GIE)TING 40 -....... " --~---~'-,./ '\) J '! I'~ ~\i~~ ,.,~ A \ THE LONG WAIT One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand th-r-e-e, - - - no, no!, NO! I refuse to count another one of those fifty million microsized dots drilled in the ceiling. But face it, angel, what else can an outcastlike you amuse yourself with? Outcast? Yeah, angel, youfit the unabridged Webster's Dictionary definition of "an individual ostracized from society in one form or another." Oh yes, mother, how do you love your dictionaries and encyclopedias and medical books. Medical books, that's where psychiatric freaks like you, mother, obtain the technicalities needed to lock up innocent, unsuspecting people like me. Listen, world! You've taken my name down from the lights and the only visible shape left for it is in the form of a cold, gray, slate epitaph. I'm going to die, I'm going to .... I remember what a beautiful day it was as I stared out the car window with my nose pressed against it. Soaking in the sunlight through the glass seemed to soothe my body and clear all unwanted thoughts from my mind. Girls on bicycles were ahead of us on the road, and as we swerved to avoid them I felt a sickening sensation with in my stomach. It was from the realization that I would never be on a bike again, laughing carelessly from the pleasure of the breeze on my face, while riding into the wind. I jumped from my reverie when mother touched my hand. "Angel, don't look so down in the dumps. I'm sure you'll only be visiting this place for a short time." I like the way she suggested "visit ing" as if it were true. "After all, my colleagues recommended this rest horr:~ as the finest in the country, and baby, I always get the best for you. "Mother, my name is Susan, and I'm quite sure I will not enjoy this 'visit', and I could give a damn about what the kooks you call colleagues think." , "Well, angel, I'll let those remarks go by this time since I know you aren'tfeeling well and seem to be a little frustrated." My God, why can't she accept the fact that I'm dying and that's as good a reason as any for being "frustrated"? "Angel, I'm leaving a large amount of money at the home for anything that you might need or want." If she only knew that what I needed was to be at home with her at this time, even if it would complicate things for her. It won't be long before I won't know her as my mother. But, tomorrow she will be wife of the famous Dr. John Emory. Mrs. John 4Q Emory. I wonder what father would think if he were still alive. If only John hadn't come into the picture and advised her as to what would be "best" for me. I would think that she as a psychiatrist would not have listened to his line: "She needs to be at a place where she can be cared for atthis time." But, I don't thinl she wanted to listen to her own medral sense, or even common sense, since that would keep her from marrying him and livin!! with him in France at his new position. "Angel, are you listening to me?" "Uh, yes mother, t4e money will be fine ,although I can't think of what I'll possibly need." Maybe a frothy negligee to turn the doctors on or an ermine robe so I won't catch cold from the air-conditioning! Come on, Susan, cut the crap. This can't be too wasy for her either. "Mother, how long wIll it be before I freak out?" "Angel, I refuse to hear talk such as that. Have you no mercy?" "All right, mother, I'll put in the little niceties if they help it not sound too much like the truth. How long will it be before the tumor pushed into the brain to start me hallucinating.? " "The doctor said that ill a few months you might feel that a few things are "not right." NOT RIGHT! What a classic remark from one of the most acclai~ed psychiatrists of the medical associations. "Mother, I'm surprised at you. What happened to all your medical terminology that would apply so weUnow. Or better yet, we should have John here now, Shouldn't we?" "Susan, stop this. You know all the details of your illness. Why must you constantly harp at me?1 feel this almost as much, or as much as you do." The limousine came to a halt in front of the Oceanside rest home. As I stepped out, Randolf, our chauffeur, turned his head to hide his tears from me. "Goodbye, Randolf." "Goodbye, Miss Susan." I Stood on my toes and kissed his withered cheek lightly. I whispered "You will write to me, won't you, Randolf? It would mean so much to me." He looked at me blindly through his tears and made a slight nod. Mother grabbed my arm and guided me towards the home, with Randolf behind, carrying my luggage. Dr. O'Connor was there to meet me, standing like a stuffed parrot because his tie was too tight around his fat throat. 43 "Susan, how glad we are to see you again." Why the hell does he always say "we" this and "we" that? "You look a little thinner child, we will have to fatten you up some with our delicious food here. Won't we Mrs. Lawson? " Mother made no remark. I think she sensed, as I did, that it sounded like they were fattening up the turkey for the kill. We walked down the flagstone corridor and approached my room. I was wary of entering the room, since I knew it would not be often that I would be leaving. We entered -------, but it was shrouded in darkness, so I moved ahead to open the curtains. I heard mother gasp when she saw that when I had pulled the curtains aside, bars were exposed in the windows. Dr. O'Connor had gone and she and I were left facing each other with tears streaming down our faces. "Mother, you can't leave me here like a caged animal! I want to be with you!" I had grabbed her arm and she was trying to tear herself away from my vise-like grip. She looked terrified as she saw the panic in my eyes and headed toward the door. Nurses and men in white entered the room and put me in bed, strapped in every direction. A needle entered my vein and I remember mother standing over me, and her wet, salty tears falling onto my face. "I love you, Susan." Now, staring at the ceiling in my room, I began the long wait, wondering it she'll return for me. One thousand four, one thousand five, one thousand six, .... CflROL JONE) 44 )TUDENT TE~CHER') LftMENT How ~at\ o~e. eos d k -h-OW\ t"e. otda1 z,b~ 'I SHER RV N\EYER 46 Time grow up Time waves goodby Time kisses me Then goes awry. Once my friend then my foe In youth undaunted In old age not so. Hail Time thou fickle testament To life you are mere puzzlement. ELLEN DUG,tIN 47 WIN TRY NIGH T Scattered shiny specks against the dark sky Flicker through the naked trees As a yellow orb casts its quiet shadows along the forest floor. The snow-laden carpet is punctured with prints As the brown rabbit eagerly seeks a sheltered bed in the stillness of night. M~RY 48 WERLE Electronic communion of minds (so static-Iy intimate -precious thoughts sought by anXiOUS ears futile touches smiles wasted only occasionally interrupted by belligerentclock-watching operators. DONN~ Dt1T~KO 50 I see myself -- yet blind here -- but yet nowhere Hearing -- yet deaf Breathing -- my heart beating yet dead -- my blood blue in my veins -My own -- all of this beacuse -- I do not see I do not hear -I am not -You are not -You are as if a dead nothing a non-existence -Not seeing Not deaf in life But deaf in that death of nonexistence Not breathing You are -- -- -- --not Oh -- what death -------------- L.F.P. 51 WELCOME TO RICHMOND "Say, whose car are you driving?" My friend Marge was climhing into the front seat and was referring to the '67 Plymouth I was driving. "The Cricket wasn't chirping too well, and I had to take it in. I got lucky and was furnished with this little number." "How lucky can you get? " She was right. This particular model left a lot to he desired. A car sporting standard steering and missing a side view mirror wasn't exactly my idea of a luz:ury replacement. As we swung away from her split level home, I noticed Marge's brown eyes were sparkling as usual. Her youthful appearance did something to make me feel younger. Pixie-like features and a casual hairstyle worked miracles for a woman of thirty-two. "The heat feels great. It's really chilly outside." "You're telling me. Until a few minutes ago, this car felt like an introduction to life in the tundra!" "I don't know. Want to check it out?" I really didn't care. We were leaving Kettering and approaching the exit of 1-41 North. "At 10:15 in Kettering," the voice of the announcer intruded, "the temperature is eighteen degrees under sunny skies." Marge turned it off. "Well, yourluck isn't so bad after all. At least the radio and the heater work." Traffic was' moderate and I was grateful. Accelerating to seventy and stabilizing it there was my idea of the real way to travel. Being a speeder at heart, I found the uncrowded interstates an answer to prayer. The sky became tempermental, and its changing moods vied for my attention, The sun began playing a fast game of hide-and-seek, producin!!: dazzling contrasts of brightness against the scattered clouds. Radiance highlighting any cloud formation seemed to produce a stunning effect on me. I could easily become lost in all that breath-taking beauty. Unfortunately, that was the only drawback about driving -- you just couldn't absorb all the shades of light and shadow in the changing panorama. "Are you excited about this Awards Program?" Marge asked. "Not really. As a matter of fact, programs like thill actually embarrass me. It'!,! not that I mind it when they honor QJher people, but when I'm the center of attention, it really bothers me. I can see the reason for their choice, since I've put in a number of hours in volunteer work. But as long as I have the time, why shoUldn't I? It's just public recognition like this that really makes me uncomfortable. I guess I just feel phony receiving an award for something I enjoy doing." "Well, why didn't you tell them you couldn't make it?" she asked. "Marge, the Area Chapter went to alot of trouble to pick a day that 5Q would be convenient for me. I really should have leveled with them -- no day is suitable as far as I'm concerned," I confessed. "Do you have any idea what kind of an award it will be? Marge was certainly interested in the program. But then, she was that kind of a person -- as enthusiastic about her friends' successes as she was about her own. "Probably a plaque of some type," I conjectured. "I really wish I had said no. I'm growing more uncomfortable just thinking about it." "That's silly," she said kindly. "More people should do volunteer work in nursing homes. If I weren't so tied down, I'd love to do more. The time you have for it really makes me envious." "Marge, I'm not objecting to the necessity of the work. I agree completely. We need lots more volunteers. It's just the personal embarrassment I feel when I have to appear publicly." "Sheila, knowing you, no one will ever guess it. You never give your friends that impression. And it will be the same way today -- you wait and see." She did have a point. Somehow or other, I managed to look delighted when I felt miserable. I could even say convincing things at times like that in spite of my inner misgivings. What a fraud! "You'll be charmine;!" "Sure," I said. I felt anything but charming. My arms tired somewhat since I had never driven a car without power steering. Keeping the car positioned exactly where I wanted it, required greater determination and some muscular strain. Just spoiled, I thought. The brilliant sunburst illuminating the clouds had completely disap. peared, and it seemed I had imagined the sunshine when we left. An unbroken expanse of slate gray became the backdrop of the dual lanes ahead. Now darker, the distant trees looked stolid, frigid, forbidding . ."What happened to all that sunshine?" Marge mused. "I'm afraid we might be in for some snow!" "You're kidding!" Marge's warm eyes widened in disbelief. "That's what that steel-gray sky looks like to me." Marge chuckled. "That' kind of proof I can do without." Snowflakes began blowing like showers of confetti from every direction possible. Just like a whirling dervish, I mused. What ever a whirling dervish was. The flakes were now peppering the windshield, by upon impact they changed to droplets. I switched on the wipers. They made a feeble attempt to move, producing a groaning noise, and then gave up trying. They couldn't be frozen. We'd gone twenty-five miles and the car was well heated. Well, t ry again. Same result. 53 "Wipers that don't wipe!" moaned my companion. "Seems to be par for the course, doesn't it?" I tried to sound indifferent. The whilrwinds of flakes had stabilized and sno~ was falling all around us like sifted flour. It was much thicker now and didn't condense so quickly as it hit the front window. Well, there was nothing to do but slow down and stay in the right lane. "Richmond -- twenty miles," Marge read. "Am I ever glad you're driving! Snow-covered roads frighten me." "Do they? I don't mind a challenge with a fighting chance, but with zero visibility it reminds me more of sudden death. We'll have to pull over. I can't see a thing." Pulling onto the shoulder took only a few moments. The snow spattered windshield responded quickly to the plastic scraper. Easing back onto the expressway, we were on our way. Imperceptibly a deeper gray had penetrated the sky and frowned in discontent. Appropriately the landscape blanched. Evidently it had been snowing here for at least an hour. The broken white lines dividing the lanes were non-existent. The shoulder was transformed onto an extended right lane. Suddenly an oil tanker roared along within inches of our car. Wasn't I in my lane? Exhaust spray reduced the visibility I had just achieved. Well, chalk one up for you, Mister. "Say wasn't he pretty close?" Marge asked. "Too c10~ for comfort! A sideview mirror would be a big help. And look at the back window, Marge. Any suggestions?" "None that you haven't already tried." "I should have checked with the Triple A before we left. Any other time I listen to the weather reports almost compulsively. Last night though, I was so intent on the preparations for today, that it just slipped my mind." Some preparations -- a tangerine, A-line double knit dress seemed perfect yesterday, and yet so meaningless t~~ay. All the ~~e spent at the hairdresser to trim and style my dark haIr III a new excIting short shag had been a sheer waste of both time and money. Any effect the hairdresser had schieved had to be limp after being exposed to this much snow. Just a five minute check with the weather... Honking alerted me that another truck was passing. Keep to the right. The wheels began to rumble