Volume 2, Issue 1 (Fall 1969)

Gardner-Webb University

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One Little Candle

Literary Societies and Publications

July 2017

Volume 2, Issue 1 (Fall 1969)

Stephan Stojanovic

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Recommended Citation

Webb University Literary Publications, One Little Candle, 1969, series 2, subseries A, Box 1, University Archives, Gardner-Webb University, Boiling Springs, NC.

Gardner-Webb

College

Boiling Springs,

North

Carolina

VOLUME

II

FALL—

1969

Copyright

Gardner-Webb

College, 1970

Boiling Springs, N. C. Secondrights areherewith returnedtothe authors of theworksin thiscollection,

from

whom

permission for reprintmust besecured.

CONTENTS

AUTHOR

Reg

Alexander

Reg

Alexander Jane Best Jane Best Carolyn Bridges Ernest

M.

Blankenship

June

Bridges Scott Carpenter

Hiram

Casebolt Betty S.

Cox

Betty S.

Cox

Donna

Deaton %

Katey

Duffey Rachel

Eggers

\ Clara Eggleston Clara Eggleston

Jim

Estes

Jim

Estes

Jim

Estes

David Ford

David Furcron

Mike

Harrelson Rick Herring Rick Herring

Asphen

Howeyck

TITLE

PAGE

Peaceless 6 Untitled 16 Untitled 19 Untitled 30 Untitled 14 Disappointment 28

Monkeys

18

The

Fawn

18 Untitled 12

On

The Highway,

As

We

Pass 23

God

Angry

and

Redemption

9

Like

The

Rain 11

Thoughts

of a

Mind

in Motion 25

A

Colorful Transparency 10

Untitled 20

Untitled ₂₇

.The

Mooring

Horizon 17

.Windless

Dawn

20

Untitled ₂₈

The

Vanishing

American

21

Untitled 28

Laments

on Teaching 29

.He

Who

Watches

30

I

Remember

₃₁

CONTENTS

AUTHOR

John

Hunt

Jerry Keller T.

Max

Linnens T.

Max

Linnens Jeff Magill Bill Neely Carol Neese

Don

Pantalone

Peggy

Ringer

Ed

Rumfelt Stephen G. Shifflette Stephen G. Shifflette Stephan Stojanovic . Stephan Stojanovic Carolyn

Thomas

Carolyn

Thomas

John Foster

West

Fred Wilkie

Fred Wilkie

TITLE

PAGE

_Vi’tnam 18

-Sounds 13

-The Living and the

Dead

14

-Thoughts on Veterans

Day

24

_The

World

18 -Untitled 27 -Untitled 16 -Life 20 -Untitled 16

-Number

2002

Minus

2000 11

-Smoke

10

_The Passing of a Friend 31

-Untitled 8-9

.Untitled 11

-Raindrops 7

_One Soul

—

Alone 26

_The Aliens 10 -Untitled 7 -Untitled 23

ART

Carolyn Bridges

Peggy

Ringer _

Ed

Rumfelt 15 14

&

22

PHOTOGRAPHY

STAFF

Editor

Stephan Stojanovic

Art

Editor

Ed

Rumfelt

Assistant

Art

Editor

Peggy

Ringer

General

Staff

Armen

Abajian Carolyn Bridges Rick

Cannon

Suzie

Connor

Rhonda

Earls

Karen

Hardin Carolyn

Thomas

Advisor

Fred Wilkie

INTRODUCTION

One

Little Candle in the spring of 1969

made

its first appearance on the

Gardner-Webb

College

campus

as a

mimeographed

collection of poetry,

prose,

and

art indicative of the community's interest in the imaginative

and creative life.

Now

in the fall of 1969

due

to the interest and concern established

by

that first,

One

Little Candle is able to have its contribu-tions printed.

The

interest has caused

many

changes: the financial sup-port has doubled, the staff has doubled, the visual arts have greatly

expanded in quality and total importance, and the contributions have

quadrupled. This leaves the evident conclusion that

One

Little Candle has

established itself as the literary

magazine

of

Gardner-Webb

College. If

the past is an indication of the future,, the road has been opened for

many

more

successful issues.

In this issue of

One

Little Candle there is no clearly exposed

theme

as such, but a

theme

does exist in abstraction.

The word

“anthology” is the

key to understanding the total purpose of the material contained within

these pages.

The

anthology is of life, life which in its sealike vastness

cannot be anthologized, or contained,

by

one person, or totally

by

one

magazine.

One

Little Candle in order to accomplish anthology has placed

itself in the position of being the

median

between the oceanic vastness of life and the sensitive, experiencing person.

