Reflections 1992

Gardner-Webb University

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Reflections

Literary Societies and Publications

1992

Reflections 1992

Kathy Henson

Barry Martin

Joyce Compton Brown

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Recommended Citation

Gardner-Webb University Literary Publications, Reflections, 1992, series 4, Box 5, University Archives, Gardner-Webb University,

Boiling Springs, NC.

REFLECTIONS

Volume

24

1992

STAFF

Kathy Henson,

Editor

Barry

W.

Martin,

Assistant

Editor

Sandy

Basinger

Heather

Fortune

DeEtta A.

Hawks

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Shannon

M.

Parry

Pamela

Price

Brian Siatkowski

Nina

Schnipper

FACULTY ADVISOR

Joyce

Compton

Brown

CONTRIBUTORS

Michael

Carreom

Ayala

,

freshman

biology

major

Sandy

Basinger,

senior

English

major

Susan

Bell, instructor

of

art

Ernest

Blankenship, professor

of

English

Joyce

Compton

Brown,

professor

of

English

Kathleen

Brown,

freshman

Heather

Fortune,

freshman

English

and

Spanish

major

Dunsey

Harper,

senior social sciences

major

Kathy

Henson,

senior

English

major

Tom

Jones, professor

of

biology

Markell Lynch,

junior

communications major

Barry

W.

Martin,

senior

communications major

Johnny

Leon

Morris, junior English

major

Shannon

M.

Parry,

senior

English

major

Pamela

Price,

sophomore

biology

major

Brian

Siatkowski,

sophomore

Bill

Stowe,

professor

of communications

and

English

Nina

Schnipper,

senior

psychology

major

Jim

Taylor,

professor

of

English

Jonathan Turner,

senior

sacred

music major

Table

of

Contents

Markell

Lynch

From Red

to

Grey

1

Dunsey

Harper

Strength

&

Value

3

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Plea

4

Barry

W.

Martin

Cape

4

Andrew

White

The

Old Playground

Slide

5

Shannon

M.

Parry

Murder

in

the

Church

6

Bill

Stowe

Untitled

7

Susan

Carlisle Bell

Cabbage

Contours

8

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Crucible

9

Pamela

Price

My

Love

10

Tom

Jones

THIS

IS

MY

FATHER’S

WORLD—

1990s

11

Barry

W.

Martin

Manuscript

of a

Young

Reformer

12

Brian Siatkowski

Norm

15

Kathy

Henson

The

Yelling

Man

16

Kathleen

Brown

Laughter

17

Sandy

Basinger

To

Know

Me

18

Andrew

White

The

Dance

of

the Firefly

18

Barry

W.

Martin

Hazy

Late

Afternoon

Sun

19

Jim

Taylor

Stumps and

Sons

20

Ernest Blankenship

Loss

and Gain

23

Michael

Carreon

Ayala

Man

in

Silhouette

24

Nina

Schnipper

Camping

25

Heather Fortune

Solace

26

Ernest Blankenship

Poets

and

Statesmen

27

Brian Siatkowski

Crossing

28

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Amputating

the

Essence

29

Markell

Lynch

“You

can’t

touch

me...”

30

Joyce

Compton Brown

Tractor

Pull

Ambiance

31

Shannon

M.

Parry

Clouds

32

Ernest Blankenship

The

Sum

33

Nina

Schnipper

Western

civilization

cannot be

accredited

for

inventing the

marvelous

Paper

Clip

34

Joyce

Compton Brown

Camping

35

Markell

Lynch

The

Rain

36

Barry

W.

Martin

Cutting

37

Johnny

Leon

Morris

That

Movement

That

Was

Civil

for

Rights

38

Literary

Contest

Each

yeartheEnglishDepartmentofGardner-

Webb

Collegesponsors a

literary contestforall student submissionschosen forpublicationin

Reflections. Facultyandnonstudentsubmissionsarenoteligiblefor the

contest. All

works

arejudged

anonymously

by the finalcontest judges. This

year’sjudges

were

Dr. GaylePrice, Dr. Bill Stowe, andDr.

Jim

Taylor.

Awards

First Place:

From

Red

to

Grey

Marked

Lynch

Second

Place:

The

Yelling

Man

Kathy

Henson

Third

Place:

That

Movement

That

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Was

Civil for Rights

Honorable

Mention

Crucible

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Amputating

the

Essence

Johnny Leon

Morris

Manuscript

ofa

Young Reformer

Barry

W.

Martin

ART

CONTEST

The

ArtDepartment of

Gardner-Webb

College hassponsored an artcontest

forall studentsubmissionschosen forpublication inReflections. Facultyand nonstudent submissionsarenoteligible forthe contest. All

works

arejudged

anonymously

bythe fmal contest judges. Thisyear’sjudges

were

Susan Bell,

Chrystal Blalock, and

Ben

Carson.

