A Journal of the Arts
Produced by the Humanities Division of Columbia State Community College
Columbia State Community College, a Tennessee Board of Regents institution, is an equal opportunity and affirmative action employer and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, gender, sexual orientation/gender identity, religion, ethnic or national origin, sex, age, disability status, or status as a covered veteran in educational and employment opportunities, and is committed to the education of a non-racially identifiable student body. Individuals needing this material in an alternative format, e.g., hearing or visually impaired formats, should contact the office of disability services. Columbia State Community College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award Associate of Arts, Associate of Science, Associate of Science in Teaching, Associate of Fine Arts in Music, and Associate of Applied Science degrees, and technical certificates. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Columbia State Community College. CoSCC PERC-01-04-19, Parris Printing, Nashville, Tennessee - 1,000 copies
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This year’s Perceptions is dedicated to
Susanna Holmes
“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner…”
-Jane Austen, Emma
For many years, Susanna led the English department and edited Perceptions with intelligence, integrity, and – yes – tenderness of heart. We were all the better for her guidance and friendship. The editorial staff at Perceptions wishes her the best in
her retirement.
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STAFF 2018-2019
EDITOR
Shane A. Hall
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Shelly Ganter Colleen McCready Beverly Mitchell Susan Pobst Krista Shaw Judith Westley
STUDENT EDITORS
Daniel Blomberg Nicolette Murray Jordan Thacker
CREATIVE COORDINATOR Susan Pobst
COVER
April Day Sarah Corcoran
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CONTENTS Poetry Ethan Elliot
Howl of the Midnight Train
7
Anam Fatima
A Milestone or a Timestone
13
Isaac Eustice
Dukkha
14
Dennis W. Holley
Old Guy
21
Sarah Grimm
The Perfect Child
22
Maddie Unger
Cigarette Girl
23
Maddie Unger
The Things That Kill Young People
26
Monica Gutierrez-Garner
Green Flower
27
Mikkel Sv
A Love Song
34
Deanna Alexander
What Is Wrong with the System
35
Isaac Eustice
The Work
37
Ethan Elliot
Ballad of the Wayfarers: A Tale of Fantastic Nonsense
38
Isaac Eustice
Hero Complex (A Sonnet)
41
Blake Krehbiel
Suddenly
43
Judith Parrish Broadbent
The Sandpiper
47
Isaac Eustice
Photosynthesis
56
Prose Rebecca George
Green-Eyed Graham
Judith Parrish Broadbent
The Coin
15
Deanna Alexander
Seeking Authenticity
17
Jared Nesbitt
Luck
30
Michael B. Sztapka
Kosciuszko Points the Way!
49
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Images Melissa Febbroriello
Lynnville Railroad Museum
6
Lyndsay Davis
Wall Cloud
8
Lyndsay Davis
Crossing
12
Mikkel Sv
New Perspective
17
Sarah Corcoran
Losing Touch, a Hand Steady
20
Nicole Freeman
Reflections
24
Carl D. Jones
Daisies
25
Elvira Eivazova
Evening Rays at the Frist
28
Deborah J. Miller
Pink City
29
Tierney Pine
Sarah
32
Charlie Moles
Heat Death
33
Lyndsay Davis
Holding Time
36
Sarah Corcoran
Kintaro at Sunrise
40
Elvira Eivazova
Geometry of Light
42
Charlie Moles
Rose Resistance II
44
Mark D. Stooksbury
Baggett’s Feed
45
Diane Davis
O Pos sum
46
Stuart Lenig
Kung
48
Carl D. Jones
This Is Only a Drill
53
Christa S. Martin
Rain, Tower, Cranes: Nashville Skyline
54
Lauren Blake
Treetops
55
5
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Lynnville Railroad Museum Melissa Febbroriello
6
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Howl of the Midnight Train Ethan Elliot Look above at the moon so bright See the shining of the stars The hemlock trees cast their ghostly silhouette upon the barren ground The light, cool breeze rustles their leaves making them Do their ghostly dance in the wind They move to and fro ever so slowly As the whippoorwill sings his song perched upon the branches All is calm The wind chimes ring out in the breeze While the light of a thousand stars glisten In the nearby lake Then the train roars by Listen as it bares its rusted vocal chords While the gray clouds reap over the darkened night They stretch across the black sky as they slither towards the full moon All is calm The pitch-black smoke erupts from the train’s funnel and Turns the moon into a large shadow against the starlit sky The train’s wheels murder the tracks laid beneath them While its whistle wails out in the disrupted silence Though its compartments always empty and its driver never seen Not a soul is disrupted, no one complains, none affected by its howl All listen happily until the morning sun arrives relieving the night and its train of their duties All is calm
7
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Wall Cloud Lyndsay Davis
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Green-Eyed Graham Rebecca George The first time I saw Graham, he was standing over a coffin. He watched carefully, quietly, as it was slowly lowered into the ground. I didn’t know who he was then; though to be fair, I didn’t know who anyone in the town was. I had only lived here for about a week and was out for a walk when I passed by the cemetery. I knew it wasn’t right for me to wander over there, but I was drawn to the crowd, and my curiosity got the best of me. As I neared the service, I saw dozens of people mourning, crying, and consoling each other. I wanted to cry too, just being there and experiencing their pain, but I had no idea who had died, nor did I belong there in the first place. I started to slink away, embarrassed that I had essentially crashed a funeral, but then this guy – who I later found out was Graham – looked over at me and stopped me in my tracks. He was dressed in all black, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, and