PEACELESS

The

seaisnot afraid . . .

With power

and might

Itpoundsintothe shore.

IfI could be the sea,

How

wouldIfeel . . .

What

would Ido?

Would

I

Hesitate

Before each

wave?

Would

I churn myselfin theanxiety

Of

uncertain destination?

The

sea

isnotafraid . . .

Itdoes not

worry

orplanforitself . . .

The

sea is a

happy

thing . . . Itiscontent . . .

Going

in,

Or

Going Out.

IfI could be thesea,

How

would Ifeel . . .

CouldI let

my

‘self’

go

And

findhappiness in

my

naturalness?

Could I allow thesecurity

Of

the moon's pull

—

Guiding

my

waves

to the shore . . .

Deeper. . .

Deeper . . .

Intothe depths ofthe shore . . .

Deeper . .

.

Deeper

. . .

Into

what

isboth natural

And

happy.

The

sea Is notafraid. Itjust “Does" . . .

—

Reg Alexander

Prettysmiles, yousee,

may

carve

empty

rivuletsinthe

mind

ofthe silentone

who

walks quite alone

and

quitebeside himself.

Amateur

visionary thathe is,

hetitters

now

onthesharp glass edge

of disaster

—

self-reflectingdream.

The

smile has struck

awakening

desire,,blastingthe ice dike

whichcaptivates the old

near-forgotten

dream

lake,

now, chameleon-like,

changing

from

a surface turgid

to asheenof reflectingquick silver,

mirroring

what

willbe seen

in the glisten of a smile.

Forthe smiledoesn’tspeak its

own

words

but atransmitted echo

from

the silent one,

from

the dream-lake.

Distortion

—

colloquially hope

—

grins ludicrous inbetrayal

of the

numbed

mind, thedeadenedlake.

And

the rivulets flow again arefilled again

to thesounds ofsoftening cracks inemotional skin

—

flow out to nowhere,

to only a

new

drowning

toonly hope’soldrecompense

—

a

new

desert

—

again.

—

Fred Wilkie

Raindrops

Raindrops trickle

from

leaves

—

tears,

warm,

sad, lost inpuddles ofconfusion Life’s

moments

drizzle

landingall the

same

—

engulfedin a

streamof oblivion.

A

person

came

to

my

room. His

mind

high on a plane,

Or was

itso lowit

seemed

high?

Tension tore his

arm

off,

He

wishedfor agirl to fondlehis sore,

The

loneliness

was

very intense,

Soalonehe wasn’t with himself,

There

was

nothingI could say,

Nothing withthe color ofred, blueor silk.

I wanted to run out,

Refuse tobehis target,

Refuse to be shot with pain,

He

askedforhelp, shot

me

again,

And

reachedinto his

mind

for

more

ammo.

There he

saw

his thing,

someone

else’s thing,

His

own was

abrokennote,

grown

dusty.

I

saw

my

own, abrokenletter,

Growing

fat

from

the excess, andproud.

And

lifeisafatand skinnycow,

Both inthe

same

barn,

Both eating the

same

hay,

Two

silk

worms,

butone

makes

burlap,

Thisreminded

me

ofthe

X

and

O

of

my

books,

Secretly playingtick-tack-toe.

The

truth is,

when

youdon’tknow,

The

restlies in

what

you want.

Love

me

saidthe purple bird,

Latershelaidblack eggs.

I toreall

my

words up,

Iwhisperedtothe pillow,that

knew

my

face,

"What

theHell,”

Then

I

was

like him,

No

real reason, Iguess.

I tried to write apoem,

About

three people holding

hands

for two,

The

page

was

empty,

I couldn’tcry, notfor thethree, notfor the page.

Then

I

wondered

if

God

couldcry,

And

remembered

when

I did cry.

But

I’m not

unhappy

now,

Except

when

Isee old people,

But

notoldhouses thatbelongtome.

Iwrite goodpoetry inoldhouses.

He

was

frustratedbecause he

was

“camp,”

And

evenrebelsconform torebellion.

Maybe

he

was

insecure,withnotconforming,

But

that’sno excuseto die.

(He

didmention death next,

Death

isadog onthehighway,

And

the

meat

you eat.)

Tomorrow

he’lltalkaboutliving,

And

he’llaskfor hisextensioncord.back.

ShouldI,to

make

him

feelbetter,

Offer

him

some

Kool-Aid

—

Do

you

want

asix-inch Moon-Pie?

So

what

if

you

are frustrated?

Laugh

alittle, don’t

hunt

a reason

why,

No

onewill

know

you’reinsane.