as the car suddenly jogged. I must be on the shoulder. It's so hard to see ---- Whoosh --- another exhaust job! "I'm pulling over, Marge. This is wild." I could only guess if we were off the road completely and on the shoulder. Cautiously, I opened the door and saw that it was safe to get out. The wind was sharper now, and I had trouble catching my breath. Longer and tougher periods of scraping 54 were necessary to dislodge the accumulation. When the rear window was finished, I crawled back into the car. Just ahead a road sign informed me that Richmond was fourteen miles away. "Do you know it's 11:15, Sheila?l can't believe it." "I can!" It seemed like hours since we left Kettering. I was sick of the whole thing. Going to a program I thoroughly disliked. Driving a car that strained my nerves and muscles even under normal conditions. And now, this -- a virtual blizzard and thirty-one miles away from home. I had to be out of my mind. Inching onto the highway was harder than before. Within minutes two cars in front began a crazy zig-zag dance-ice! Glimpsing my whitened knuckles first made me aware of the vicelike grip I held on the steering wheel. Clenched jaws were driving my teeth deeper into their sockets. My heart began a sudden wild tatoo summoning help from every direction possible. Tension-cha~ed nerves like high voltage wires kept flashing one deadly message -- Danger! Danger! As I attempted to pull slightly to the right, the Plymouth did not respond. Instead, like a headstrong charger, it swerved sharply to the left-directly into the path of an oncoming truck! I braced myself for a sickening thud! Silence! Nothing happened. I breathed again, marveling at the control of that trucker. At the rate I was going, the only reward I'd be getting was R.I.P. Marge puzzled me. For a woman who admitted she became frightened under these circumstances, she had remarkable control Either she was impresSed by my determination, or she had a lot tnore control than I had guessed. Undoubtedly it was the lalter '. Once I did see her braking as we skidded towards a semi that had jacknifed on the shoulder. But who could blame her? Instinctively I would have done the same thing, with less verbal control, probably. "Only four more miles," she observed. "ONLY four more miles," I groaned. "Do you mind if I turn on the radio? " she asked. My mind was screaming, Marge, please no. My nerves are ready to explode! Can't you tell? "If you want to," I managed. She might as well. By the time we reached Richmond, I'd be ready for a straightjacket! "A snow emergency has been declared in the Richmond area," our commentator informed us. "So what else is new? " I muttered. Ironically the announcer answered, Segments of 1-41 North and South have been closed by the highway patrol. Four fatalities have resulted from accidents within a twenty-mile area. One motorist was killed as he attempted to step from his car, which he had pulled off the highway. 55 Eighteen accidents have been reported in the same area within the last hour .. " Number nineteen Was on its way. Just ahead a car trailer in low gear was attempting to climb a moderately steep grade. With the icy pavement, uncertain traction, and the truck's weight, we would be sitting ducks in the event that. . . . We virtually stood still stiffening in breathless comprehension.... Mercifully, the miracle happened. I was on the verge of tears. The news reporter's voice broke in upon my concentration... " ...four inches of snow have fallen within the last three hours. Three additional inches are expected. Motorists are advised of extremely hazardous driving conditions. Traffic from 1-41 North and South is being redirected to state highway 89 which has been cleared. The current temperature in Richmond is now twelve degrees." To our right a large billboard in deceptively warm colors splashed "Welcome to Richmond!" Marge sang out, "We made it, Sheila, - we made it!" The announcer cut her off. Numerous cancellations were cited: the Richmond high-school basketball game, class at the University, both day and evening, all schools were closed, the Optimists' Dub luncheon was cancelled, the Area Chapter of Volunteer Workers' luncheon... "Sheila!" Marge gasped. "You know, Marge, how much I really didn't want to attend it. Besides, I've already got the award I wanted." "You do? What's that? " "We're alive!" I squealed. "Sheila, you know something? We should celebrate! Look, just a block ahead is a Howard Johnson'~" she observed. "Do you think I can hold out for another block? " She winked at me. "With your luck, who knows? " ~I)TER 56 JEf\NNE D~I LEY BL~C~ ~ND WH ITE A Birth - - - - - black and white. Now begins a life to be colored by maturity, - - - a first recital - - - a high school graduation - - - a medal for bravery - - - an engagement or marriage Great Accomplishments All reflected in that grayish print black on white. Leading us to our finale A Death - - - - - black and white. EMIL V RRICI(NER 57  ...

... 11,1 - 1172 .aaaa . FtOli,. .,,. "l" .,,. Who, me, they I can not say, I know not what may do, Yesterday, tomorrow, nor today. This The You Why, is the beginning of the End. End that has come and and then then, wonder, what, when. The End will come without pain, Except the pain of nothing did you gain. Oh life of disorder , orgies , and shame. Damn, Damn, Damn, the pain. _k .,. .,,. .,. .,,. .,. .,'" .,.. >i Dreams , mounting with anticipation , rise like runaway balloons on a mad escape to the sky. Up, up and away they soar , till unrelenting winds of reality break them all one by one. me -. Setting: Prof. N. : Red: Prof. N.: Molly : Prof. N.: Jim: Prof. N. : Jim: Prof. N.: Jim: Prof. N.: Isabelle : Prof. N.: Isabelle: Prof. N.: Jim: Prof. N.: Jim: Prof. N.: Betty : * A classroom at Marian College in 1980. Students are arranging scattered chairs into rows. They sit down. Some talk quietly; some stare into space; others begin reading large books. It is the first day of the Fall Semester. The theology teacher, Professor Arthur Nouveau, enters. He is wearing a purple jumpsuit, large blue glasses and has a canvas bag suspended from his shoulder. His hair all but covers his face and his feet are bare. (Carelessly dropping the shoulder bag onto the desk.) I'm professor Nouveau, Ph.D. , University of Chicago, 1976. Do you hear that? Well, forget it. This academic mickey-mouse doesn't make the scene. Like, God is NOW! Dig? We're going to grab old theology by its big toe and make it yell Janis Joplin! (Waits for a response. None comes.) Any questions? (After a pause) What about tests? Tests? Forget it! Tests isn't where it's at, man. (Another pause) Any of you chicks got a question? (Molly raises her hand.) Lay it on me, baby. Do we have to do a paper? You're putting me on! (Chewing his pencil) If we don't have tests or papers, how do we get a grade? It's how you feel, man, how you feel! (Spitting out shreds of pencil) How I feel? You're on to it, Clyde. My name is Jim. Right on! (Looks around. Points to Isabelle, who is timidly raising her hand.) (Sweetly) Do we have an assignment for the next time , Professor Nouveau? Call me Art. Do we have an assignment for next time ... Art? Yeah. (Students look up.) Your assignment is to BE! (puzzled) To ... BE? Right on , baby. My name is Jim. Right on! (Hesitantly) What should we be? 10 Prof. N. : Isabelle : Prof. N.: Red: Prof. N.: Rick: Prof. N.: Rick: Prof. N. : Jane: Prof. N.: Ron: Prof. N.: Prof. N.: Ron: Prof. N.: Ron: Prof. N.: Ron: Prof. N.: Ron : Prof. N.: (Raising his hands over his head and slowly turning around) Be the world, the grass, the sun. Get into all kinds of being. Be tomorrow and yesterday. Be space and time, everywhere and nowhere. (Gasping) That sounds like a whole semester's work, Professor ... uh . . . Art. It's where its at. How do we get a grade for being, Art? (Jumping on to the desk) Cool it, man. I love everybody! (Extends his arms in a universal embrace.) Do you take roll? Roll is evil. Freedom is good. (Wide-eyed) You mean we don't have to come to class? Do your thing, brother. If we don't have any tests or papers, or grades, and if we don't have to come to class, what are we supposed to do? (Leaping off the desk and snapping his fingers) Like I say, BE! (A murmur from the class) (Breaking in) You mentioned grabbing theology by its big toe ... You're grooving with me (Pointing at Ron) You're grooving with me. Well , I was wondering what that meant. It means getting the old guy to yell Janis Joplin. (Pressing the point) I know. But what I mean is, are we going to have class this semester or just. .. just BE? (Walks to the window and looks out for a long time) There's a leaf falling from that tree. Know what I mean? I don't think so. Janis is in that Ie af. (Hesitantly) In., .. that leaf? (Softly) Yeah .. (Prof. N. walks back to the desk. After a thoughtful pause , he begins to sing raucuously to a heavy rock beat. As he sings, he sways his hips and flails his arms.) Kume aww-wn bay-uh-buh, tek muh hay-ay-un Gone t' duh daay-zhut , waaw-kin inuh sa-ay-un. Frow-ow-gz an pi-junz in uh ray-ay-un Gooone t' mek ow-uh worl hoI uh-gin. * *Translation: Come on, Baby, take my hand Going to the desert, walking in the sand. Frogs and pigeons in the rain Going to make our world whole again. 11 Carol: Prof. N.; Chuck : Prof N. : Chuck: Prof. N.: Chuck: Molly : Prof. N.: Molly: Prof. N.: Molly: Bill: Ed: .Shirley: Prof. N.: Red: Isabelle: Molly: All: Excuse me , Art. But who is Janis Joplin? (Reverently) A saint. (Another murmur from the class) (Frowning) I'm not sure I understand the assignment yet. Could I come to your office and talk abou t it? See, I need to get at least a B if. .. Wanna rap? Heavy! You can join our T Group. I don't know about that. But I would like to find out what you want us to do. Where is your office , Art? My office? It' s in the sky . (Lowering his eyes) I sec. (Students look at each other. Some open their books. Art hums softly to himself with his eyes closed and his body weaving this way and that.) (Firmly) I'm still wondering abou t a paper. Far out. You see, there's this idea I've been wanting to work on. It's about St. Augustine's notion on predestination and: .. Oh, wow. . . . and its influence on Calvin's theology. (Art closes his eyes and begins to hum and sway again.) I'd like to do some reading on Bonhoeffer's ide a of religion. (Art hums more loudly.) Yeah. Can't we go to the library or something? We' ought to have some tests . I'd like to know where I stand . We can' t just BE all the time. (Sounds of agreement from the class. Art stops humming. Keeps eyes closed.) We got bad vibes in here. Professor Nouveau, we demand that you teach this class. And have tests. And assign papers. And give grades!!! (The buzzer sounds. Prof. N. picks up his canvas bag, removes a transistor radio, puts the radio to his ear and shuffles out of the room.) 12 EPILOGUE Setting: The faculty lounge. Assorted teachers are scattered around on pillows and rugs. They are passing a cigarette from person to person. A sweet smell pervades the room. Prof. N. enters. Prof. Hacker: (listlessly) Peace. Hi, Art. How'd it go, man? Sister Kim: (falling into a chair and reaching for the cigarette) Prof. N.: Spaced out. I just don't know where kids are at these days. It's enough to make me want to go back to the commune. (singing softly) All: Kume awww-wn bay-uh-buh, tek muh hay-ay-un Gone l' duh daay-zhut. ..... . CURTAIN ****** 13 In the quiet dark I wait , anticipating nothing. Our love has not ended it is complete. And winter is not the final season: it is the culmination of a year. We have bull t on dreams and illusions, only to reveal the fantasies in the glaring reality of darkness. Still, the sun will rise tomorroW. * 1~  ~ - ~ ~ In the summer we live lazily In dwellings of canvas and driftwood~ By the sea. Autumn crept into the air And we left those sunny sands. Migration island To watch the brooding forest Turn red and gold around us; To -follow trails of spectral smoke That rise from mounds of burning leaves In the autumn gloom of twilight . Wearing coats of deerskin And painte d masks of magic, We speak of dreams of other worlds All long since forgotten. 16 ~ Sometimes as the four postered walls Close in on me, I feel like a gift-wrapped knick-knack. When someone comes to open me, He'll hold me to the light, Squintingly saying, "What is it? " But he'll keep me just the same, Placing me on some end-table As a semi-cherished possession. Dust will settle , Child-handlings will leave their mar. Oily paintings on the wall Will be receiving admiring glances As the maid places me in the drawer. Never again to be opened , Never once to be understood . 1) My first sight of spring is bu t the sparkle of your eyes that puts the morning dew to envy such clear and shining light. My first love of spring is the soul of one who breaks the old and wizened winter's heart and fIlls the world with HOPE. A In early youth for manly sport danger I would gladly court To prove myself a Robin Hood to little friends who roamed the wood In tattered shirts soiled with dirt and daytime's meals and snacks. So towering oaks I climbed with ease as they gazed upward through the leaves In awesome silence--following my footsteps--and fearing my fall. With thoughtless ascent of fragile limbs I placed my hand where even squirrels could not stand. And when a weak bough broke I knew what lay below It's a fine art to know where to grab on ... when to let go ... a fine art. Oh, I rescued kites , wooden gliders, and autumn's barren nests (Spring's treasure chests) where little fledglings took their rests As Mother Robins sang lullabies while Father Robins roamed the skies In search for worms and bread or mud and thread ... Bony trees have taken leave of Spring's gift and Autumn's grace Save lonely leaves ... tenacious leaves ... who insensitive to season's change Hang suspended against nature defiantly deaf to winter's wind. Words to shake away illusions of the mind form speech that's painfully kind . Understood, alone, with the passage of time. In this late quiet season perhaps silence holds more reason Than forced words upon a page, imprecise images that mold and fade. Dulcinea's dead and gone , Beatrice lies below the ground crowned with thorns of a rose transfigured leaves and shifting snow. Irreverently perched on a granite cross a windblown sparrow surveys the loss Of carefully engraved memories carved by loved ones slowly removed by time and forgotten Though time-worn memories seem so strange perhaps a dream remains . unchanged That the moment does not precede the possibility for a hope-filled unity--a bond of beauty And vision for a foothold against the wind for a brave new boy eager at dawn To reach for sunlit nests far above the ground Love, failing, falls softly like a snowflake. Gen tly, lightly it drifts through the air ----till its cold kiss brushes past my face; chills my spine ; melts away ... and all that's left is its memory. 