AWARDS

First Place: Strength

and

Value

Dunsey

Harper

Second

Place:

Laughter

Kathleen

Brown

Third

Place: Reflections

of

Creation

Jonathan Turner

From Red

to

Grey

(atthe

Vietnam

Wir

Memorial)

1

A

draft list,

a duty roster,

name

after

name,

soldier after soldier

A

red list,

a deadlist,

the faceless

—

face

down

in the fields.

A

P.O.W. list,

anM.I.A. list,

in the

end—

a

presumed

deadlist.

name

after

name,

soldier after soldier

—

lost,

in

some

rainforest,

in

some

ricepaddy,

in

some

privilegedfile,

on

some

list.

name

after

name,

soldier after soldier,

engravedin blackgranite,

all turned grey.

2

name

after

name,

soldier aftersoldier,

the

Not Men:

crying

Not

tears,

hiding

Not

fears,

Vietnam:

soldier aftersoldier,

green-brown smeared

—

withstill,

wide

eyes, toowide,

trappedina scream:

dead.

name

after

name,

drippingred.

napalm, ground mines

snipers,Viet Cong:

Vietnam.

soldier aftersoldier,

returning

home,

to

Not Homes,

unwelcomed,

unparaded. Tryingto forget(the):

dead.

name

after

name,

soldier aftersoldier,

grey

on

black granite:

dead

men.

Markell

Lynch

Plea

(toBlair)

when

youarecapableof bendingthe solidimbroglios

thatwring and twineand coil

aboutyou

remember

thatI

am

a

weak

contortionistinlove.

Johnny

Leon

Morris

Cape

My

god

it

was

COLD

thatday

anor’easter Blasting through

wind

push and shoving against

silentcolossus Hatteras standing steadyingmyselfagainstaconstant onslaught

drywaves whipping

mane

North Carolina coast

—

like itshould bein

November

sky swallowedall the light

only greatterriblesurfspatrabid waves foamingatthe

mouth

roaring hollow

wind

sent loosestinging grains

sleetingacross thebeach

silentcolossus, silent

me

in

awe

Burry W. Martin

The Old Playground

Slide

Fire your ammunition

attheoldplaygroundslide.

Although ittaughtyouthat

what

goesup

alsomust

come

down,

you

throwstonesto exercise.

Were

yousorry

when

thecarousel

was

shut

down

because thehorses

losttheirpersonality?

When

was

thelasttimeyou countedtheir teeth

and

combed

their finehairagainstthegrain?

Children’s

dreams

lostinasandbox of ignoranceorperhapsdivinity.

Who’s

totellwhetherthe

maulingchildshould fall

from

the

swing or besaved by

The

Stranger?

Are

youafraid that the fun, the

imaginary friends will

jump

up

and

dance toanotherstation?

Takehold ofthe rail so nottoslip,

butslippingcan be funif

no

one’swatching.

It’s too often thatthe chains, fences,

barricadesofsteel

encompass

thelostareasof wandering.

Count

theflowers, paint thetrees, listen to the birds,pickthe fruitand

Come

down

the oldplayground slide into

my

sandbox of dreams.

Andrew

White

Murder

in

the

Church

Fasting within the flock

Missing the sightofit, thesoundofit, the

smelland tasteofit.

Dying from

so

much

life.

Suddenly—

itshungerstrikes again.

Bloodfalls likebitter tearsof

some

tom

love, at firstas frequent as Aprilrains, then asslowand continuousas aleaky faucet.

Bloodfalls in crystallizedraindrops, inanger and

in heat, crying out asthey

plummet

towards their

non-existence.

Blood falls

from

calloused hands, saturatedwith the

salty-drippings offear.

Cold fmgers clutch...

embrace...

savour...over zealousdeath.

Feasting

upon

the fallen

Loving the sightofit, thesound ofit, the

smelland tasteofit.

Becoming

alive from death.

Slowly

—

itshunger recedesagain.

Untitled

(On

the

anniversary

of

the

death

_of

a

colleague

and

friend)

He

would

havebeen 39 this month, But hedidn’t live to fear forty,

To worry about paunches andthinninghair,

Gains and lossesonapersonal ledger.

Crudely arrested potential

made

us hurt

then—

And

now.

When

a lifethatvital, thatloving,

Issnatched away,

we

havetohurt

Or

not feel atall, forever.

But ifhe canbrightenour livesno longer, In person,

at least hedoesn’thavetowatchus watching eachothergrowing

thick andthin together.

BillStowe

JII.