And who

caresif Iheardfive sermons,

About

football,

Thomas

Wolfe, wine,

Leaving

home

and

God

underthetable.

The

season iscoldnow,

And

theairconditioneris cold,

The

heaterisoff, cold,

This has

happened

before.

I’veforgotten

my

own

age inthetransition.

He

wanted

totalk,butIdidn’tbothertoanswer,

He

didn’tnotice,soit’sallright.

—

StephanStojanovic

God

Angry

And

Redemption

Iffishandfowl andfolly

Were

allthe variance ofmen,

I couldunderstand erasures,

Or

ashift ofagalaxy orso.

But

sometimes

amid

complexities

isa simplicity

that

recommends

itself.

Which

is,I suppose,

Why

the rain stopped

The

Aliens

Shinnying

down

a thin

web

offlame

Come

thevisitors.

Aftera longsilence,amillenialwait

For

somethingto happen,

Anything more

abrupt thanlight-dark,

A

random

missile

from

nowhere,

The

blighted, bright landscapereceives

The

cumbersome

insect

from

somewhere.

As

itplantsclawedfeetandwaits.

Then

behold.

Out

ofitsmetallic bellyisborn

Slowly,amiracle.

Its larvaloffspringdescends, Stops, tiltsfishbowl head,

And

looks

up

inperfect silence

At

theearth.

—

JohnFosterWest

(Poet-in-Residence,

Appalachian State University)

Smoke

And

thus go

my

dreams,

As

the blue-white

smoke from

my

cigarette

Escaping

from

my

lungs.-In rings

and

crookedstrings. Driftingthroughtheair,

Writhing asif an unseenforce

Twists

them

as theypass.

Slowlyfading

—

thendisappearing.

Gone

—

leavingatell-taleodor

A

reminderthatthey

had

once been,

But

will

come no

more.

—

Stephen GranvilleShifflette

A

Colorful

Transparency

Hislove

was

solike

thewingsofa butterfly

—

sobeautifuland alluring yet

so delicate,

sohardto hold,

soeasy tolose, and

soeasyto injure.

Icould not pass itup.

Ihadtocatch it

though

such adifficult task

and

I foundit

and I held it,

butnotfor long, no,not forlong.

Butterflies

must

flit.

They

can never bestill.

They must

flyagain

so

I let

him

go.

Ilet

him

fly

away

butatinge of color

was

leftto me.

A

tinge of fire-colored

powder

Was

lefton

my

fingertips

and itspread over

me

but

I realized

thathe

had

togo

though heleftfor

me

a part of himself.

I wonder, aboutthe

crumbs

I’ll make,

When

my

life falls,

Tumbles

tothe

wet

floor,

To

becarried off

by

mice

Who’ll think, I’m cake or bread,

Unaware

thatI

was

life.

Fallenbecauseof you,

And

your

mind

inflationmachine

Which

isprospering

by

my

fall.

But

I’m not dead,I ..

.

Why

?

And

Iwish I were,

And

you with me.

Irrational thoughtsays,It’s fair,

And

my

crumbs

crumblewet,

Intomicehands,

Who

carry

me

away, intendingtofeast.

You

hand them

acupof

my

blood,

They

drink,thoughI’mnot dead,

Onlyunableto function,

Separated

by

tenmicestomachs.

—

StephanStojanovic

Like

The

Rain

This

morning

therain fell

sosoftand gentle.

And

withit,

I fell.

It’sfalling harder now.

And

with it,

I fall.

The

rain falls,

and

sinks intotheground

;

Onlytoevaporate,

andfall again.

When

theclouds are espoused andgivebirth

I fall like the rain.

—

DonnaDeaton

Number

2002 Minus

2000

The

free

mind

—

an individual indestructible.

Living each day

tobetter

tomorrow

but hindered

by

thatforwhich

it isliving.

Ignoranceabounding

freedom subsiding

noreleasebutpain.

By

their

own

laziness they areblinded,

no

more

talking revolution, shall itbe?

Thereshe stood as ifsent

by

the sun,

To

enlighten thedarkness in

me

and

my

World,

Tryingto

show

me

the

way

to a life,

But where

am

I?

All alone,

Tormented,

Wondering where

to go.

Shewill helpme, Iknow,

I loveherso.

The

sun’smessenger has cured me,

No

more

fearnorpain,

Or

wonderingwhich

way

I

must

turn.

Shehas

showed

me

thepathto infinity and

Freedom from

the world.

Ilove her.

Finally I

know

thefactsand faults of

my

Own

doing,

I

know

why

I

am

living,

Breathing, Searching,

And

why

the world islikeit is ?