2f J a silent sheet of wetness confronts me dissolving before my eyes into thousands of chains of raindrops. the rich brown of the earth pulls at my footsteps slowing my hurried passage. the newly green bushes scold my hastiness leaves slapping against me as i pass. but the warmth of a fire and the love i see in softly lighted windows hurries me on my way. - 23 Remember the day we drove together from corn fields, through little towns , over steel factories, along the Chicago Skyline, I was quiet as we headed for the Loop; and I tried to take in all the concrete structures, the pollution, the people , and the droning noise of the ells overhead. Noon hour in the Big City! Before the idea had registered, we were rushing hand in hand along with the crowd. In and out , around revolving doors, up, down, escalators and stairs, through all kinds of stores. And then the afternoon became thick and hot; but we were cool inside the elevator riding up to the observatory. Looking ou t over the Lake and down on the endless, uniform square blocks everything seemed peaceful and ordered. Soon we were back to the crowds and the cars, sunset passing us by without notic.e. Colored lights flickered in my eyes while you led me through candle shops, candy shops, and busy cafes of Old Town. Down Piper's Alley to see glass ships and unicorns and the little glass dog you gave me for a souvenir. We glanced at costumes and paintings behind closed windows. A sidewalk artist sketched a smiling little girl as the first rain dropped on our heads. We made our way to the car in squeaky, soaked sandals. Tired, I leaned against your shoulder. Leaving I saw red and white lights and dark buildings blurred and fading through the sheet of rain on the windshield. My eyelids fell; I thought, 'Where are we today?' Together. 26 the charcoal grey of the night sky covers the grass like the dome of an ancient mausoleum. and the bodies lie on the ground as if they had already felt the cold marble. the sparkling elixir quickly fills the rotting bodies that rely on it for their semblance of life. but my pity reaches out to those lying beneath the sky they have constructed a tomb for themselves spurning the simpler joys of all encompassing life. 27 r There is a Stranger in the house Who lurks now in an aging year. It's heard down in the deepest corridor. Gulfs yawn wide for It to enter. To let It stalk our darker halls. It chills our thoughts with night. Yet daylight brings us pleasure , We think of warmth and younger days, Of gala eras and bright prism smiles. We hear the song of laughing women, Girls of lilac and gold hair As fresh as meadow at summer's dawn. Noon then slips between our fingers. We store mementoes of the day, Of loves we kept that withered and turned grey. Lying in the attic Is a plum, gold and crimson , Whose moisture harbors life. Its cast is cold, unfeeling Catching rays of dying light Autumnal and dust-heavy. Then night entombs the house again: The Stranger stalks our corridors And the jack 0' lantern flickers in the night. 21 Coming home in the darkness Of the mid-night Gnaws a solitary Uplifting of my soul. With all other acquaintances Long retired--my world Truly becomes my own. Once the trivial workings Of the day that make up Its 24-hour schedule Are asleep--the essence Of life may be discussed. I become my 'day' Free from the bondage Of other men's Dreams and mandates. But still the peace of sleep Does not come to me. One wish tears at my Lonesome heart and pounds My expressive senses. That the one upon whom I Would bare my soul should Be at my side--sharing a Quiet road of thoughts and revelations Soon to fade into the brightness . of the rising sun. 30 confusion mounts blurring the once sharp edges of what seemed reality dreams --- larger than life defined now in sharp angles stripped of all their cushions, naked before me they taunt me hound me demand that I see them as they are and choose CHOOSE those that are sensible, reality gone -------my mind is forced to cry out for its return visions crowd my mind insisting that I believe in THEM pushing laughing at my fears. wakening, I find I was not sleeping and there is no way back. 31 ............. . ... .. ~ .................... ...... .. ~ ...:.:.:. ..:.:. .:. ...:.:.:. .:. .:. I hold you in my fingertips mine to yours like whorled roses and deeper ache than all flowers . ..:..:.:. ..:.:. .:. ...:.:.:. feel you in the stems of me and know my faults like thorns . ..:.:. .:. ...:.:.:. ...:.:.:. ...:.:.:. ...:.:.:. ...:.:.:. You a leaf with one drop of dew, bright on green, clear as new-swept skies. ..:..:.:. .:. ..:..:.:. ..:.:. .:. ..:.:. You a rose in its bed, petals folded, You wait for the magic gardener. I perish, impaled on faults like thorns. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. .:. Autumn: so fragile, lasting only a second, as this golden time between us tarnishes and we watch the setting sun, unable to stop it. The gusty wind beckons us to dance in abandon, bu t our steps are dissonant. Seeing the glistening present, denying the imminent cold, we laugh at our fleeting doubts. The MAGNOLIA blossoms Cup their petals in a Sweet embrace of this Fleeting sojourn of sun and warmth. Tile naivete of Spring's youth Flits from serenity to squall. A short outburst of April's tears Pushes away the tender arms Of Pink-dimpled white. Only in the dewy-fingered Morning lies the despairing Limbs---Felled by scorn And ne'er redeemed by Later bawls of regret. On any natural day Paper people press Together, but bind Against being bound So their printed voices Won't be smeared. On any natural day Paper people parade Their bare surface To no one, but . Crease it to the inside And clutter their covers With slick covers On any natural day Paper people pollute The shelves of the hard-backed few With yellowed wordy dust , Not knowing that on Any natural day Paperback people will be the first To naturally crumble away. 36 I feel Death coming, Like a shadow in a molded shroud. I feel the iced footprints, Tracking across my brain. Death engulfing me, sapping all As it reduced my thought to self. Broken is spirit, hope, S'weet is sleep, peace. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /& >II< >II< >II< >II< >II< A bangle of jittering tincans Awakened me from a dreamy sleep. Outside a black tomcat Meows. Perched on a fence He bounds like a grey shooting star To the ground below. Then audaciously saunters on to His next disturbance. >I ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ At times I wonder Why I even try to try -Like when a friend reads my poems And only searches in vain for a rhyme. And when I feel a special feeling for one To find only he feels no need to feel. And like the time I was alone, There was no one to tell that I wanted it that way. There are more times now When I wonder even why I try to try. Many times - alone. Many times - feeling alone. There's no rhyme to me, My sounds never echo back, Never answer to the beat of my mind. I can't scratch a word of my verse, Some feeling syllables must try to match my own. 40 Like flying kites we soar to heights of aspirations. Dreaming, seeing our world spent in gusty sunshine days, dazzling in wishes-corne-true . We climb, eternity just past our fingertips. We will tumble down soon --but not yet. 41 Through the prisms of my mind _ corridors of silent thought weave into half-spent illusion. Fragmenting wishes hanging in suspended time confound my utter helplessness. Strangely suspended, I stumble grasping for ideas vaguely distant wondering where my confusion will lead. Rudely, I realize that life is a cruel trick that promises only nothingness. 42 * * The lonely sound of leaves crackling beneath my feet remind me that you are not there waiting for me. * Love stalks me at every corner Keeping me from final peace. I run hopelessly hopelessly Madly casting it aside ... But it never relents Constantly, constantly Snatching away my freedom, Until nothing remains but sadness. 44 or another's sOY\j ~. Langston Hughes  THE END  ...

... FIORE'L'LI  VOLUME ThiRTY NUMBER TWO 1971-1972 MARiAN coLLEGE li TERARY ANThoLoGY CONTENTS PROSE ANb POETRY 6 I Needed Those Words ... / ecp 7 Moving On ( Carol Roesler 8 Along We Go ... / Mary Elmlinger 10 Moments Are ... / Phil McLane 11 Once I Walked ... / Ellen Dugan 12 A Tender Touch ... / Donna Jean Meyers 13 Reflections / Kathleen Giesting 15 Flowering ... / Donna Datsko 16 My Hope / Carol Wallace 17 Then the Rain / Janice Hynes 18 If Dreams Could Speak ... / Ellen Dugan 19 Impressions on a Foggy Morning / Kathleen Giesting 21 We Spoke ... / Mary Elmlinger 22 I Spent My Day ... / ecp 23 The Traveler / Carol Wallace 26 A Basket of Flowers / Janice Hynes 32 The First Rainy Spell of September / Ellen Dugan 33 Listen to Their Words ... / Kathleen Giesting 34 Veins in Petals... / Donna Datsko 36 A Handful of Haiku / Ellen Dugan 37 Alone in the Twilight ... / Donna Jean Meyers 38 Promising Poet / Phil McLane 39 I Am Not a Young Boy ... / Mary Elmlinger 41 (they died) / Kathleen Giesting 42 .,. And Man Created Light ... / ecp 43 Haiku / George Daily 44 Where Are People ... / sbs 45 Everybody Was There ... / Sherry Meyer . ART WOR1{ Cover Design / Gardenia Rush Pages 18, 31, 40, 48 / Gardenia Rush Page 9 / Mary Beth Clark Page 46 / Al Wright phOTOGRAphy Courtesy of the Yearbook Jii cO-EbiTORS ~ CAROL WEThiNGTON ShERRY MEYER Ab\7iSOR TAi yuL l{iM TypisTS CARMEN SANiz EllEN bUGAN spEciAL ThANl{S TO SiSTER ROSE MARY  i needed those words for awhile for nothing more than a rest ed mind but now even words seem corrupt you don't have to SAY i love you the mind and body can relay the message with true understanding not a voice for false reassurance once i was going to write a book called" how to blow your mind without loosing it" but for some reason i didn 't do it i don't suppose it would have sold anyway. 6 MoviNG ON ~he ~ cold night shrivels up around me and the stars twinkle glassily. Cars are moving noisily down the street and in a moment they're gone. No owls can be heard tonight and store lights are getting dimmer. The pavement is slippery beneath my rubber golashes, And the talk of the men standing in tavern doors is as slimy as the slush beneath my feet. Even the sign at the street corner knows of my lonely destination. Its only reply is STOP. 7 , Along we go gathering people for our collec:tion of unworthy soldiers; Refurbishing bu t growing older with not one general in sight So that later, perhaps, in melting desperatiqn we can go back to the rank and file. 8 mJoments are, then disappear and sometimes I feel this hourglass sand will suffocate me but the way not to suffocate is to just keep breathing and the way to survive these moments is to wait till they are gone 10 Once I walked a lonely road And headed toward the setting sun . All around the darkness warned Of evils for those who stray. At the end of my trail I saw The swirling of con vergence Of roads and darkened paths. JJ ~tendertouch a beckoning light a gift of love-- a firefly To hold for a moment in awe To open your hand and give it freedom to remember ... 12 REFLECTioNS I sit in the still warm darkness pondering the infinite mysteries of the single ray of light that penetrated my prison and passed on leaving me its warmth . I shall not weep at its passing that will not cause its return. I do not long for its return-regretting only that it left so soon . 13 flowering like spring trees in early May, thoughts of things to come bloom and leave their traces-scattered to be picked by some industrious hand 15 MY hope Spectacles rise In sphinx-silent summer forest heat Fantasy eyes See the patterns of the subtle heat. Wonder-world child Nurses on the mountain Spirit's peace. Men of the wild Know beneath the silence Stalks the beast. Ebb of the tide Conceals all the writing In the sand. People will hide Fearing anything That's left to stand. Miracles born In the forest Where no one will see. Lunacy horn Heralds in your destiny, And unlike your eyes That cannot see, Unlike your ears Dead to the plea, All your children will hear and be Free and alive. 16 TheN The RAiN ('A ~ lames encircled The young spring tree Making it glow and Sigh in burning ecstacy. Thr t~ee bent And swayed and Seemed to dance With fervent joy. But then the Rain came and left Charred dead wood dripping with dew In a way that looked like tears. 17 If dreams could speak In daylight voices Of sensibility. How more lovely than The sparkling stars Would be our continuity. 18 r @ ] n veloped in a cloud of misty peopleMisty thoughtsin confusion gathering on my doorstepDemanding my attention. Logical reasoningimpossible in this time of awakening transition, flees before me like a ghost losing itself among the shadowsBeckoning to me. I sink into a troubled dream of Alice and the rabbitEndless hallways, doors lacking keysHookahs smok ed by multitudes of caterpillars ir. a rustle of dead leaves. I reach out to touch your hand so close only a second before and find myself surrounded by towering gray walls shutting off all warmth and light. Slowly moving toward me. I call your name-my voice ringing soundless in the void of my consciousness-Echoing forever in silence. If life has deserted me I know it not this ecstasy so strangely bright-Dissolving in the fog. 19 We spoke of the year wild geese flew In hordes across the sky; Shuddering in repulsion at their madness, Eyes shattered with cold, we finally saw The beauty of our terror, the smallness of our being. 21 I spent my day running through your eyes seeing the warmth of the world around you watching you look at me and me at myself feeling the way you feel about me drowning ma salty tear that i had caused 22  The TRA\7eLER I'm locked inside a portrait of the mask of long perdition, Copied from originals that gave me such position, ' that pressured and that molded me from clay without formation, And prevented me from breathing and from knowing separation. It's a feeling that I've sensed from the time of your sweet love, To the time long passed my doorstep and the ghost that still can move Me to tears and to excitement, known to me but not of the shadow called my soul, and the emotion called my love. I walked past your road today, The street was dark and strange I don't know how I remember, But I know that it was changed . . Your mind was locked, unfriendly, But my entire body strained, For I'd traveled so long a time that way And the reason still remained. 