Crucible

(to

my

homegirls)

therearethose

thatgiggleand cackle atthe

oldblackand whiteprograms

ofthe

Ed

Sullivan

Show

ofthe

Chiffons andthe

Supremes

be-bopping

do-whopping

in featheredstraighthaired wigs.

because

that

way

they

can stifle the

chantsand spells that beautify

the blacksisters

that break

all those

flying

brooms

My

Love

Ilive in a bottle

With

my

only love

Her

presenceintoxicates

me

Anothersip, anotherhour

My

mind

issubdued

And

my

senses dulled She coursesthrough

my

veins

As

aparodyoflife

Her

affectionissharp

I bleedinside I lookin

my

mirror Onlyto seetheshell

Of

what

once

was

And

theghost

Of

whatcouldhavebeen

Then

I go backto

my

bottle

And

meetwith

my

loveragain.

THIS

IS

MY

FATHER’S

WORLD—

1990s*

THIS

IS

MY

FATHER’S

WORLD—

In

which

Iallow 40,000,000individuals to starve eachyear

AND

TO

MY

LISTENING

EARS—

come

the sounds ofautomobiles, industrial plants,

supersonicjets andoverly loudmusic

ALL NATURE

SINGS-exceptthe hundreds ofspecies

which

face extinctioneachyear

AND ROUND

ME

RINGS

THE

MUSIC OF

THE

SPHERES.

THIS

IS

MY

FATHER’S

WORLD—

Where

more

than

2000

lakesin theAdirondacks

which

usedto

supportabundantlife

now

containno vertebrate species

I

REST

(???)

ME

IN

THE

THOUGHT—

thatourcongress (which spends

more

timeon dirtyart),

is ever watchful ofour environmental needs

OF

ROCKS

AND

TREES—

even the70 square milesoftropical rainforest

which

are

denuded

eachday, and

where

the growth rateofeasternforest

treeshas decreasedby

34-50%

since 1950, and

where 70-80%

of

the adult trees whichblanketedMt. Mitchell in

my

childhood

are

now

dead,

OF

SKIES—

where

carbondioxide has increasedinconcentrationby

more

than

50%

since 1850 and

where

ourprotective ozone layeris

being attacked by chloroflurocarbons, methane, and hydrocarbons,

AND

SEAS—

where

upto

50%

ofthe shorelineis closedtofishing and

shellfishing duetotoxic andsepticwastes being present, and

where

ourbeachesare closeddue tocontaminated medical wastes, industrial wastes, and septic effluent

HIS

HANDS

THE

WONDERS

WROUGHT

Tom

Jones

*based on the

hymn

“This is

My

Father’sWorld” byMaltbie D. Babcock

Manuscript

_of

a

Young Reformer

It

was

my

lastyearatWest

Henderson

High. Senior English

was

very

much

thebeareverybody saiditwas.

The

latestatrocity—eachstudent hadtoteach a classsegment.

My

pariahs

were

two

poems

by

some

modem

authorIdon’tremember. English wasn’t

my

bag anyway; there

was

too

much

going

on

outsidetheclassroom. I

was

helping outwith theplay The

New Odd

Couple. Istayedafterschool forabouttwo andahalfhours everyday. Igot

home

right in timefor theeveningnews. Ilearned

more

fromthehalfhour

newscaststhanI did

from

seven hours ofschool.

I

remember

onenightin particular.

The Supreme

Courthad

made

a

ruling

on

an interesting case.

A

high schoolnewspaper’sstudenteditorhad

printedsomethingthat offendedthe school’sadministration. Theirdispute ended up in court.

The

editor maintainedthata high school

newspaper

had

freedom

ofthepressjustlikeany freeenterprise paper.

The

editor battledit

all the

way up

tothehighcourt. Iadmiredher courageandbelief in herself.

This

was

thefirstcaseofthisnature, andI

was

interestedin

how

the court

would

decide; I

knew

it

would

setaprecedent. It

seemed

to

me

the real

question was,

“Do

high school studentshaveconstitutional rights?”

When

they finally

handed

down

theirdecision, I

was

disappointed but notreally

surprised.

The Supreme

Courtruled againstthe editor. I

knew

thatthefull

ramifications ofthatdecision

would

notbe realizeduntil

much

later. I thought

to myself, “Ican voteand dieinawar, butIcan’t

buy

beer, and asfar as the

constitutionisconcerned, I don’texist.” Ienvisionedmyself dying inCentral

America

ortheMiddle Eastforfreedoms Inever

had

enjoyed. For

now

it

meant

there

was

somethinginteresting totalkaboutatschool tomorrow.

I

knew

my

classmatesreallyweren’tinterested in

what

was

goingon

in theworld.

They were

too busywithclothes, cars, andthemselves.

The

nextdayshouldn’thavesurprised me,butitdidanyway.

Nobody

hadany idea

whatI

was

talkingabout. There

were

a few, all thepeoplelikeme, nerds.