Without

her helpI would havesurelyperished

Into thebackground oftime,

Never

to

know

the secrets of living orthe

Ways

to survive.

I

owe

my

lifeand

mind

to her

—

The

raysofhope andlove, I know,

Iloveher so.

Sounds

The

dead leaves

make

sharp, crackling noises as he

h

^‘

dry ground.

The

birds in the trees

surrountag him

«t

most> 'of

them

_

ZttSPfSZZ

Z-L

Glistening,

listen-ing.

As

he listens he thinks

maybe home

is just tto

»“f

di

"^"s

glarZS

only the sounds of a slow beating

drum

rumbling

m

the distance

r

™;

d k g

S

and the sounds

become

louder as they get closer

and

close. Its

and

distinguish between the sounds of the unknown.

^

rds

H

Se

7

no t

;

s St h ° e P

£

alone.

the crackling leaves

become

a sign that

someone

i

g without alarming

How

would he let his comrades

know

that theie is

someone

ca _of

the visitor? If he could pick the sounds out of the darkness, ne

coum

c

,tht in

tLt

direction.

Who

is

making

the grass

sway from

side to side?

, a _{„„ yviqa p hird above draws} the attention of the red lights flashing

The

h fe

.^

_t nd It ° t ’

0 stay within the sounds of the slow beating drums.

Maybe

the on the object. It seems to

y

of other

anima

ls awake.

The

sound of a limb

crickets have gone to b d , _,

d the sounds of all the animals have stopped

ZTa

ThT^ra

king

oTlimb

l

and

rustliW of leaves relate to the sounds of a day light

T

The

sound is slow and loud.

He

realizes something

is out there, so he

must wake

Wa

^lnwlv everyone has his eyes peering around to see if anything is ou o

ZIZ

mS

ts relevant

and

each person is tryingto distinguish it

from

place.

Th

fe

elmg

o

_[™

010

increased heart beat detects tension and fear that

some-of feet and the popping and flashing continues.

A

quick passing g

fnd

deflect

The

P

reLrn

of the

same

sounds

from

within are louder untd all is so gu.ck

that it causes one to

jump

as each sound comes.

A

scream

from

one that seems familiar is only a short distance

«w«£

As

aU

the

noise Quits for awhile the quick breaths

come

just in to the

left, but the darkness hides

the face

The

breathing becomes

heavy and

the sounds

of pain continue. e _P

heL

is heard, but an

answer

to it takes time.

The

sound

of help seems hopeful and the

sound’s relief

seem

sure, then the quick breathing detects

fear, the call foi help is

sounded. Oh, if time

was

as fast as it seems and yet only

moments

have passed.

Ther

is a squirm of pain

from

a feeling of

steel separating skin and the structures of the

chest

One

last moan, one last breath, then the scampering of

feet, through the wild

grass

and

away

into the woods.

Once I thoughtthatI couldn’t

beartohurt them,

But

they have

shown

me

otherwise.

Isoughtapproval in their eyes,

they, however,

Cared not

what

I saw.

And when

they

showed

me

that

they didnotcare,

Ifound that I could careless,

too.

Now

itdoesn'tmatter anymore.

Iwill

show them what

I see.

—

Carolyn Bridges

The

Living

and

the

Dead

Let not thelivingargue with the dead, the intensely alive _ones

whose

burningdesireforfreedom andjustice

in the growingdarknessofoppression

suddenly burstsinto consumingflames.

We

honor martyrsofthe past

who

died tied fastto cruel stakes,

flamingtinder forthe torches

ofthe evil they opposed,

and shakeour headsin puzzlement

at untied

men

today

who

kindle the fires for their

own

sacrifice,

thatin the light

from

theirbrightburningbodies

in life and in death

we

might

see

more

clearly evil’sface.

Letnot thedead arguewith the living,

thezombied dead

who

lifthands andvoice

onlyin loud defenseof sweetself-interest,

or frenzied, calloused labor structuring strongsecurity.

The

livinghave foundreal life

in ropes of relationship

that bind

them

to both

God

and

man,

andlove that thrusts

them

across lonely wastelands tostandclosebeside the shackled, hurt, and

hungry

until theirheartsand stomachs

know

a kindred emptiness and ankles bleed

from

sad oppression’s chain,

then turn to do

what

lifeand love demand.

Buy

a Sprite

And

pour it intothe dirt

—

Then

takeoffyourP.F. Flyers

And

stomp

throughthe Carbonated

Mud

. . .

Cut

the grass

One

o'clock Saturday

morning

With

your grandfather

Holdingthe flashlight . . .