23 ABAS1{ET of FLOWERS The trees outside Judy's window swayed in the spring-like breeze which characterized the end of one season and 'the beginning of another. Winter was still present, but spring would arrive any day. Bubbling with enthusiasm at the prospect of playing outside, as any eight year old would be on such a fine day, Judy grabbed her sweater and ran downstairs. The anticipation of spring and the coming of Easter was almost too much to bear. Running into the kitchen, she found her mother putting the finishing touches on an angel food cake. 'Hey, that's pretty!' Smiling, Mrs. Martin looked at her colorful flower decorations. 'Thanks, honey.' 'Can I have the rest of the icing?' 'Well-I-I, you'd better not. You'll spoil your appetite.' 'Can I go out and play? I already had breakfast. I won't get dirty. I promise. Please?' 'I'll tell you what. You can go to your Uncle Lou's if-now listen-you don't get in his way or bother him. If he's busy, come straight home. Okay?' 'Sure, Mom. I'll be good. Real good. I won't get in his way. He likes for me to come over. It's sure better than messing around out in the yard!' The door slammed shut after she had already reached the gravel driveway. Skipping down the dusty road toward her uncle's old, almost ancient house, she remembered what her mother had once said. 'Lou and that house belong together. He built it with his own hands quite a few years ago. He saved his money for a long time before he could pay for LOU'S FLORAL SHOP which was added right on to his house.' His growing and selling of flowers gave him enough money on which to live. Working well with his hands; especially with things having to do with the soil, he loved his business. Judy and the neighborhood children loved him. Old Lou told them stories, gave them candy, and delighted in teasing them in a fun way. The wide-eyed children were entranced by his Prince Albert Tobacco and his corn cob pipe. Constantly drawing straws to see who would be the lucky one to wear his hat. the children~loved the excitement of it. The hat, which was tan and creased in the middle, was a profound symbol of something, though it was never known exactly what. His tools were another source of interest. The hoe was their favorite instrument for working in the garden. Splinters from the old wooden handle caused a few tears of pain, but Uncle Lou (as everyone in the area called him) eased the pain of extraction with his magic potion-one cup of milk, three oatmeal cookies, and a funny story or two. 26 Lou and his friends also liked to sing. Judy became 'choir' leader because, as Uncle Lou said, 'A little nepotism isn't necessarily a bad thing.' 'Whatever that is,' Judy added. It means that only girls with curly blonde hair and blue eyes like yours can ~e choir leaders,' Lou explained. Judy was Uncle Lou's favorite relative and friend. Although she was just a child, she really noticed things around her and about people. Like just that morning, when her uncle came back from town. She sensed that something was wrong. He chewed his tobacco and tried to ignore her questions. It was no use. She kept up her barrage of questions until he finally gave her an answer. 'Nothing's the matter. 1 just heard some bad news about a friend of mine, but everything will be okay. Let's go in the kitchen now and fix a snack.' Like a ring-bearer at a wedding, Judy carried his pipe. She reverently handed it to her uncle when they reached the kitchen. Uncle Lou tossed his hat on a chair and got some hot dogs from the refrigerator. Judy ran some water in a pan and dropped the hot dogs in to boil. 'Do you want relish, ketchup, or mustard?' Judy thought for a minute. TIl take ketchup and mustard.' 'Both?' . Sure. Uncle Lou, where were you this morning? You came home right before 1 got here.' '1 told you that 1 was in town, didn't I?' 'Where in town?' Exasperated, he knew that she'd never stop asking questions. '1 just went to visit Dr. Benton. He's an old friend of mine. Me and Doc Benton went to high school together. He's an old friend of mine who asked for me to come over and see him. That's all.' 'What did Y0ll, talk about?' 'Oh, nothing much.' 'Did he give you these?' Judy reached for a small brown bottle on the cabinet, but her uncle took it and put it on a shelf. 'What's in it?' Candy.' Judy looked intently into Uncle Lou's eyes. 'Really? Can 1 have some?' 'No, honey. They're just for me. A present from that friend 1 was telling you about.' Shrugging her shoulders, Judy proceeded to fix her sandwich. A strange uneasiness swept through her. The two pals ate their snack and washed the dishes. Leaving Uncle Lou to do his work in the garden, Judy went home. She came to th.e gate at the front of her yard and climbed over it (which was, of course, much better than just opening and walking through it). She pulled 27 a couple of dandelions as she walked to the back door. Noticing that the plants were springing up all over the place, she realized the warm weather would last for a long while. Judy took the dandelions into the house and showed them to her mother. 'Please, Judy, take those weeds out of the house. I just finished straightening up the place.' 'Are they weeds?' 'Of course they are.' 'Why? They look just like Marigolds.' 'Well, they're not Marigolds. They're weeds.' Judy took the yellow-topped plants outside and laid them on the porch steps. They looked pretty to her. While pondering the paradox of how pretty flowers could be weeds, she recalled what Uncle Lou told her. 'Dandelions are tricky things. Most people think they're weeds, but they're not really. They're really flowersin disguise. Dandelions are the only kind of flower nobody wants.' Judy played out in the yard for the rest of the day, occupying herself by playing with her dolls and other toys. The bright sun which had shone so brightly a few hours before was beginning to fade. Distant clouds gathered ,and formed the front line of a battalion of rain drops that would soon follow. Outlines of trees against the darkening sky looked like charcoal etchings of a troubled artist. Gathering her toys together before the coming of the storm, Judy hurried into the house. She turned on the television and curled up in her favorite chair. Thunder could now be heard and the rain beat hard against the window. Watching her mother stare out the window, she saw flashing red lights on the highway. The lights were reflected in the beads of water on the pane of glass in front of her mother. The sound of a screaming siren was intermixed with the clap of the thunder. It was an ambulance speeding through the storm. The noise grew louder and sounded as if the vehicle had turned onto their own street. Her mother grabbed her coat and ran for the door. 'Stay here, Judy. I'll be right back.' 'But where are you going?' 'To Uncle Lou's. Don't worry. Your dad will be home soon.' 'Can I go?' I love visiting him. Please?' 'No. You can't go. Just stay here.' Puzzled, she watched her mother run across the street. What was the ambulance doing at Uncle's house? Maybe his doctor friend was just saying hello. 28 The window fogged and Judy wiped it clear with her hand. People were coming out now. Two men were carrying a stretcher covered with a blanket. What was happening? Mom was crying. Judy rested on the sofa, feeling the same uneasiness she had felt earlier that day. The funeral took place on a Wednesday morning. She didn't have to go, but Judy had wanted to see her uncle. After arriving at the funeral home, she walked on the thick carpet to the rows of chairs where her family would be seated. 'That's a pretty lamp, isn't it, Mom?' 'Sh-h-h.' 'Can't we talk here? When can we see Uncle Lou? Oh, look at all those flowers!' Judy's cousin, Danny, came to where she was sitting and whispered to her. 'There's a dead man over there!' 'Of course there is, silly. That's Uncle Lou.' After prayers were said, the mourners filed past Lou's resting place. Judy was shocked. It was -Uncle Lou. She had known it, but it had never quite soaked in that he was really dead. Judy stayed in the house for days. She wouldn't go outside. She didn't want to play. Her mother tried to comfort and reassure her daughter, but nothing could make her feel better. Mrs. Martin knew about her brother's heart condition, but she hadn't realized how serious it was. The doctor said the heart attack was brought on by over-work and his age. The pipe probably hadn't helped any, either, he'd said. At the cemetery, Judy had found three dandelions and laid them on the grave. Somehow it seemed only right. She missed Uncle Lou so much. Death was a terrible thing. Mrs. Martin tried to think of some way to help her daughter. Easter Sunday would be in a couple of days. After thinking for a long while, she remembered something that would help. Easter came and Judy was as depressed as ever, and even her Easter surprises couldn't cheer her up. She didn't want to wear any new Easter clothes or even go outside. After breakfast, her mother handed her an Easter basket. 'Another one for me?' 29 'Yes, Judy. Another one. Open it and read the note inside.' Judy took the paper from around the basket and saw that it was filled with dandelions. She took the note from inside and asked her mother what it was. 'It's a poem that your Uncle wrote when he was in school.' Judy read it carefully. She didn't understand all of the words, but she knew what the poem meant. The importance of dandelions We often try to minimize But remember please That they are only flowers in disguise What is thought of as horrible or ugly May only be a deception by ignorant eyes Death is a dandelionIt is life in disguise. She read the poem her uncle had written in high school several times. 'Mom, if I hurry and get dressed, can we go to church this morning?' 'Of course, dear. Are you going to wear your Easter dress?' 'Yes,' smiled Judy, 'I think it's only right.' 30 ThE FiRST RAiNY SpEll OF SEPTEMBER Misty days and drizzly nights Dampened darts of mischief rays . But I have saved a 1000 sights Of Grecian summer days To toast to crispy brownness Twenty cases of fifth-grade clownness. 32 listen to their wordstruth hidden behind innocent eyes and toothy smiles they live and breathe the hypocrisy that is their lifethriving on its deceptions thirsting after its promises of success taking insane pleasure at every lie they can successfully tell practicing before a mirror until they can slap Nature in the face and they are the lie having lost the truth of existence. 33 Veins in petals crissandcross in leaves and hands in roots and feet criss and cross weaving a pattern (that life once followed but now traversed by empty deadened crisscross thoughts 34 ~ oJ"'" , 1 '", , A hA,NbFUL OF hAil{u Mud puddles tremble When angry feet rudely snap Serenity's peace. A lonely cardinal Perches on a barren limb Of a chestnut tree. A sun-filled picture Of snow and covered meadows Welcomes me today. To touch a snowflake That sticks to my window glass Beckons the divine. Run to the meadow Hush! A bee is romancing A reluctant rose. 36 Alone in the. twilight I find a clear place Away from the roads, away from the care The setting sun holds hope no one can mar Th e chill wind heralds the coming of night people hate people die some will love some will cry mankind is destined to doom some will jump some will fall peopl e lau gh peo pl e call All around , the darkness envelopes space The black roads lead to the edge of nowhere I search desperately for a guiding star But can find o nly an electric streetlight 37 PROMisiNG POET I will taste no more . the sweetness of my bitterness I promise, then I wonder why has every promise got to be a lie. 38 J D am not a young boyI know not of his kites and games But I have seen him, sleeping in the grass and I know of his fancies and dreamsthe existence he feels is his own. shall not awaken him just yet F or his sun is rising soon and he will, of his own accord, open his eyes to the world. 39 (They bieb) ~ ~ nd the bells rang and rang . and rang till their clappers crumbled to dust but there was no one to hear them. there was no one left to care no one left to give a damn how the children died. and they kept on dying hardly knowing they ever lived not hearing the bells. no one told them to listen no one bothered to give them a chance perhaps they could have saved us. 41 ... and man created light to see through brail confusion and peer behind empty but semi-private minds how beautiful to discover the world in 50 watt strobe! . is man a giant! just try to ignite your midnight trip with two sticks (We all know the indians are a dying nation) besides, whoever said that 42 J stands for jesus. Chilled winter night: in the clear sky only half a moon. Neoned city streetsthe moon, this early winter morning. The falling snow: how beautiful, inside looking out. The wind at night sounds lonely, at the corner of my house. Summer night: the sound of cricketsthree o'clock a.m. S~set: on the bridge the silhouettes of passing cars. Balmy night: on a rain wet street distant laughter. Misty spring morning: snail tr,a cks on a brown fence post. A tiny village raising through the morning mist the peeling of a bell. 43 Large old tree, bearing lover's heart and initials in spray paint! Where are peopl e looking, Distance, across distan ce Strainin g to see, or to hear , Distance, across dist ance. Where are people going Hills, over hills Running to discover or hide, Hills, over hills. What are people saying Words merely words Describing heart or hate, Words, merely words. What are people doin g Working, always working Gaining money or a name, Working, always working. Why are people waiting Dreams, many dreams, Finding disappointment or happiness, Dreams, many dreams. Why are people living Time, only time Discovering good or loving evil , Time, only time. When are people being Tomorrow, until tomorrow Waiting to do or to give Tomorrow, until tomorrow. When are people awake Future, in the future Living is now or never, Future, in th~ future. Where What Why When People, all people Living-Loving-Laughing-Being People, all people. NOW ** TODAY! 44 Everybody was there with cracker-jack smiles and a real prize inside crunching. - cracking and then , later tick but when the p rize was broken Everybody was gone 45 holb FAST TO bREAMS FOR WhEN bREAMS GO . lif~ is A BARREN FiELb FROZEN WiTh SNOW I \ ----\ '\ /  ...