But even though they

knew

whatI

was

talking about, theyreallydidn’t

understand

what

it meant. All the principles ournation

was

founded

on

that

we

had been taughtto believeallourlives suddenlydidn’tapply tous. I

thought, “Ifthesepeoplereallyunderstand

what

thatruling means, andjust

don’tcare, thenthey are sheepanddeservetobe led to slaughter.” This, I

guess,

was

my

firstrun-inwith apathy. Thatonceunfamiliar faceis

now

all

too familiar. I

made

up

my

own

saying: “Enthusiasm

may

becontagious, but

apathy isepidemic.” I couldn’t talk tothose

who

knew

nothing anddidn’t

want to.

The

others

were

legitimately toobusy to listen.

And

I stillhad a

rehearsal and anEnglishassignment to do.

That

Wednesday

evening

was

final dressrehearsal. I rushed

home

after classes anddid

my

homework.

Isat

down

withthe

poem,

“An

Elementary School inaSlum.” I read aboutblank facesand ickygreywalls. I thoughtabout

my

rightsas a citizenand student. Iborroweda

book

of

criticism

from

thelibrary, andaftertoolongI figured outthe social

and

humanistic points the authortried to make.

Then

Ijotted afewnotes

down

and

marked some

places inthe book. Another

mundane,

laborious,

redundant, anduseless taskcomplete. I atesupperearlyandheaded backto

schooltoget readyfor theplay.

I ranthe lightboard fortheshow. It

was

easy, one changeforevery

act. Icould set thelightlevelsand relax until theend.

The

directoralways wanteda smallaudience forthe lastrehearsal to seeifthe

show was

going to

fly.

The

parentsand friendsofthe castand

crew

were

usually invited, along

withtheschool administration.

We

normallyhad an audience ofaboutfifteen

people. Until that night, no officialhad everbeento one performance.

The

theatregotdead quiet

when

the principalwalked in.

We

were

flattered thathe

choseto

come

thatnight.

The show was

alittle squirrelly, butitflew.

Our

usuallyemphatic crowd clappedand cheeredas

much

as ever.

The

principal

leftwithout sayingaword. Things

were

so “buzzy”

nobody

evennoticed.

We

all

came

toschool thenextday, confident inour performancelast

night.

Our

egotrips

were

cut short

when

the intercom announcedthat the cast

andthe director

were

toreportto the principal’s officeimmediately.

What

exactly took placein that officeI’llnever know. Ido

know

that avery worrieddirectorand aniratecast

came

outofit. Evidently, therehad been

some

dialogue andaction inthe playlastnightthathedidn’tagree with.

He

orderedthe dialogueand the blocking changed...openingnight. It’sagiven

that these

were

allthebest jokes.

He

didn’t evenletthe cast outofclasses to

rework them.

The company

had fromthree ten untilseven o’clocktoentirely

redothree scenes. I

was

outraged andIwasn’teveninconvenienced. It

was

theprincipleofit.

We

had

worked

for three

months

on the play to get the

timing, blocking, linesand set justright.

Now

thisexpletive

was

tellingus to

change allthatin threehours and fifty minutes. Ifhehad been worried about

thissortofthing, he hadplenty of timetodo somethingabout itbefore

openingday.

Not

onlythat, but everychange

made

was

takingtheproduction

furtheraway from the artist’s conception.

The

director typedup adisclaimerannouncing

what

had been done.

In it, the directorapologizedfor theartistic meritoftheplay.

He

also

named

who

was

responsible.

The

disclaimers

were

handedoutwitheachplaybill.

The

people took

them

andifthey noticed or cared, they didn’t

show

it. There

neverisabigcrowd forThursdaynight openers.

They

laughed and

seemed

nottonotice the little inconsistencies.

Laterthatnight, I

was

preparing

my

presentation fortomorrow, looking overthe materials,

making

sureIhad all

my

majorpoints, and practicing readingthepoems.

The

day’sevents

were

running through

my

consciousness. Istill hadthatcourtrulingintheback of

my

head. I noticed

my

copy

ofFahrenheit451

on

thebookshelf.

English

was

thirdperiod. Iwalked intoclass-books, criticism,

notes, andFahrenheit451 under

my

arm. Three people

were

ahead of me. I

hadplenty oftimeto getnervous and calm again severaltimes.

The

assignmentcalled forabout fifteenminutesperpresentation. Finally, Mrs.

Gorsuch

called

my

name. I stoodinfrontoftheclass. Ibegana little

roughly, butI

knew

my

stuff. Icalmly andeffectivelyread thepoems, gave severalinterpretations, including

my

own, andexplained each, the symbols,

the metaphors, and asked opinionsoftheclass. Afterthat three minutes, I

putthe criticismandnotes away, took outtwosheetsof paper andFahrenheit

and began

my

real lesson.

“Maybe

Ishouldn’tdo this, but...” I beganbytelling

them

about

that

Supreme

Courtcase.

Once

Ihad everybody’sattention, I told

them

about yesterday’sevents. I took outthe

Ray

Bradburyepilogueand read several passages aloud.