Tie your

Timex

watch

To

thehind legsof a bull elephant

And

dunk him

In chocolate milk . . .

But Never

Clean yourfingernails

%

With

alovenote

From

yourgirlfriend.

\

—

RegAlexander

I just sithere and

wonder

aboutdifferent things . . .

mostly the things I

cannot understand.

I

wonder

why

_{people are}

'different'

from

otherpeople.

Am

I differentbecause

I

am

different, orbecause

my

clothes,

my

skin,

my

hair

is notlikeyours?

What

makes

me

different?

My

God

is not different . . .

Onlythe

way

Ifeel

him

is unlikethe

way

youfeel him.

. . . oh,

why

do

we

haveto

seek out all the differencesin each other,

I can't understand

why

peopledon’t understand,

and

wonder

ifwe'll ever

see throughthe ice

into the

warm.

—

CarolNeese Prejudice

why?

stop

when?

Tomorrow.

But tomorrow

never comes.

The

Mooring

Horizon

Neon

crowds gathered,

by the

way

I went,

screamingall,

theyshould bewhispering.

Iheard withoutlistening,

Iwatched and

saw

darkness,

where

some had

been.

Others, obscuringside streets,

hung

inthe darkness.

All

became

oneway,

the sky isevening, clouds darkened, night

was

bornofday.

The

sea

came

toward me,

as

much

asI

went

towardit.

Drowning

lights atits end.

Waves

undernightly cumulus,

grew

ofdead dark water.

They

died, inacrash,

and each ofthe menagerie,

of

foam

creatures,

and silver pearls,

died under midnightskies.

Taken

down,

inwhirlpools of swirlingsurf,

to asphalt,

atthe endingofthe road.

Water

around

my

feet,

indicated,

my

solesweren’ttoo neat.

Feet being

a partofme,

I left

my

shoesto sink,

butalaw

was

broken,

the Coastguard invaded thestreet,

to search for

my

soles.

Barefeetbeingindecent,

butin theirbolderbold,

whitehulls.

They wanted

toapprehend,

my

soul,

my

God

!

They

werejusta little confused,

as anyoneina steel hull,

couldbe.

Escape, I thought,andfled,

runninguntil Ireachedapier

that smelledoftar, and deadfish. All other

ways

blocked,

Iran out abovethe water,

tothe end,and then, onestepmore.

I ranon,

a whiteand black marble, span, near the shore

ofa gentle rolling sea,

that

made

the sounds, nothingelse

moved

orbreathed.

the

way

infrontofme,

swaying,toward

the mooringhorizon.

Greenhills,

as tranquil as the sea ofglass.

Yellowflowers,

witha light smell,

flowedas curbs, alongagoldenroad.

A

river joined me,

an exhaustedfugitive,

rana rockyroad, on the otherside.

With

my

leave,

my

mind was

split,

divided eyes seeing, paths underfeet.

Looking atmyself,

while Ilooked atme.

Both toldme,

they weren’t the same.

The

rocky road ended,

in the river,

and I

was

drowning,

as I watched,and thought,

from

the otherside.

My

soul joined another, then others,

making

earth,sea, and sky,

my

home.

I

wonder

if I’ve died.

Vi'tnam

Jungle country

Many

young

men

diedthere

Bombing,

fighting, snipers, supplies

War

land

—

JohnHunt

The Fawn

Dainty,fragile

Swift,alert, camouflaged

Hearsa growl, hides underfoliage

Young

deer

—

Scott Carpenter ,

1

he

World

BlueGreen

Red

Brown

Spins on axisgoes round

Riots wars poverty drugsdeath

A

Mess

Monkeys

—JeffMagill

Spidery, quick

Swings from

the trees with ease

Having

funjustswinging around

Small apes

—

June Bridges

These four descriptive

poems

were

composed

by thirteen-year-old children

who

are

members

of an experimental class in writing taught by Mrs. Glenda Blanton,

West

Cleveland School, Boiling Springs.

They

were written on assignment and conform to a specified rhythmic pattern.

Restlessness. I

want

tobe free justa littlelonger

but canI do this?

jump

and end

my

life?

do I havesufficientcourage?

I don'tthink I do

restlessness I

want

tobefree I'm scared help

me

death is waiting so farbelow

my

onlyfriend on concrete slabs asphalt blue skies

summer

day

may

last

take agood look nightwill

come

enjoy itpeople

allofyou

down

there.

I

wonder what

you're thinking

like tinylittle . . .

Ineverthought you had minds

what

are you livingfor?