... --_ ~ _ ..... ;. -- - ?' ... / ~ .. t~~ti~~' 'i .: _. ': 1>"" '1 ' .. ... t j ~ . , ;'~ ' j 'VOLUME XXIX NUN!J8R THREE THIS FIORETTI PUBLISHED POSTHlnv(OUSLY BY ~!ARIAN 'EXTBRIOR COVER: ' IN~ERIOR, BACK: , COLLEGE STUDENTS Rehecca ~remer Kevin, Rebecca, and Eddy Geremiah PHOTO Ef4'FbCl';:): ADVISOR: Dr. Phylli3 Guskin PHENOMENA Multiplicities; How Many Combi-nations? I Carole WIlTlams where are you / Kevin Kane A mood, thank you Cape M8-Y In the evening / Ellen Dugan -~ Eventually / Judy Weingartner ~L1fe creeps now-- / Tess Eichenberger Cripple / S1ster Davld Mary ~sf Ins1de Out / - S1ster David ijaryosf Laughing with the Irladonna and -the Dr-agon I Kevin - Kane Effect of the L1brary on my Life I !'irs. Elaine Wrsdom 4 p.m. Confess1on / Carole -williams On Ivty Broken B1g-Toe Na11 / Dav1d Wh1te Along the streets / Da-n Holbrook Ed1 tor Notes _About the s1l-ence /Kev1n Kane Descend1ng, Burn1ng, Res1sting, Shattering I James Asher Some Are Wh1n1 n' Hy Love / Blil Divine "" Separate Items Placed In Space/ Dan Holbrook Prof1le Waves of F1re- / Madeline Rizk Contemplat1on I Betty Johnson Linger Not, Least You Be Sad /Janet Lowe Solitary / Tlz Sales all alone / Dave Soots Bus Stations / Don rJ[errlll c 2 J 4 5 6 7 8 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 2~ 25 26 28 Multiplicities; How- Many Combinations? The end is near by the Almighty W~o can save the saved fear not .. for ther~ is Faith where Love-is necessary ter all men who would be lovedif no one knew . how. "" to love i~ to care about others may love then be saved becauSe "'" The end is near ~ -:- ~ by the Almighty Who can. ,,- .., .. ." " Carole WiUiama 2 ~ Wit;e are you in the stucco-flakes of dawn~, in the blending distortions of the sunrise ? _ yo ~ wrapped in blank~ts.of -sleep _ ~~ "" sonienow must be related to the -unwrapping of daiJy chi'istmas packages that is the SUB. ~ . c ~ you1ike tJiis when my lIewy hands iinfold your tuned "" ~ body wJUch comes trickling to me flute like with patience :.tiut also an awkwardness, .a bud of spring's vacillation. . . _ . yet as y~u sleep i ~h dreams of the language of wrens . -upon you, flashes of -yellow bursting blossoms speaking to "'" eaclCother by very S1igltt movements of finger twigs. still you sleep. i compose stones about tbe grey mingling black smokes and the pidgeons_tag games on our street btlt you~re -not1istening to.me. . ~ you coward, ~ _ .. when will you come out o( your sea:shell ur.chill biding? you leave _me too much alone with the~ sound of your breathing and i am left only with the cold kni!e of.morning stabbing-my memory with chills and splatters. of knowirag you have left me alone - again. """ " ~ Kevin Kane 3 The hringing, taking tide An outline, peace thiS evening My soul, or the sea '? In the evening of my life 111 look through the Windows of my age To April Of fun and pnes When youth was cheap And freedom was a fad. cia,. Ellen Dupn 5 Life creeps now -Crowds, to shift or shuffle Shoulders. Couples, to find the others Face. A man, to consecrate a Breath. Time skips now Over tangled paths Trips where steadied feet Once calculated perfectly On Ground and mind. There's A freer beat for Acrobats, laughs, and Uncertainties For being sure that Wintered needs were only Ballet slippers Not fitting lazied feet. Tess Eichenberger 7 CRIPPLE The left wing was in trouble. Quite ruffled. It was mud-slung Wounded And breaking in two. And upon bre,aking. A flying creature died. For flight is impossible With one wing or none. INSIDE OUT Michelangelo Round David Inside a block of stone. And set forth The young The strong The pure. Daring any eye To gaze in comprehension. Michelangelo Found life cradling death Inside a block of stone. And set forth Anguish Love And Peace. Daring any eye To gaze in comprehension. SDMoSf He's won the dare. We have been about the successful business Of building blocks of stone. And . To gaze while inside Is not to gaze in comprehension. 8 I. There's a madonna who's smifigg for friends selected from the temple she visits often not filled with real people but full, of trees and criminals that swim in a bay in the belfry. they tell each other pages of -old'!K)oks that have fallen from the hranches and now flow bi.hlelike in a frothing stream from her lips. i would kiss the lips_ "" II. There's a dragon who's breatliipg brimstone promises to ~ any man who comes with slow ease. not a sailor nota kn~ht not one with his phallic gun ,and impotent bullet shot froJ'!l his mouth to his ears. but falling delicately shot in slow motion " i saw the words drop fuming and .smoky from her lips. I would kiss the lips. III. The madonna's playing guitar strumming for munchkins-anlJ one molly bird seranading me to sleep restless on a hard floor crying,-for the tw~lve-stringed folk are dying, lying in : a mouldy hale 01 hay. i can see them in the mountains in rocking ch~irs waiting for tlie nutes. of the 'creamy sun. the aeaa . talk not, i would kiss the .lips. ':" IV. The dragon's on a motorcycle- blowing not exhaust from the pipes ringing in my ears like the ,roar of the ocean while travelling in her black hair. i -imagine her as I;urator of a museum clicking the paintings off"im~ on and only a few, get__to s~e them before their colors are covered In darkness._to splasb this bltnd with pleasure i would kiss the lips. V. Suddenly the madonna is squashed holding a light bulbEro~e~ into fragments of ideas. she rides-..o n a pov~r~ train .to ' ""!,,,,,,~, , thaFgolden eternity to insanity .and death m hfe while smukmg ~ ~ cocain; that flaming white fairy dils~. now ~he's laughing aU , - the time arid not answering ql!e~tiQns. sh~'s fallen from rapunzefs pinnacle. i .would ,bron~e h.er}lpS. = - vt._ The dragon's blowing her horn 'in the tower while all the - people- (lance below. -watching eyes from the storm clo~ds _ dart pepper from the pupilS'. caw' caw crow cries from the crowd : perching 'on tne pillars of hercules,she notices and give~ sanction. everyone -is liappy that finally freaking is the truth ' known. ~veryone laughs transcending the bl!ck hordes: i would bronze her-lips. -. VTI. With~the laughter echoing god) s cleaning up from this .... -;.... ., parade. all i,he walls of the past have folded like cardboard . concession stands and with his humorous broom we watch him "" picking up the st,!ck together Sandy wrappers of the void and existence. . . good' and evil. - ~- My first encounter with the Library was with the word. I was about seven or eight when I first . heard whe word. At this tinle, we lived in a small country town in the South. A new libr~IY was being built there by a Jewish philanthropist. . I pestered everyone until I learned what library meant. As soon as I learned that it meant books, I became enthralled with the idea of a library. But, I was never able to attend that library. As soon as it was finished, a sign was put up that read, " -No Negroes Allowed." There was no sadder child in ill Jhat town than I. After my mother died, we moved to Indianapolis. Here I entered fourth -grade at a public school. Since I was . -so fond of books, my teacher told a friend to take me to .the library: -When I entered the library I became breathless and my eyes filled with tears. A dream, that I had thought was forbidden to me, had come true. Timidly I approach~d the desk. Imagine my surprise when I was told that all I _ had to lio was to sign for a card, and get my guardians signature. I was even allowed to borrow two books that day. Right then I was infected by a disease more deadly than typhus. When I returned the books I took my sister with me. As we gazed at the books in the children's section, we solemnly vowed to read every book there. An ambitious project, but we did try. We started at -A and Tead everything to Z. We romped through the fiction and plowed through the non-fiction. The library became my favorite haunt: I waited on the steps until it opened and remained _until it closed. Rere I traveled the world over. I froze on the steppes of Russia; sweltered in the tropics of Africa; climbed to the dizzy heights of the Alps and the Himalayas; and sank to the bottom of the seas with Jul~s Verne. Here, I met and made friends with people, past and present. Here, I could read the sticky, Sentimental tales 0[- the Victorians,Burnett and Correlli. Here, I met the heroines of Jame Austin's monotonous but entertaining novels. I fought the - Revolutionary War with the rebellious colonists and crossed the plains with the pioneers. Here, 1 herded cows with the cowboys and- scalped pioneers with the Indians. ~ It was in the library that I outwitted the Indians of ICentucky with the Rangers and Daniel Boone. The library offered a rich feast and myonly problem was to choose the dish I would enjoy next. Mrs. E. Wisdom 4. p.m. Confession Sky tears r a n o w n -cold brick faces washing into puddles of daydreams and rivulets of refle~tions, _ pounding flowers Into swamps and mud into mountains. Echoes of routine fade into silence and solitude as hot tea grows cool, and I await and dread the absence of your footsteps while tears ra n down a cold face. Carole Williams - 11 ~ On My Broken Big-ToeNail ( Incurred While Gamboling Wheezingly On The Hardwood) A solitary crunch and I do shriek Inwardly, at least) -- I dare 'not peek ! ~( O! Feel the crimson runlets stain my socks; ( The pain~ is Jike the crush of lalling rocks. ) I gently peel the cloth from my poor digital -Gadzooks, the damage to my right-foot ~ivotal ! The himisphere of nail, a heqrtsick cloud Of pasty blotchy hues -- I moan aloud ! When touched it squishes round a pulpy mass, As loons despairing in a stark morass ; And, like a trap-door in a ten-cent tnriller, It lifts and creaks and squeaks - O! What a chiller ! When outdoors clad I feel the strife anew, Like angry gremlins duelling in my shoe; I cry "0 why to me such pain despiS'-ed !" ( Because, quips Fate, 'tis werth t he hoops so priz-ed. ) Thus musing on reflections so profound, I weep for my Poor ToeNail -- moribund. David White 12 Along the streets of the cracked glass sparkling where houses were built to stand forever sits an old man staring into a picture that an old mans' rage has ceased to control. and his woman just told him so. The old routine begins to unfold before the old mans' yellowed eyes but he doesn't participate. He watches his neighbors begin the evening ritual celebration with bread that stinks of rat shit and wine that smells of childrens' urine. Now the bells that were silent remind the old man of ancient promises. Dan Holbrook 13 Chrystal dreams Shatter no-one Except themselves For Gypsies travel with carnivals That Never end, Tess 14 A Crusade ( circa 1550 ) A luminous dragon shooting real fire 1s helpless against the plopping bullets of the Christian soldier. Hedieval man has yet to learn to preserve his sanity in conquest of fantasy. bls. 15 About the silence, the wishing well without words, lack of understanding the neonate changes, why do you say no to my tongue telling myself in the forms of letters written ? Do you think i speak in flames of word-fire lost with unrequited meaning or force of memory ? I remember the chaste touch of your hair upon my chest, the times when giggly love held us in clutches of joy, and then the long hours of rapport in mind while sleep clawed at our eyelids doomed never to enter for fear and the villian time. Now distance holds our hands tied with silence wrapped up in little packages we call our friends, sealed with cesspool tape and dropped into the murky water of intellectuality. Will we even cross paths again ? Perhaps some night i'll duck inside to escape a downpour and glancing over see you with a canopy. draped over your head like an archangel spreading a rainbow halo. Maybe you'll come across me buried in the earthmother in the womb of a roadside shrine my final ashes spread at last to ride the wind. Will you cry ? will you paint my tombstone and immortalize my black horse with the epitaph of Poe and Baudelaire ? No i think you must pass by hanging on to speculations about what we could have done, the woods of green procrastination we could have visited. Void paronoia now overtakes me like a dust devil in a wasteland of empathy and anger and so driven i take the withdrawal path of the hermit to seek solace in that graveyard, thirsting for the waters -drowning in love. I will emerge again as a primate: to rape, kill, and drink my own lusts as numerous as the molecules of the heart. I will cover myself with the insects of acquaintances and read my poetry, my suicide notes like withered bibles~ Will you forget my face image a kind of faded newspaper put in a drawer to read and laugh about "the good old times" ? Idyllic dreamer of self - pity ! When will i learn to pass by the features of a few in the faceless sea ? when will i learn to levitate in the pit of silence and know the pendulum is my own hand ? When will i learn the self-communion between pain and pleasure ? I welcome the night. Kevin Kane 16 Des~ending from its fix among the black void of the Universe, the hrightly burning star streaks 1:oward Death trailing its resisting memory !hat fades j nto nothingness. With one .last violent cry of life, it bursts against its tombstone shatter- ing into indistinguishable hits - of remains James Asher - 17 Some Are Whinin' Since the ttm~ to go has come ~ say nothing of goog-b~e _ " . ~ or farewell to a summer of lovetbie past But live now-- as was ~very summer ~ight- in the world of our love togeth~r; As if tomorrow will be just " ~nother day tio be shared = in love ~ith you. Autumn will- know "even before ~ I awake on autumn's first day "tha t our long run summe%.! ~ "sun 1 oS fading f4:ilale ": Did with its last ray ~ dim to a shadow a love finally engulfed in the blur ot that eve's last grey. As the first leaf falls so in love is sapped away my life will drop And dry ~o.ld in death To be a soil to nurture what earth Will give rise to what love. ({A new love in the spring will have your face in my dreams, For your parting did plant the seed of whatever now's to come. (Love for me no doubt Again will rise in the least. My life already Has set in the rest.) 18 Tell me something To make me -remember. (And as we go You leave with me a g1ft of memories Wrapped and sealed with the most precious memory of all ) Should, I ever .forget We were once in love. Bill Divine SEPARATE ITEMS PLACED IN SPACE with the times warping around it objects placed in , strategic positions for the purpose of close scrutiny. at a later time, in a much later place the objects' in space will all come back together again and be one the presmre will be immense for t~e objects, once so strategicaUy positioned for the ()bjects to explain themselves. for the need of an explanation will be great. 