My

personal favoriteisthebitaboutschool officialsandtheir

“mush-milk teeth.” Surprisingly, eventheteacher

was

sympathetic—even supportive. She hada copyofthe disclaimer.

Nobody

sleptthrough

my

presentation. IbelieveIopeneda feweyes thatmorning. All that adult stuff

reallydoes affect us.

I havea

few

otherobservations aboutthe

whole

affair.

My

gradefor

instancedidn’toccurto

me

until laterthatday. I

went

bytheclassroom to see.

IfaredbetterthanI thought; I

made

afull lettergrade abovea friend

who

reallydiddo thecompleteassignment.

More

people

came

outthat nightto

see the play thanallthepreviousplays’ attendance counts put together for the

past three years. I

was

gladtosee them, butalsosaddened.

They were

there only outofcuriosity.

The draw

of controversy is stillamazing. Justwatch Geraldo.

Barry

W. Martin

Norm

The

littlechildliessecure.

His dreamssafe inside.

The

bearheholdswatches overhim.

The

furry faceis theboy’sbest friend.

Remember.

Imagine.

The

day

when

freedom

was

astep away. O.K. It still is, only

now

it’s offacliff.

Take yourbear, yourtrustand faith.

Floatawayacross thewaves. Across the dessert.

Take intothe horizon, the past.

Remember.

Imagine.

The

time a tear

would

soakintoa teddy’s

paw.

A

day

when

yourbiggestworry

was

To misplacea true friend.

The

Yelling

Man

You

told

me

aboutfire andfear for

fortyyears

even though I’monly twenty-two.

Butnine yearsof

CONVICTION

iseternity ifyou’rehangingover

Hell.

I don’twant to sitat your black shiny feet

or kneel at youraltar,

fill yourbrassplatesor cringeunderneath

your scowling (oh, butloving!)

God

anymore

Yelling

Man.

Second

Place

Laughter

To

Know

Me

Creep inside

my

heart

Feel thesoftness ofthe concavewalls

See

what

they are

made

of

Feelthe intense, steady beat

See

what

makes

itincrease anddiminish

Ifyou doallthese things Unmercifullyandunselfishly

You

will

know

me!

Sandy

Basinger

The

Dance

of

the

Firefly

How

many

weeks

inanhour,

how many

months

inaday?

Count

theflowers says who, saysthe spottedfirefly.

Count

thewrinklesinthecrease of

arock

Fightthe sunpeople,

Killthe ocean with

a

touch ofindigo.

Singthe songthe Asians sing, the

wedding

song.

The

harp plays

the melancholy afternoon Sunday eveningraindance ofthe

Firefly

Hazy

Late

Afternoon

Sun

Hazy, lateafternoonsunsears

my

eyes shut exhaustionfills

my

earsandbrain with fuzzy

the grip loosenson thewheel

my

head...ever...so...slowly...bends

,

thecarbegins toveer,

my

mortality slamsinto

me

likea .45 slug,

this is

my

life racing

madly

frompointtopointwhile notbelongingat either,

clearas crystal, haunting aswhalesong.

let theangelsweep.

Ihaveclaimed the night, likeso

many

others,

nightfall, dark windsrattle the hollowlimbsoftrees,

misty fog, theworld filledwithsoft, thick, wetcotton encasedin crystalline

H

2 O.

running...where? willI everget there

imitation lightpasses throughskeleton trees

producingholographic shadowsin themidnightfog.

clear as crystal, hauntingaswhalesong.

hurtlingthrougha midnightfog so majestic

iteven

makes

Shoney’s lookpoetic,

someday

may

find

me

naked and muddy, howling inthemoonlight

now

I’mburning, consuming, running, to...from...

andit’s gettinghard totell the differencebetween

memories

and dreams.

Barry

W. Martin

Stumps

and

Sons

TodayIresolve topurge

my

side ofthis

claustrophobic closetbeforeI losea finger betweenthetrousers

clamp

andtheblack-bent dry cleanershangerlurking inthedark shadows

among

theoldshirts saggingin

retirement.

Butall Iwant

now

isthegreenflannelwith

collarfrayedand middlebutton missing, gone

likePa

who

keptitinthepantry forquick wintry foraysinto hisbackyardtofeed the birdsandhis

nomadic

square-jawedcat,

Bachelor.

I leave themisshapenrodto rockas though abandoned bychildrencalled indoors

from

theirsee-saws. ForI mustsocialize with

stump

andson.

One

must berealisticwithstumps, I recall

Pasaying.

The

benefits yougetmight be

more

in the satisfactionofthe

work

than inthe

notionthatyou can actually

move

something so deeply rooted; ask anycynic. ButI

must

try.

Soon

Ihavetoolssurrounding thestump, bent

towardthe housethe

way

it fell

when Hugo

roared through. Cuttingthepine

was

theeasy

part. I think to thetree: See, Ihavepick,

shovel,hoe, rake, axe, wedge, and

sledge-hammer.