Can'tyou see it’shopeless?

no, Idon'tguessyou can slaves bound toyourselves

I

want

tobe free restlessness onlya

few

seconds

more

Ihave to die

Ican't

jump

but:

must

God

help

me

give

me

strengthto do

what must

be done grant

me

couragein

my

final

moment

ofneed . . .

God

helplessness blue sunshine falling huis clos stop

me

spinning green flying free help

God

have

mercy

upon . . .

I hear the echoes of your laughter in everything I do. It creeps upon

me

like the

waking

of the sun . . . yes, this feeling I have for you.

I

want

to be with

you

when

the shades of night are falling . . . while

the

shadows

silently cover the land.

When

the sleepy birds to loving

mates

are calling ... I

want

the gentleness of your hand.

To

be with

you

when

my

soul is thrilled with passion . . .

when

Fm

tired

and

depressed; I

want

you

when

in lazy, slumberous fashion

my

senses need the haven of your chest.

If I could be with you through every changing season . . . see your

face with such a

warm

smile ... it

would

make

me

love

you

far

more

than

any

rhyme

or reason,

Fd

love you, love you, love you all the while.

—

Clara Eggleston

Windless

Dawn

Lifebreathingin thedark

ofcities,

Where

crimson

mornings

Are

duller,

As

if

shadows

ofnature’s

deadbody,

Were

in acoffin over theroofs,

And

nothing butlivingbodies

And

dead soulsbelow.

—

JimEstes

Life

In every person alazy riverflows

Nothing

canstopit

It

was meant

to

grow

Taking

each life

Wherever

itgoes

Flowing

up

and aroundboulders

Tryingtolift littlestones

Stoppingunder

weeping

trees

Carryingallourcolored leaves.

Inevery

newborn

A

lazy river starts to flow.

The

Vanishing

American

Fade

dimly, light ofthepast,

With

yourgoldenskin of dulling hue.

Passintotheeternal

memory

of history.

Chase no

more

thewanderingstar

Guiding you

from

winter’schillingattack.

Chase no

more

thepath of

war

With

paintedfaceandwarrior’s courage.

Leave behind the smellofthe buffalo herd

To wander

alone ondesertedplains

—

Plains once hallowed

by smoking

fires

And

the dances of

war

andforblessed showers.

Run

no

more

withfleeting strides . . .

Ride no

more

yourswiftest paint.

Softlyechoes thedyingcryofthe

mourning

song,

Softlyfades thelastofthe race

who

firstinhabitedthis land.

—

DavidFord

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To

lookback

ifonlyto hold amountain’s

image

inmind,solidlycaptive of the

mentalsphere, enclosed,

finallyheld

and

graspedincertitude.

To

visualizethe

rampant

self’sfeet solidlyplantedupon

solid, immobile,

and

timelessrock

;

togaze

from

that stationary

and

satisfactorystance afteragony’sdemise

and

see

what

ispassed, the turbulence ofwhite water

roaringasinfloodinavalley,

thepathscompleted,

thebrambles ragedagainst

and

tom

against,

thedesire forbeingable tolook back.

A

wistful- consolationoffered tothe habitof despair.

Wished

for, sought,

but

what

iffound,

bumped

into

amid

the carcasses?

Willsilence suffice?

The

devious

dream

numbed

intoanodynic metaphor,

the

mountain

ofrock?

—

Fred Wilkie

On

The

Highway,

As

We

Pass

Wonder how

itfeelstobe achicken traveling 65 miles

an hour

down

the

highway

?

At

least 1000chickens

know

thismorning.

Imagine.Horsesstand intransit, butchickens sit

inpeace,eyes straight ahead, feathers protruding,

Waving

with the wind.

We

skim through theirsnow.

White

verticals,

row

onrow,butbreathing, not breathless

;

warm,

notcold; soft, notstone.

The

cab: “McAllister

Egg

Marketing

Company.”

Well.

How

niceto

know

they’re not headedfor slaughter,butlaying.

No

wonder

they’re

happy

. . .they know. (They’re either

comforted

by

fheir driver-orelsethey canread.)

At

any

rate

Let usapplaud. Life wins.

Thoughts

on

Veterans

Day

Why

must

men

taint thisworld with hell

ofdread, napalm,

and

burstingshell

tosearearth’sface

and

flesh ofmen,

cause stench ofdeathto ridethewind, leaving

wandering

orphanscrying?

Scorched earth stained red

from

wounds

offrightenedyouths

feelingfor thefirsttime, alone

—

pain,harsh,

and

deep,

and

personal,

and

the

awesome

shock offacing

stark death’s sure approach.