20 the waves of ffre are engulfing ~ being f run far from shere towards the trees and shelter it's grown dark and i can still hear the roar i have never been caught before i am no longer hidden f can be scathed i look to see the new day and find the monster has left f am alone but safe the roaming ;5 mine made 1 fne rfzk 21 Grey. A perfect, fabulous, unbroken grey; The sky. The damp, cold, lingering greyness sifts into the air, A nd creeps over the land to slowly filter thro ugh the brain A nd se ttle on the mind. Thoughts. Foggy, grey, cold. Love . . . hate ; War . . .peace ; Life . . . death ; Time . . . now gone by-never to return. Love, Years ago lost in the blink of an eye, Vanished now, not again found; Hate, Strong vicious, furious Sensed, felt, and yet - undefined. CONTEMPLATION Searching. .. blindly searching, Can it be found ? Love . .. Will it again be known ? The laughing eyes, meaningful smiles Will~hey ever re turn ? A nd hate Strong, rebellious-deep inside, Rushing: A restless current tugging at the soul Trying to pull it down. What is its reason, its. purpose, its cause ? War. Cold, miserable, impersonal. Bloody gruesomeness and anguish Unnoticed or ignored Broken homes pitied Dead sons mourned. Can peace never be found ? Has it really gone forever ? Or: Could it be in some near corner, Hidden by shadows, waiting to burst forth And blind the world with dazzling glory ! Life, Death, One and the same. A void, expressionless face appears; Betty Johnson A bored voice announces in strained monotones: " It's a boy. " Miles away another void face appears, News is related to anxious parents ; " Y our son died of serious wounds last week. Of course he suffered terribly, but he did die for his country, sorry." Sorry - Hah ! Sinful, hollow, meaningless word - Sorry ! Time N ow gone by, never to be recalled. Memories, Once bright, essential, Now faded, unimportant Nearly gone. L ife is so terribly brief, Such little time. Old age soon pressing forth ; Sight and hearing pass swiftly as the days ; A lone now, Alone. L ove, lost years ago ; Hate, felt-undefined ; War, ever present; Peace, hopefully nearby ; Life - Death One and the same. A'ld time; Oh Most precious time ; Gone by, Lost forever Never to return. Standing, silently Now alone . .. Alone in a grey, cold world; Grey sky, Grey air, Grey thoughts cluttering a greying mind. Alone now .. So all alone. Please, no ! So very much alone, All Alone. I )' 1 j U JO (! aht'f)\~ll IJI) , .... pl~g lOll O~ eJRID c......:. D STfll no ,:oqd i"'o~ ho",- e "'1hE 19'!:ll, "'l C. ~US. c:..iD--e &GeTh '1he'R ,IeAnsinD R~biTAI.'ino - -. :> " ~ I u.>e., The "l ;."' .-:lod '-"e "lAn~ 1 -to &UAs h"'The. c. ~ATh Qnd ..... , SC:U"C.~hA'" -t-i~ecl Sc:U'l The lnJt''llUS cnus7 SAdnesS a. ... ~ ho~1 ~i'T" :",e.~ -f'0C\c:e>s ....0 a.~Q.~e .... "1 {Q. . . . .fp..~",.C!'nini ~eT belo~ed "'i Sp .,.i,.S STeAl ftl--. ~-.,." Thei~ ~ieF\c..C'ne SS) ~ood, -fo~eueil bUill ",us;- c.c: .... e a.yQ.in ~O"IC.R"O'" a.lI'u! ~~~rn The cli",u~in~ .. CIUIle-01 GLnRQ.ls o f .... , Ihe ';nneA, . ~~s. - ~CinO ... I c....:l! I OP"OI~I~OLJ" ~ ~_'fbe -tod...,:" b.11 be a. Qe-. ~y -the fiRS r c.tClL't ~ The 24 ReST 0-f cw,,'1 '-:~e. _._ - tUrbulent in a tranquil vO,id shutters and shrRiks. of no consequence run in stereoptic 3D fai away yet S9 -near. _ ~ A -gutted toothpaste tube executing a decar preventive dentifrice on a. Bcum infested 'sink looms in thoughts. The naked lightbulf - harin~ a _couple in love's prostituted embrace crawls in the mind. -Escape turbulence, All alone -on a crowded bus _oreaming 8~lepce~ ~ ~ . A big black woman Just pulled In next to me---next-to me. She I sa -Wi tn-e ss, 1 kn.8w;_ I ~aw her WWWWatchtower. Believ:e in God ? she sneaked. - - I knew this~ was com1vg o_ Sure. 11m a catholIc I told her. And the Questions flew questions questions ~ I had no answers tor her. I questio~~s tried, But there ....were no . answers Just weren1t ~ 26 ,~ R" 11m Just a catholic that's ~ll. _ Herels my stop. ~ Buzzer door out ott away fast , It wasnlt really my stop---but being a catholic ; T needed a walk All alone . without MY Watohtower Must -- stay away -from ~ crowded buses . 27 Bus Stations Ai'e Not For Dreaming. You Know _ "Hey you~" ''Old man." "Sir." The words wanted 10 come but are: repressed By the distance between us. Bus stations are hostile, you know. There he was, encamped in his private- depot. Bent over last: weeks crumpled news ape~ While the quarter-grasping crowd crowded into the quarter-past, You don't see whiskers like -his anymore, you know. I dream_. - ~ He reminned me of a man who whittled whistles of wood that worked. And the resemblance to the picture of Moses on the mountain Was striking. I awake_ I h!ld to talk to him Or at -least smile for him. Old men are lonely, you know. But before I could - pay my respects That creature of my muse Stood and faced the wall And the trinkling stream that followed Washed my shattered dreams Into the gutter.  - .~.  ...

... BIOR8GGI ..".",.,.."..,. , :c: .".,. . - ~""'IIIIi: ~ 3:",.-",Lk~ BLUE EYES .9 Shari Ra thz VICTORIA FAREWELL 2?t7Phil McLane THE THIRD SHOT ~trJoseph Kempf AN EXCERPT FROM THE BOGK OF LIFE COVER IESIGN .3'5Pam Ivturray Patrick Farrell SHEET MUSIC DESIGN ~ Eileen Divine SCROLLS ~7Eileen Divine original by reproduction by Jean Baptiste Gruze ~~ Patrick Farrell BALLROOIvl 25Patrick Farrell original by reproduction by Veit Koniger ~J Patrick Farrell by Steve Donahue TRAVELING A LTF'E TII"1E IN A THOUGHT THE SILENCE E NVELOPES !'fIE THE f"LAGIC OF FOG SOMETlMES--I FEEL TRANSIT SYSTEM AN EXERCISE IN HAIKU POETRY cf Tess Eichenberger ~~ Kathleen ~2 Giesting Kathleen Giesting ~J Sherry Meyer ~5 Jennifer Henricks ~tr Ellen ~cf Dugan Ellen Dugan THE LAST filOMENT .P.P Jolene Griffis WINTER WIND .2JJolene Griffis THE HURRY ~J Joseph Kempf PROGRESS IN REGARD TO NOTHINGNESS I CAN'T HELP IT J~ Bob Morse ~trJoan M. Ryan I CAMti.: ~7 Joan ARTHRITIC BRANCHES Jcf E. S. THE HARLOT WINTER ROSE J.9 Bill H. Ryan Divine I CURSE THE DYING DAY ?() Bill Divine AGO \iE WEREN'T ~~ Bill Divine BEHIND ARE THE SHADES ?.P Bill Divine THE STORN ~~ James Asher SOFTLY BLOWING ~5 James Asher IF TUllE WOULD ?6 James Asher LEAVE ME NOw ?7 James Asher ':=f-1;u;t 0J.JJt;JuJ.. $a,5 ~~ i3&~O ~~$10 ~1UJ.. fn~~~ 'ict~ - - A white moss hugs the bark The sun is high, a cold sap drips And underneath the naked wood Back soaked and still, I sip what drops Eyes squint and close, I hug green thought And shiver from the distance Of colors now, and then This cobweb snow Reminds me of you SiU{y stranger Beautiful, until the Cold Tangled sleds, and love Winters' loneliness Is not the time or something Missed But wanting, at the waking And only for a moment To fold this hand Like a blanket That could not keep me warm. "Lisa and Sean sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. How many kisses did she receive? One. Two. Three. Four. " The chant droned on to the beat of the jumprope hitting the pavement. A few yards away, Sean leaned against a tree. The summer sun smiled down on the ten-year-old causing freckles to pop out on his already spotted cheeks and nose. He watched the three girls for a moment longer then turned and walked away. As he walked, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he pondered over the reason for kissing someone. He surely didn't want to kiss anyone especially that dumb Lisa. Why couldn't she leave him alone? A motorcycle whizzed by him carrying a leather-jacket clad boy. Sean gazed at the passing machine, he even brushed his tossled blonde hair out of his eyes to get a better look. Now that was more to his taste. Sean could see himself on one of those , zipping around corners or across fields , jumping fences and running from the cops. What fun that would be. And of course dad would be with him, just the two of them. And no girls. Girls always got in the way of things. They were just plain no good. "Hi, Sean. Would you like to play ball?" Sean snapped back to reality. He looked at the small girl in front of him for a moment and then answered no. He walked a little distance, his heart hammered inside his chest. He scuffed his tennis shoes into the dirt to look uninterested and to try to cover the sound of his pounding heart. Finally, he looked back. She was sitting on the bench by herself and was looking at the three girls playing jumprope. He leaned up against a tree , bent down and picked up a twig and began to break it into little pieces. Now why had Shannon asked him to play ball? She should go play with those other dumb girls. As he watched, she slowly got up off the bench, took a deep breath and walked over to the girls. Sean moved a little closer to the front of the tree so he could hear. "Hi, Lisa. You're very good at that. Can I play too?" The girl that had been jumping, stopped and looked at the small girl. "Look Shannon, I wouldn't play with you if you were the last girl alive. Mommy told me about your sister. You're not good enough to play with us. Now go away. Do you hear? Scram." Lisa walked over and gave the girl a push, a hard , forceful push that caused her to fall to the ground. The ball she had been carrying fell from her hand and rolled into the grass. Lisa and the other two girls laughed and walked away. Sean took in all of this. His eyes wandered from the retreating girls to the figure of the small girl on the ground. Shannon was crying. Not big loud noises like most girls but just tears running down her face. She looked even smaller sitting on the ground all by herself. Sean walked over to the ball and picked it up. He looked at it for a moment and then at Shannon again. Quietly he walked over to her. "Shannon? Ya dropped your ball." He held out his hand as she looked up. Her eyes are blue, he thought. That's funny. She stood up and brushed the wetness from her eyes. She tried to smile as she said thank you but her lips just could not seem to form it. She took the ball and began to move toward the bench. "Hey Shannon. Ya wanna play ball?" For a split second, Sean wondered to himself why he said that but then the small girl turned and smiled. Her mouth smiled, her body smiled, and even her blue eyes smiled. Then Sean knew why. As he caught the ball and threw it back, he figured some girls weren't dumb. Not small girls with blue eyes anyway. In the mist of man's awakening the sun creeps slowly over the sky of morning. The earth, filled with the sounds of a gentle birth, is peaceful. The song of birds rises from the forest and the verdant fields respond with their own strains of life's melodies. The joys of life are simple as the drowsiness of midday brings new dreams to the fore. New dreams, demanding dreams, pushing aside the childish whims of morning as the wind scatters the clouds in its path. The tones and variations of a midafternoon . entwine slowly, harmoniously with those of morning -- ever more intense as man comes into his inheritance. A love too soon squandered-A freedom too quickly thrown away-A hope stifled beyond all recognition. The lights of evening dim, the inflections of life grow soft, barely noticeable in their anticipation of the fathomless mystery of death. The silence envelopes me in a sense of oblivion I am graduall y conscious of nothing but my own body isolated and alone in the void of space surrounding my mind I reach out and clutch at every shadowy wisp I see-imagined or real , they slip through my grasping fingers and pass on. A single remnant of a single memory lingers for a second , only to join the others in my world of shadows. But in its passing-I am suddenly struck with the illumination of an endless corridor before me and the tender voice of a 10,ng forgotten love. No w even that is seemingly gone forever Lost in a valley of fever and chills Shaking my soul to its very depths Revealing my myriad fears-crowding around -- pointing-accusing me of crimes I will not admit even to myself. I turn on them viciously attacking them-for my failures to love-my failures to respond to love and they respond with silence-a silence that forc es me to see I was the one who chose to fear. once I marvelled at the fog that lay before me. standing on the outside of a