You

may

stillbe there

when

thisday ends, butImust be reckoned with.

Soon

thegreen flannel feels

damp,

a

good

dampness

overthe tired muscles thatalready

tell

me

thatIwill be thankful for the

exercise. I siton the stump andsee son in

thebackyard, raking leaves

from

under the

holly tree.

He

has attwelve arisen early for

this taskandhis

moves

arethe methodical ones ofnightpeople outoftheirelement.

He

wears the

brown

trench coat

from

high school

daysand the racquetballshoesIdidn’tlike

and passedon.

“You

always give

me

the shoesyoudon’t want,” he oncesaid,not

knowing

how

particularIcan be

—

about shoes, stumps and

sons

among

other things.

Now

heleaves

theholly, freeing the restlessredbirdstovisit

the feeder, andjoins

me

atthestump.

“What

am

I supposedto do withthe leaves

on

the roof?” heasks.

“Throw them

in theyard.”

Son

staresat thestump.

“Why

don’tyoujust

leave it?”

“Becauseitdoesn’tbelong anymore,”I say,

notreally

knowing

why. “Buttake

my

advice

andavoidgetting too sentimentalabout stumps.”

Son

repliesstoically, asishiscustom,

other mattersonhis mind.

He

borrows

my

yardgloves, fetches the ladder

from

under

thedeck, and leansit againstthe

new

roof he hasneverseen.

As

heclimbs, agustof

wind

causes thetrench coattobillow,

and

the ladder, sun glint, slipsslightlybefore

he rightsit.

Son

balances himself

on

the roofpeak, gazing

at the hundredsof oaks, beeches, dogwoods, and even the pinesthatIplantohave cut.

Perhaps hewonders ifafterfour

more months

he will find himselfinanother place

where

fewtrees grow.

He

beginsscoopingleaves

from the guttersand flinging

them

over the

side to fall whereverdestinywill have them.

Iwatch,

remembering

anunfettered nine-year-old

who

claimed

warm

falldays for hisown, racingaroundthe yardto finallycollapse in

leafpiles, thenrising torun againwhile

tossingcrackling leavesheavenward, Arfie

joyously pursuing in theperfectpeace ofchaos.

Jim

Taylor

Loss

and

Gain

In order forone to

win

Another hasto lose.

The

loseris sacrificed.

It’sa principle irrefutable.

The

rat feedsthe cat.

The

wildebeestdiesso the lion

may

live.

Vulnerablerabbits andchickens are preyforallpredators.

Creaturespreyon one anotherall

up

and

down

the scale.

The

successofthedemocrats depends

on

the

failureoftherepublicans andviceversa.

In orderfor

Schwarzkoph

and

Bush

to

succeed,

Saddam

Hussein

had

to fail.

The

doctor takeshis living

from

the patient

The

workerfeedstheboss

The

undertakerprofits directly from

my

demise.

My

going

makes way

for

someone

else torise.

Ernest Blankenship

Man

in

Silhouette

Whispering softly, gently, quietly

Into thewind.

As

darkness passes

The

hazy shadesitspatiently,

H

idden underthe

shadows

oftall and saddenedtrees

E

rectedbyhis tenderhands

A

nd

waits,

R

endering tothe loudcalls ofthebarren. Until thesecond

coming

ofthe sun

Willheremain.

Redeemer

ofthegraceful swans,

He

comforts them,

Allowing an end

To

their longand mournfulsong.

As

darkness passes

The

hazy formwaitspatiently,

Whispering quietly, gently, softly

Through

thewind,

Stillhidden underthe

shadows

Of

talland saddened trees.

Camping

Itwon’tbelike those times

when

I

was

a child

A

baby snuggled inMother’s arms, watchingadults scurry,

franticallyemployingtheiroutdoorsmenskills.

Nor

willitresemblethetoddleryears,

When

adultoutdoorsmenskillshad

become

rusty;

Poor Uncle

Norman

will never be forgiven fordriving a tentstake

Intoa hornet’snest, sending us fleeing

from

thesite.

Thistimeisdifferent,

aside

from

avoidingstinging creatures’ habitats.

Tonight a haloofstars reveals a

new

sight

A

brilliant fire,

crackling,

spitting,

the gasping kindlinginterrupts theunisonofcricket’swhistling

The

segregated buzzing oftree bugs can befaintly distinguished,

asthelogs continueto gag andsuffocate,

snappingasthey

plummet

deeper,

collidingwithtumblingtwigs

As

the flares teaseandengulfthekindling further,

curling slowlyaround each innocentbark-coatedcorner,

igniting stickswitha

mere Midas

touch,

theyonly instill in

me

a greaterfeelingofsecurity.

Nina

Schnipper

Solace

The

sunlight

shimmers

across thepolishedwood.

A

chillshivers up

my

spine

as Isitatthe majestic instrument.