And

brother’s bloodcries

from

the earth

toblend withthatsad

symphony,

themingled sobsof grief

and

pain

with screamingsiren,thudding mortarshells.

The

wind

thatblows on other shores

its

pungent

breath,

disturbingcocktail partiesgay,

solemn prayer meetings and the P.TA.,

collegecampus, street,

and

Congress, siroccofans a smoulderingconscience.

Leaving

wandering

orphans crying,

orphans swiftbegot

by

blazing gun,

or bought, or forcedin

hunger

fierce.

Orphans

wandering, seeking,crying

fora crust

and

open arms,

forabreast

and

mother’s song.

Back from

the

war

come

soldier-boysswift

grown

to

men

with gaping

wounds

thatdonot

show

inspiritsbruisedandbattered minds.

Still others

come

home

inboxes

and

onstretchers

to join their crushed companions ofother

wars

under green grass

and

whitecrosses,

oncleanbeds in sterile

wards

where

theylielike dollswith missingparts,

and

broken heads

and

hearts.

Thoughts

of

a

Mind

in

Motion

Itspetals

were

yellowwithglistening rain drops.

It

was

delicate.

Then

shark

men

with sharkeyes came.

The

flower

was

destroyed.

Why?

Couldthey seenothing?

Do

theyseenothing?

Intricate,things are.

That's

why

theyare.

He

withthe sharkeyeswillneverlook.

Doesn'tcare.

Everythingissilenceandpeace.

in

me

Love

issilenceand peace and completelywithin. Bodies areshells,beautiful,butshells.

The

insideofthe shell issomething

immense

andpuzzling, mysteriouslybeautiful.

It isreal, ifitcanbefound, but

many

times isn't.

What

is it

when

the shellistorn

away

?

One

does notsee it.

One

feelsit.

One

isit,it isone.

A

whole.

Itisjustlikethe others at times,butagain

it isso different, so unique. Itis

—

it can'tbenamed.

The

shark

man

won'tfindit.

Refusesto understandit.

He

iscaught upingreedandconceit.

They

won'tletgoofhim.

He

thinksthey arelife.

He

won'tknow,won't everknow.

Will dieinblindignorance andfear.

Pity him.

He

istobe pitied.

Love

isone ofthebeautiful things.

Thank God

for it.

Itisthe knowledge.

People try tosetit down.

Try

tocapture it,try to define it.

When

talking ofit

we

findthat itis ugly

when

captured. Don't

define it.Justhave it, allover. Don'tletgo. Believein it.

Flowers arelivingwith peace.

Wish

I could.

Hope

Ifind it.

Hope

everyonedoes.

Wish

I couldput

down what

Ifeel alotof times.

But

fear

won't letme. It'sa hang-up.

Scared ofalotof things.

Violentfacesand

minds

that shutoff.

Scared of beautiful things, even in this hour.

I'vefoundthe truth in

some

cases

And

shallkeep looking.

One

Soul

—

Alone

Floating

—

a leaf ona crystal lake

—

onesoul, alone.

Soaring

—

agull inthe early

morning

sun

—

one soul, unseen.

Drifting—

a snowflake spiralingthrough thesky

—

onesoul, untouched. Fleeing

—

deftlyas adoe

from

an unseenterror

—

onesoul,

forgotten.

For

onebriefsecondI fingered

Your

life

and

thenyous

1

1

P ped

from

my

grasp

as quicklyas you

had come

leavingbehind

nothingbut a hot

dying

ember

of

your

memory.

—

Clara Eggleston

Beauty

One'sbeauty liesin his heart, notontheface,

made

up.

The

beautyto loveandletlove

to share happiness

—

tocomfort loneliness.

Beauty, the ugliest

Person

may

havethe

most

of.

Only he

—

with

God

—

knows.

__

We

wantedto dosomething

But

we

were afraidto.

We

wanted to seechange

But

we

didn't

want

tochange.

We

wantedto love

But

we

didn't

know

how.

We

wantedpeace

But

we

wouldn't quit fighting.

We

wanted freedom

But

we

wouldn'tlet go.

We

hadachance

But

we

blew it.

Isit quietly,

thinking.

Undisturbed except

by

those

thoughts that are uncomfortable,

And

theyareeasily dismissed. Solitude,

And

itcovers and settles over

me

likea

morning

mistthat

caresses the countryside.

This, I tellmyself

must

behappiness.

Inaworldof

wrongs

But

am

I really

happy

?

that are right

and

rights, that arewrong. PerhapsIhave simply

become

The

cast ofall

Accustomed

toloneliness.

is

unknown,

—

_David C. Furcron

and

theyare not

what

theyare.