boundless haze trying to peer in and discover her hidden secrets walking into her heart, I stood on the inside looking in-.Is this what was hidden in the fog? How could that be? There is no fog here. . . There she is: the fog lies just ahead of me. as I step in, I realize that she has eluded me once again. Sometimes -- I feel like a piece of cardboard in a pond, soaked to a darker shade of mustardy brown, jos tled un willingly by the waves. It stays, and lets itself be pushed around, floating with a silent hatred, gathering more water. Slowly -- sloshing some and dissolving around the edges, pieces becoming dismembered, it turns mushy, and crumbles, sinks. and The stop and start of the bus doesn't seem to bother me a few moments longer to gaze at the department store windows--rich fabrics and soft colors decorate stilted maneguins with plastered smiles and perfect hairdoos. Each is ready for an evening at the opera or a day on the beach--the lunging rumble of the bus disturbs this digression. A bus filled with maneguins, laden with packages, clad in garments for an evening of TV or a day rearing children and fixing meals. Conversations are muffled through the muted sounds of the exit door. An old woman toddles out and slams the door in defiance while a radio blares a rock tune--I turn to the window and my mind picks up the rhythm of the wheel--past dilapidated buildings where LIQUOR BEER LOANS ON ANYTHING hold the key to an existence. now and then the buzzer sounds that dull, dread drone of interruption. a person gets off and the bus rolls by as it does every day never stopping just passing through. The surroundings look more familiar now--there's where the corner drugstore used to be where often I would go and get a 5 cent COKE on a hot summer day. Coming up is the hardware shop. And the paintings we did as kids-WONDER why that hasn't gone out of business yet. THIS IS MY STOP. Leaves and blossoms fall And summer passes on like The death of a friend. The night is empty And the stars stare back at me; Darkness is lonely. Snowflakes dance softly to the winter's soft music; Graceful romancing. Alone in the fields With my oxen, plow and seed Sunshine laughs at me. /tSDI A butterfly's wings Visits each cherry blossom Leaving a call card. A Smile flits across An old face that remembers A young man's mistakes. The wind whips across A farmer's barren , dry field That's moistened by tears. Dry leaves tumble down Void of the color of life Deceiving my eyes. With shivers of cold Nature snuggles underneath A blanket of leaves. A beach of white sand Disturbed by the footprints Of visiting gulls. I'll kno w I'm not insane if I calL face the facts. I loved her, or so thought I did, but I let her go, and now she's not mine any more. She is his and I am alone and I will never, ever, get her back again. The words agree but have ye t to convince the silences. Touching me. Her eyes. Her long blonde hair. Living with him. A nd I never so much as, yes, boss, should I have them do this order right now or let them finish the ones they're on. sure thing. Six girls, a hundred twenty windows, twenty apiece, fourty per table. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty . Damn fa ctory, damn heat, damn sweat, damn glass. Why did Let her go ? Just keep on working. Survive one day at a iime, punch out, go home, take a shower, eat dinner, ge t stone d. Do these fir st, twenty apiece, thirty six by eight safety. Sing a song, pass the time. When I was y ounger, so much younger than today I never neede d any body's five, ten, fifteen, feel so insec ure, now I find I've change d my mind I've opened up the twenty apiece, thirty six by eight safety. and I do appreciate your being round do these first. f ee t back on the ground won't you please, please white vinyl, I71 get it, just a minute. Who am I to care about th em. I'm only a boy she used to go with. Th ey have problems of their own. They worry about getting enough food. I wo nder about being sane- aluxurious worry, a fear for the well f ed. Why did I let her go. Face the facts. Now I'm alone. I've always been alone. I will always be alone. Even when I held her in my arms I was alone. Our reflections in the mirror by the door as wee mbraced. I can never get her back, I just have to forget her. . Survive one day at a time, keep breathing, someday it will all be over. Someday put it all down on paper, and look at it and say, it's finally over. Someday write it out, someday work it out. Deep breathing. White vinyl. I held her hand and soared, now I have to learn to walk. There will be another girl, as soon as I am ready . Next time I will never let her go. Five, ten, fifteen ... r My friend, you know The climax can be sudden And the denoument can be Short and Steep. Someday I will be strong And I will speak out I will sing out Listen, I will sing! I t will be from the top of a Mountain A Real Mountain, my friend! All the Emotion will burst . Tears of Happiness will greet me In that moment My fists will be tight Both arms upreachffig toward that Soft cloud blue sky My eyes will be that bright blue You have seen Clear tears on my cheeks will reflect Pale light of the still afternoon That stiff tight grin will spread My breath will be deep and hard, And my voice, forever, Still. All is still down over the lake Yet the cold wind blows Swirling, stinging Footsteps on the brick walk Tap, tap , tap , tap , tap. My eyes burn and water as it Hits me in the fa ce ... Through bare branches, dull Grayness of the lake, the field yellow, And the woods -- dark. Cutting, slashing Warmth of happiness fad es from my heart. Turn away, The wind slaps again Tap, tap , tap, tap, tap. My eyes followed a silver arm High to the top of the pines, The bann er stood out straight Swirlin g, sinbring Frc(~ dom will not be chill ed ~~kv/ ~~ ~~ . ~ ~ MUJ~ ~ ~ ,f J The old man swung the door shut and slid the bolt in place. He knotted a fist around his hickory stick and started across the yard with long, loose strides. The boy stretched his legs behind, trying to keep up without running , then broke into a combination walk-andtrot and came up alongside. "What're we gonna do now, Grampa?" he asked. The boy knew they'd be eating pretty soon because this was his third summer on his grandfather's farm and he knew the schedule as well as the old man did , but he asked anyway. "Thought we'd rest a bit. Getting pretty hot." The old man pushed back his hat, squinting up at the sun, then wiped his shirtsleeve across his forehead . "Must be near on noon anyway. Almost time for lunch, I reckon. " As they neared the house , the man swiped with his stick at a scrawny chicken in their path and cursed it under his breath. His grandfather didn't like chickens, the boy knew , but he liked eggs for breakfast, so he tolerated them. His grandfather was a livestock man and didn't have much respect for things with feathers on. "I'd give a whole shed of them cluckin', scratchin' things for just the spots off a good Holstein," he'd often heard the old man say. "Always scratchin' and tearin' up the yard . . . wouldn't own one if your Grandma didn't like 'em." And then he'd spit emphatically in the dust. The boy looked at the hickory stick his grandfather carried and wondered again if it was really as old as the old man said it was. "Climbed clear to the top of a hickory tree when I was a boy," he'd say. "Cut it right outa the top. Had it ever since." Then he'd point to the knots where he'd shittled the branches away and show the boy how after all those years the thick end had worn down like it was made for his hand. "Good hard hickory for a walkin' stick, boy. Ain't no other kind as good." His grandfather didn't use the stick for walkin~, the boy knew , because he wasn't lame, but he'd never seen the old man without it, except at night, when he propped it up against the wall the last thing before he climbed in bed. The boy wondered if the old man put it on in the morning, like he put on his pants or boots. He remembered how one day he'd planned to hide the stick to see what his grandfather would do. He'd got scared at the last minute and hadn't done it, but he still wondered sometimes what would've happened if he'd gone ahead and hid it. "Is it really that old?" he asked again now, mostly just to make conversation. "Yup," the old man said, not even hesitating to wonder what the boy was referring to. It was a stock question. He paused and held out the stick for examination. "Probably even older," he said, ";cause that hickory tree was already standin' there a good while before I ever come along. " The boy examined the stick carefully, noticing again how the wood was dark now and worn smooth and shiny like polished ebony after years of handling. He tried again to find some trace of blood where his grandfather said he'd almost beat a man to death thirty years ago for stealing his horse , but he couldn't, and if any blood remained it was all mixed in with years of grime and sweat. They went up the porch steps and sat down , the boy squinting out across the yard and off in the distance like his grandfather did. "Lunch'll be ready soon," the old man said again , his nose wrinkling slightly as he sniffed the air. "Yup." "Smells like ham an' beans. " "Yup." As they watched the chickens scratch around in the dust , a shadow swept suddenly across the porch steps, flitted off across the yard , jumped up onto the barn roof and was gone. The chickens stirred nervously. Then the shadow was back , this time sweeping across the yard where you could watch it coming from a long way off. "Chicken hawk." "Want I should get the shotgun , Grampa?" The old man studied the shadow. "Nope. Not yet. Still pretty high up. Just sizin' up the situation. No sense wastin ' buckshot till he tries somethin'." The shadow grew larger once, then swung off to their left and didn't return. The boy studied his grandfather and wondered why he didn't want to shoot the chicken hawk . They'd lost three chickens in the last month and that could've been the hawk that got them. "How come you like chicken hawks, Grampa?" The old man glanced at the boy, then looked away again. "Don't like 'em, boy, but I ain 't got nothin' against 'em, neither. They got their place. If it wasn 't for hawks the world'd be overrun with chickens ... wouldn't be no place for people. How'd you like that?" he asked , winking. "Wouldn't, I guess," the boy answered. "But he's been taking our chickens and we could've got him easy. Wasn't more than a couple of hundred feet up." "Reckon so," the man said. They were silent. Then after a while: "Beans sure smell good." "Yup." Then the boy remembered something he'd seen that morning. "You seen the dead bird around side of the house, Grampa?" "Nope. " Nothing moved but the old man's mouth. "Wasn't shot. Wonder what got him." "Hard tellin'. Sometimes they fly right up against a house or window. Can't stop in time, I guess." "Never seen one like him before." "Go fetch him , then ," the old man said. The boy jumped off the porch and ran around the corner of the house. He came back holding the bird by a wing, its legs and feet curled up just as they'd stiffened. He dropped it on the porch. The old man took off his hat. He leaned forward in his chair and rolled the bird over on its back with the side of his boot. The undersides of its wings were golden, the breast a light tan with darker flecks. He studied the bird a long time. Finally he leaned back. "That's a flicker. " "What's that?" the boy asked. "A. kind of woodpecker. Don't see 'em much around here. Ain't hardly enough trees." "He don't look like a woodpecker," the boy said doubtfully. "Nope. Don't sound much like one, neither, but he's a woodpecker, all right. See his long, sharp bill and the red on top of his head?" He p()inted with his stick and the boy nodded. "Still don 't look like a woodpecker, though." "He is." "What you think got him, Grampa?" "Broken neck, I'd say. See how his head's all screwed to one side? Probably flew into the window. That's what messed up his eye." The old man indicated the eye with the tip of his hickory stick. Then he leaned back in his chair and gazed far off southeast, as if he were looking past the prairie, right on past the Mississippi and all the way to Tennessee or Georgia. The boy knew from the look on his grandfather's face that he was remembering, and that meant he was getting ready to tell a story. "Guess it was when I was eleven or twelve years old ," he began. ''I'd just got my first gun. A pellet gun it was, the kind you pump up and shoot on compressed air. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, 'cause I wanted a shotgun, but my folks said I wasn't old enough. Shotguns was for men, they said." The old man shifted in his chair and looked far out across the prairie to a ridge of low hills in the distance, his eyes filled with remembering. He went on. "When I got that pellet gun I went right out and practiced till I thought I had the sights down and then took off for the woods after some squirrels. Well, they must've known I was comin', 'cause I saw hardly a one all afternoon, 'cept for a couple that was out of range and hightailed it off when they heard me comin'. I was pretty mad by then, and I guess I took it out on the first thing I come across. "I heard him a long time before I saw him, heard his strange call comin' out of a thicket on my left. I crossed the stream and went real quiet in his direction. I got almost on top of him 'fore I saw him, perched on a skinny limb 'bout a hundred feet away. That was pretty strange, I guess, 'cause woodpeckers mostly climb around on the sides of trees lookin' for bugs. But I didn't even know what kind of bird he was till I got back home and asked. It was then I found out." The old man poked at the bird on the porch with his stick, then went on. "Well, I braced my gun against the side of a gum tree and held it tight and steady ... then I squeezed the trigger." "Did you get him?" the boy breathed. "Nope. I missed. Guess I didn't have the sights figured out yet or maybe the wind'd carried the pellet off course. The bird was still sittin' there callin', his shape black against the sky. So I pumped 'er up real quiet and slipped another pellet in the chamber. This time I aimed even more careful and held my breath till I bet I turned purple." The old man paused and raised the hickory stick to his shoulder and squinted down its wavy length out across the prairie. "Then I fired." He flicked his trigger finger and looked across his shoulder ~t the boy. "But I missed that second time, too. So I pumped 'er up and loaded again." He stared at the dead bird's twisted neck. The boy grew impatient. "You got him that time, didn't you, Grampa?" "Yup, I got him. He jerked sudden like, then dropped backwards off the branch and headed for the ground. But about halfway down his wings opened and he sorta sailed down behind some bushes about fifty feet away. "Well, I started off to find out what it was I'd hit, but when I got to where he should've been, he wasn't there. I must've looked for half an hour, but I didn't find him. I couldn't figure it out, because I hit him good or it wouldn't've knocked him back off the branch that way." "Did you ever find him?" "Yup," said the old man, refusing to be hurried, "but not till I started back home and was crossin' the stream. Wasn't much of a stream, though, 'cause it was the end of July and we was needin' rain, so just a trickle was findin' its way down the middle. Well, I'd just stepped across when I heard this splashin' comin' from upstream. I looked and there he was, thrashin' around on his back a good two hundred feet from where he'd come down. He'd skipped or flew , or both, I guess, till he hit the stream and his wings got heavy with mud and he couldn't get off his back. "When I got up to him I saw I'd hit him just below the breast, about dead center. It's pretty soft there and the pellet hardly even ruffled the feathers where it'd gone in, but his back was half tore away where it'd come out." "That was some shot, Grampa," the boy said. He tried to imagine by looking at the bird on the porch how that bird long ago had looked with its back half ripped away. "Y Cos, boy," the old man said slowly, "it was a fine shot, that third one, a mighty fine shot. But it hadn't killed him right away and he was still fightin' mad. His gold eyes were all on fire with pain, but he still kept tryin' to get back over and make a run for it. And every time I tried to touch him he'd stab at me with that sharp bill of his and squawl like a wild pig, so I decided to let him be so he could die in peace." The old man paused. The boy waited for him to go on. "It seemed as if I waited all day, but he wouldn't die and I decided I'd better shoot him so he wouldn't hurt no more. It didn't seem quite right, though, .me with a gun and him helpless on his back with his gold wings all heavy with water and mud. But I did, and he died, like he had to, I guess. I picked him up and he seemed smaller somehow, like just a pile of old rags in my hand. Then I tossed him under a bush and went on home." The old man leaned back and rested the hickory stick across the arms of his chair to indicate that the story was finished. "Whew!" breathed the boy, gazing down at the crumpled form on the porch. "They're some bird!" "Yup," the old man grunted. "And now you know how come I know this here bird's a flicker. He's a flicker, all right, one of the toughest, fightingest birds I know ." Then out in the yard chickens began scattering everywhere. A brown form swooped down with a terrific feathering of wings, talons thrust forward and straining. But the hawk missed at the last moment when his prey darted beneath a fence. The old man swept his stick to the floor. "Better get the shotgun, boy! He snuck up on us! " The boy went inside and snatched the gun from behind the door. When he returned , the hawk had already begun to circle again , this time lower, watching for any movement below. "Stay on the porch out of sight," the old man warned. He quickly checked the chamber, flicked off the safety, then stepped from the porch into the sun, the gun already up to his shoulder. Squinting down the well-oiled barrel, he squeezed off a shot. The hawk jerked in the sky, hung there for a moment, then started toward the ground. "You got him, Grampa, you got him! First shot, too!" the boy shouted, leaping from the edge of the porch where he'd been watching. His grandfather grunted. He leaned the gun against the side of the steps and reached for his stick. Then they went out to where the . hawk had landed, the boy racing ahead , the old man following more slowly behind. When they got there the hawk's eyes were beginning to glaze over and one of his legs still twitched slightly. The man rolled the bird over with his foot. "Yup, we got him, all right. Better leave him. Something'II get him, buzzards, I reckon. " The boy looked up. "Can I get a tailfeather to keep?" "Reckon so ," the old man said, already starting back toward the house. He picked up the shotgun and waited on the steps as the boy returned with (he tailfeather. "Boy," said the old man quietly, pointing out toward the hawk with the gun, "that one out there was necessary. This one here ," he said, indicating the bird on the porch, "was too, I guess. But that one back when I was a boy ... well, that one was different. Remember that." "Sure, Grampa." The old man studied the boy, not sure. "Then c'mon inside and wash up before we eat. Better get rid of this here woodpecker first , though." He turned then and went inside, leaving the boy to stroke the hawk's tailfeather. This is the hurry: we are mortal. And we know it. Wood strives for tree But not for greatness. Trees die But cannot conceive of moldering logs. Insentient stones wrenched by boys From native soil and flung to sky Will never strain for greater height. But man shapes the wood, heaps stone To monuments that stand against The fading light, the withered leaf. Who knows to what greatness stone Would rise if rocks could die? Onward, to the brink of an option of do or die. Forward, in such a way as to see but not seek. On and on, methodically tramping through fields uncut. On toward that brink, only to find a dream come true. So Science Plods on. Worse Worse _.Worse, is the than the fall of the angeLs, than the - peculiar abandonment of truth, even than that thing man himself, thought of the eventuaL steriLity of his soul. As yet, there remains an ounce of existence, lind _still may be found an unsoiLed breeze. But these are fewer to be found, easier to maLign. So let us forget, and sing in the new Kingdom of God. Once upon a time, there lived a happy young shepherd who loved his flock and tended it very carefully. But one day the youngest lamb, the shepherd boy's pride and joy, became quite ill. The boy tried everything he could think of to save the lamb, but the poor creature was beyond the realization of the joys of life and thought no more of it. The lad pleaded for the lamb to show some desire to livejust any sign of a will to survive. The little shepherd boy wept, as he still does today, hoping for the lamb to see his love and respond, with happiness to life. {author's note- 1, too, hope the lamb survives. After aLL, the lamb is each and everyone of us. What end wouLd there be for the world, or even just the LittLe shepherd boy, if the Lamb is too insensitive to try? I hate to think of it! Oh weLL, we 71 know the end when we see how the Lamb reacts.} . I can't help it. when I think of you and how it was I smile the soft silly smile that takes whole minutes to go away. I can't help it. when I remember certain things you said a tiny burst of hope holds my breath that you really meant the way it was. o I can't help it. when I think of you and how it was fear catches me that you won't happen again. I can't help it. the soft silly smile that takes whole minutes to go away comes back to me always and finally when I think of you and how it was. ! came with no thought that you would not also come. The sun slipped in and out, and finally out of the white sky now gathering dark. The air became thick with wetness. the s.ky split with thunder that relea.~ed the rain. And! knew. the storm, the burst of thunder was inside: the moment of my knowing that you had forgotten me. Arthritic branches and liver spotted leaves Oothed in wormy decayed bark. A metallic winged phantom pierced the fragile timber flesh And sucked out the remaining moments of life. F rom what dreamland silence Your words stirred and roused me naked in the winter's night Like in spring with creeks that run still beneath the hill And how a stone or piece of wood will Ripple and wave the quiet sun-reflecting waters-Then too to notice that the trees are slightly stirring. There is something of a silence in the way I would wait; Like the silent rain at night. Always your eyes like open fields-I would plant myself. I would know the easy lift of flowers With wind your breath around my face. The dew my tears would know With the soft approach of sunlit hands To comfort. to dry. And like the silent growth in the forever of life I would never be old. But new in my decay. I curse the dying day Refuse to mention the day Hold tight the fears of the day In full remorse I cry Chained to the fountain That knows not the time or place Wherein my joyous moments lie (YOUt dear sweetest Most lovely mine Who hast pranced her last Thou shouldst cherish the moment Of one final wreath) Ago we weren't so strange-So timeless in our dreams. The world could wait, Or be as impatient as a child for birth. Somewhere we'd sometime go somehow-Saving now for as it then was-Saving now for this? Oh count the days, Count the ways we'd find to dream What dreams were only the scene of neglect To something as real as these lies We would never have timed to dream-Timed and patterened and planned. Counting all but the time we saved to lose. We gouged and tunneled so deep, Blindly mining. The foylness we flung Finally entombed us as close as was ever a first in something we shared But as inaccessable as were we ever delved in to be. Only now -- through years of time Could we Iisten-. Listen and believe if for the briefest moment. But as you as well I as well Could attack the clamorous toll of that fierce silence. How we wish to redeem the present, To find the fault afar. Yes! to quiet the silence without the racking effort. But that like the pagan of a christian mother, Sitting alone -- the choir bells clang One by one -- the painful climbing -- stares -- she At a place of her skull hidden In the life old cross Siezed from beneath her pillow. Behind are the shades of a past; Light through curtain and cracked door-And all is past. The front is blackened Even to the grave in the ground. There's nothing ahead. So walk backwards the distance left-Watch the light grow dimmer And the closed door become so small. Watch and remember whatever it was, Till you stumble thankfully in the grave. WILD UNTAMED RAGES the STORM DIMENSIONLESS SYMMETRIC it COMMANDS RAGING in the NIGHT like the STALLION, its BLACK S T R E A I K N G BEAUTY THUNDERS and FLASHES dauntlessly the MIGHTY TEMPEST THRASHES and RENTS pardoning only that which weathers the CHALLENGE Softly blowing your gentle caress I whisper .... in answer. I hear your Serene thoughts; Into your heartFilling your heartPour my words Flowing from my lips into you my heart's transfiguration: Muffled roar over the cliff in the distance .... inundate abyss Express to me all that you are Angered by a compassionless hunter the stoic pines bend Grass sways flat Shutters slam shut: I too am angered by a compassionless hunter My bitter violent voice shakes you Tearing into your lifeblood with agressivc limbs .. .. . We fight together We know each other Our temperaments-mutually understood ; Warmly fingering through my hair Tugging at my trembling sleeves Basking in warm blinding SunI know you're happy .... I know that rioble countenance well. Brushing across my sun-soaked face Swirling within my wind-spun gaitWe're happy together. We know that well. If Time would but not come tomorrow And I might live without such sorrow To see my days of love and laughter Tear so harshly from my grasp Those days of laughter have been so few Those days of love- even less I placed my laughter in vessels golden . I placed my love in vessels blest If Time would but not come tomorrow I might yet be spared the sorrow Of tne memories gone and olden Placed in vessels now empty and broken Being wrested from my breast. Leave me now, I must have silence I must wait in darkness deep For walk waked stepped steep Unknown forest dark and deep. Take me Cracking Lead me Walk me time , walk me waking branches beneath my feet silently swift and deep waked silent and deep. Leave me now, soft in silence Release my hand darkness deep Depart time silence steeped Go, leave me, for I must sleep.  ...