My

fmgersglide easilyacross theivory keys, and the music thatescapes

from

the strings

reverberates throughoutthespacious room.

As

ifby magic, the livelysong of

“Whims”

changes tothe melancholy “MoonlightSonata,”

whose

notesglide throughtheair

likeagracefulbird.

Alonewiththe music, Iimagine

thegreathall filledwith people.

As

the sonatachanges to

Rachmaninoffs

“Eighteenth Variation”

thunderousapplause mixeswith

thehaunting melody.

As

the songends, Ireturn to reality;

into the

same immense

chamber,

yet

now

different, filledwith the lastechoing strains.

My

troubles

now

soothed, Iget

up

toleave

filledwith

new

hope fromanever-ending solace ofa timeless melody.

Poets

and

Statesmen

Poets arewisebut notall-wise

They

see througheyesinspired,

Buttheyhaveblindspots aswell as others

Practical politicians, psychologists,

philosophers, andpreachershaveinsight.

They

havegreat skillinwhatthey dotoo,

Butthey arenarrow in

what

they see.

They

do in a specialized

way

what

poets can’t

Poets lookbeyond the specialization

To

the unexplainableinspiration,

But they

would

haveahard time running the state.

The

statesmanrules,

buthis

work

dies with him.

The

poetwrites,

andhis

word

remains.

Crossing

Anythingis everything True, ifyou havenothing.

The

bridge isold.

Peoplestill cross.

They

pray

on

the cross.

Mark

my

words

in permanentink.

Words

of

wisdom

from an ignorantmouth.

The

oldtire in the riverbeneaththebridge

Feels pain

washed

away, it fights,

Buttalksonly to rocks.

Stonesbreak

windows

andbones.

Hunger shows

bones.

Dogs

bury them,

we

losethem.

We

loseour backbone, likeasnake.

The

boots

on

yourfeet

were

made

of me.

Walk

throughthe pasturewith me.

Amputating

the

Essence

(forBlair)

“Never

allowthe

Heads

tocloak your conspicuous baldness!”

Tis

what

my

Love

(the Minotaur)

told me. But i didn’tlisten

No

ididn’t listen and

now

i standquietly

like the treesdo

when

defoliating

likethesheepdo while being

unwooled

beforethe

keensilver

bladed

guillotine.

“You

can’ttouch

me”

Iwanted to scrawlitacross thewall

in

raw

bleeding letters

Not

because it’strue

butbecauseI wishitwere.

I findmyselfapologizing to

me

forletting youget tooclose.

I

meant

to

weave

thelies

closelyaboutthe realities

so thatthey

would

appearthesame.

I

meant

to create

my

delicate illusionoftruth,

butthethreadsbroke,

or

maybe

Iwanted to let

someone

see.

Tractor Pull

Ambiance

Oh

when

the blackdieselcloud spouting above

Bobby

Joe Denton’s beloved

“Deuce

isWild” modified stocktractor roiled

and trailed into thegrey-streaked sky

And when

Frank Brawley

moved

themassiveSkoal-flaggedsled

withamighty heave ofhis “Carolinian” unlimitedclasstruck

And

theheaders

on

hisAlison engine shot cool alcohol flames

into thenight

And

thegreenJohn Deeres silently smoothed theglowing red

clay track whileBilly

Dean

blessedtwo thousand soulsat

peaceon asloping lawn withhishope thatthey mightfind

what

they longed for

And

thewhite

moon

pierced the

smokey

nightand

glimmered

again

fromthe perfectmirror ofthe oval lake

While

sweet

young

Gaffneygirlstwined glowing blueand green halos in their hairso thatbluejeanedboysmight achewith

lust

And

children flung

neon

goldenlights into the skyanddidnot

cry intheir darkness

While

thecountry twang ofBillycriedout for

what

was

lost

somewhere

inhisbrokenheart

So

thatbluejeanedboysandbabiesand

men

with callousedhands and motherssagginginlow lawn chairsmighthearand be comforted

Oh

you and I ateoursoggy ketchuped friesand smiledour

distantsmiles

And

found ineachother’seyesthe

wonder

ofeternal

moments

in

a sweltering July nighton agrassy hillunderacharcoal sky above aredclay trackbeside a

moon-glow

lake.

Joyce

Compton

Brown

Clouds

The

Sum

The

essenceofsexis thatdeath gives life.

We

are alwaysburninglikethecandleout,

Making

room

forothersas

we

go

—

Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush,

Prufrock—

poof!

Me!

Creatively withdubiousorno worth

My

ashes give rise tono bird.

Letthe

whole

be

summed

up

inaword. Letitbesupplied byanyone

on

the

sceneafterme.

Bettertogive than to receive

Onlyin the sensethattheagony

isover sooner.

What

we

getusedtoishardtogiveup.

From

death

we

flinch, withdraw, euphemize. Children laugh andplayandrun.