Man

becomes

nature,

and

nature,

a captive of

man,

but

we

die

and

are placed

inthe earth

to face the sky.

Only

our captor

knows why.

—

Jim Estes

Disappointment

The

disappointmentgripped

me

Like a thingwithout a conscience.

I said, “Itcannotbe,”

Yet

itheldtenaciously.

Iblinked

and

triedto shakeitfree

;

But

each time I turned,Ifaced thecoldreality.

“Surely

you

canadjust,” I said

;

“You must

use yourhead.

Remember,

eventhe pain

you

feelis evidenceofyourpotential

And

gives

meaning

toeverythingexistential.”

Laments

on

Teaching

Isitworthit?

Why

worry aboutstudents?

Tired, sleepy ...stacksofpapersto gTade.

Your

teachingabilityis onlyasgoodas thegrade

the studentreceives.

No

oneappreciatesyou.

Are

theyinschool tododgethe draftorbecause

it’s expectedof

them

?

They’reonlyinyourclassbecause it’srequired.

You’re arollbook

who

sketches unintelligibleson

overheadprojectors.

Will allthose seeminglyunnecessary lecturesprove usefulthroughoutlife?

You

pour your God-given strength andabilities into

creating learningsituations.

You

havea thanklessjob.

Look

atall thoserowsofintelligentbeings. .. don’t

theycare that yeast produce ascospores orPhytophthera

causes potatoblight?

Does anyone have anopinion oraquestion,youhopefully

ask.

Have

you gottenthrough to

them

?

All alongyou

knew

factswerebasesfor thinking. Facts stimulate questions . . . aretheyreally facts?

“Sir, alcoholwhichisproduced by yeast,isa stimulant such ascoff einin coffee.

Why

not utilize

alcoholinsteadofoutlawingit?”

You

ask theclass forananswer. “Sir, alcoholis a depressant, yetgivesthefeeling of stimulation.

I read thatabout7,000braincellsarekilledbyone

ounceofalcohol. Moral disadvantages arewell known.”

Your

hope isrealized.Students do seek factsand sharethem. “Didn’t potatoblightcause theIrish

Famine

of 1845

witha resultant

mass

migrationtothe UnitedStates?”

“Farm

priceshaveactuallydecreased while foodprices

have

more

thandoubledsince 1950,” Students volunteer pastandrecenthistory.

Yes, BiologyisLiving... and didn’tyou

know

all

along that students care?

He

Who

Watches

Nauseated

by

sights ungodly,

Senses reeled,

momentary

thoughts.

Heaving, retching, hestands before us,

Rising

from

the burialplots.

Slitheringthrough the mists ofmidnight,

Truesome

pleasure

from

a ghoul

Hesitating not a

moment,

Spade

to earth, his deed

must

fool.

Observing thenthe vigilante,

Moving

with deliberate speed.

Possessed

by

souls ofthose long moulded.

Justice

was

theirhorrid need.

Revealedinthe

morning

sunlight,

Peoplewalking

by

would see.

Horridjustice ofthe resting,

Body-robberin atree.

—

RickHerring

Today

islife

A

pattern offreedom passive careless forgotten Lostinpeacefulness

And

quietcontemplation

A

blanket offoglifted

from

thesideofthe

mountain

And

revealed below, a solemn

summer

morning.

The

Passing

of

a

Friend

As

Isitand

watch

theclock,

I-canseeihe ever-moving hands

Tickingoffthe secondsminutes hours.

From

beneath

me

I canfeel

The

lasthours of

summer

Slippingintoa seaof infinity

Never more

tobe seen. . .

Onlytobe

remembered

with deep sighs

As

we

gazeahead tothe horizon

To

seetheominousclouds ofwinter

Approaching.

And

shuddertothe touch

Of

the wind’sicy fingertips

For

now we

must pay

For

ourglorious

summer

days

And

enchanting

summer

nights

For winteriswith us.

Oh, gloomy,bleak, forlorn skies

That

once

were

soblue

And

thebansheeswailinthedark

As

gusts offury passour

window

panes. Nature’s scheduleis

demanding

That

herseasonsbeforeverturning.

Thus,friends,

we

must

learn

To

livefor

now

And

lookunto the spring

When

theleavesandgrass are green

And

summer

daysoffreedom

Will

come

again.

—

Stephen GranvilleShifflette

I

Remember

I

remember

when

we

walked through

shadytrees ofgreenandheldhands

tightagainst therain, and

we

talked together.

I

remember

when we

slippedand

fell

down

pilesoftime,andonly

when

these thingsI haveare gone,

sowill you betoo.