Old

men

sitquietlyand contemplate

the sum.

Western

civilization

cannot

be

accredited

for

inventing

the

marvelous

Paper

Clip

Versatilitysaved

me

from

unnecessarysweat.

Although inthe recent pastI’vebeen adorned withaffectionate

decoratives, depictingdifferent sizes of“Love,”

thisafternoonapaper clipprovedits versatilityby operating

as yetanotherstructure, although notadecorative.

Often paperclipsalter themselvesas aresultofsomeone’s

boredom

manifested in creativity.

Infact, Isupportthe belief that the clipsevolved

from

spiral

coiled wire,

perhapsas neolithicjewelry,

ora dollhouse stovetop,

yet originating andderivingtheir identity

from

aless

conspicuous function,

onealmostdefinitelyconceived for

more

culturally practical

reasons.

Irregardless,

thegenerichousehold and officepaperclips,

now

availablein a varietyofvibrant colorsandsizes,

provided

me

today witha stylishly abstracthairpinwith

which

to affix coiledhairatop

my

head,

preventing theback of

my

neck fromperspiring.

Nina

Schnipper

Camping

We

knew

they

were

there.

We

satsecuredbylaurelroots

watching our fire

turning our hotdogsstabbed with

maple

sticks

But thoseghostgirls

came

flyingin,

bicycletiresskiddingon theduskydirt,

cryingone

more

time, please, letusridethis loop once

more

before dark.

We

burnedblack spotson thehotdogs, watched

wood

coals glow

toasted

marshmallows

brown

andcrisp

butrunny in themiddle.

We

ateonly two.

Those

ghostgirls

came

ready,

waiting, eachinher turn,

fortheperfectmallow, acceptingspunsugargifts.

We

had wine and cheese andquietwords ofsatisfaction

But thoseghostgirlscame,

darkhairand clear cleareyes

blondtanglesandsmiles

Intruding

upon

our midlife serenity

calling forth from oursilenthearts

one

more

time, please, ridethis loop once

more

before dark.

Joyce

Compton

Brown

The Rain

In sheets out

my

window,

a

weeping

God

or only anactofnature?

“I

make

itrain”

she proclaims, rejoicing in it.

(So I

make

it thunder)

She dancesthe water,

whileIsing the lightning. It isonlyrain,

the condensationofwatermolecules

in theair.

She doesnotcauseit,

I donotcontrol it.

God,

perhaps, ventsitonus

out ofsorrow

—

ifthatisyour chosenbelief.

I believe

He

hasbetter thingsto do,

more

pressing matters toattendto.

Cutting

waituntilall the leavesarebrown,on theground and touched

thickwith midwinter’s frost,

asteelgraysky, you can seeyourbreath

eata big breakfast

—

homemade

biscuits, thick,

lumpy

oatmeal with

brown

sugar, scrambledeggs, andblack coffeeina sturdy

mug.

dress

warm,

comfortable—fadeddenims, a tee,

and

flannelshirt,

high riding

wool

socks with a redstripe atthetopandbig,

heavy, steeltoed

work

boots, don’t forgetglovesanda toboggan

thetrip to the

woods

shouldnevertakelong nevercutalivetree, dead onescure faster

coveryourears

when

thechain

saw

whinesits

way

into thetrunk andtheoncesilentgiant

makes

ahugegraceful arcof

craa-whooosh-thudto theearth

watchthechainlink scalpel dissectlimbs

from

trunk, trunk

from

stump

pick

up

thewreckage, kindlin’, burningandsplitting size

armful afterarmful ’tilyour

arms

ache fortwo-three-four truckloads

stack itcarefully highand besureto coveritfromthe rain

splitting

lookfor the

weak

spots, cracks throughthe heart

position a coldfatknifeand tap itinto place

stepback and grasp the

hammer

firmlyraise ithigh andswing

feel the tentaclesofgravity pulling

making

81bs. 16, 16, 24,

untilthemetallicecho-ous

KINK

jars theswingto ahalt

hear the fibroustautheart

pop

andcrack withstrain

raisethe

hammer

againandattackwith prejudice

sometimes the heart breaksandsplitsopen wide

other timestheheart swallows the

wedge

andwon’tlet go,

ithas tobecutout with the axe.

sometimes thehandle breaks.

Bart

_y

W. Martin

That

Movement

That

Was

Civil

for

Rights

(a

pillow

for Rosa

Parks)

Steel heliumfilled beige balloons canbe suchanuisance if

you allow

them

toexpandin yourthroat! silent defiance, it

was

avehicle fromaghetto of wincingsighs and daggered Conventionalism itfloated for

threehundred and

eighty-onedays

floating andexpanding.

buses.

they

were

ribald

autos filledwith repugnance.

But they carryyouplaces.

So do wheel chairs,

sharpsilencesharpsilence.