his hair, which was a little on the longer side and tucked behind his ears, was jet black too. He pulled his sunglasses down a bit to peek over the rim at me. I was far enough away from him that I shouldn’t have been able to see what color his eyes were, but I did. They were the sharpest, most unique shade of green I’d ever seen. He stared at me a little, practically stared right through me, then pulled his sunglasses up. He leaned down and grabbed a handful of dirt, then tossed it into the hole in the ground, sprinkling it over the coffin. He wasn’t crying, but it seemed like he wanted to. I walked back toward the road, intending to go home, but not without first turning in the direction of the mourners once more to try and steal another glance of this guy. I couldn’t see him in the crowd though, and by that point, I felt I had intruded enough and needed to just leave. “You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said, though I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. My thoughts exactly. I continued to walk, picking up the pace until I was practically jogging. I kept hearing footsteps behind me and the sound of the small pebbles on the gravel road being kicked up as well, but every time I stopped to check, no one was there. I started to get scared, so I increased my pace even more until finally I sprinted as fast as I could. I couldn’t tell if the footsteps were still trailing me because every possible other sound was drowned out by the sound of my own footsteps and my ever-accelerating pulse, which pounded loudly in my head. I was almost back home when I lost my footing on the loose gravel and fell. It was quite painful, some pebbles slipping out from under my 9
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shoes and others digging into my right knee, which had broken my fall. I closed my eyes for a second, trying to keep the tears from escaping, but they escaped just the same, and when I opened my eyes, I was staring into his. They were beautiful, deep and haunting. He reached his hand out to help me. I stood and brushed the stuck pebbles from my knee. “Thank you,” I said, though by the time I got the words out, he was already gone. I didn’t see where he went, but I heard footsteps again, this time going further away from me instead of coming closer. Days went by, then weeks, then a few months before I saw Graham again. He appeared in random places and at the strangest times. One time I saw him when I was at the library doing some research for a school project. I looked down at my book, and when I looked back up, he was sitting there across from me, his green eyes almost shimmering in the light. “Are you doing a project too?” But he didn’t answer and just walked out the front door. The next time I saw him, he was working at the coffee shop. I went there almost every morning and had never seen him there before. It started to feel weird how he was popping up everywhere I went, but not in a scary way. In fact, there was nothing scary about him at all. I felt oddly safe around him, like I had a guardian angel or something. I almost wished I’d see him more, even though I didn’t know him or anything about him. When I asked around, I still didn’t even know his name. All I could do was describe him. People got quiet any time I brought the subject up, and I couldn’t seem to get any answers. That is until I happened to ask the right person at school. Her name was Professor Grayson, and when she heard I had been asking around about this guy, she agreed to talk with me. We met back at the coffee shop, but Graham apparently wasn’t working that day. I sat across from her. She was visibly upset, and though she ordered coffee and a pastry, she had no appetite for either. “Why are you asking about my son?” “Is he the one? With the green eyes?” She nodded yes. “I’ve seen him around a few times, and he seems like a nice guy, but I don’t know who he is.” 10
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“Was,” she said. I didn’t understand. “Who he was,” she continued. “His name was Graham. He died a few months ago.” She swallowed hard, tears welling up. “What do you mean, you’ve ‘seen him?”’ I went on to explain all of the encounters I had had with him. I told her how he helped me up when I fell and how he just seemed to be places with me, but never talked. She listened and silently cried. “Next time you see him, please tell him it’s okay to let go.” I nodded, as I pieced it all together. It was Graham standing over his own coffin, sprinkling the dirt. It was Graham watching everyone mourn him. He was trying to say goodbye. To his family. To his friends. To life. Trying to say hello to peace. To the afterlife, if there was one. I asked what had happened to him, but immediately wished I hadn’t. Her face turned pale, and she looked like she was going to be sick. I didn’t push any further. This was a mother in mourning, someone who had buried her child. She’d been through enough. I just sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do. There was no right thing to say, so I didn’t say anything at all except that I was sorry. She stared ahead for a long time, then finally spoke when Graham appeared in front of both of us. He glanced over at me with those hauntingly sharp green eyes before looking at his mom. He smiled at her, then at me, and just as suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared.
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Crossing Lyndsay Davis
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A Milestone or a Timestone Anam Fatima
A Milestone or a Timestone? Where red and yellow maple would lie in my way, Tinted with soft sun ray. Where my mind would sway, Thinking about that someday.... Where the slow wind, The playful Redwing, And the crisping leaves under my feet Would perform something semisweet. Where I would pass the bush of mistletoe, Ignoring the fluttering — looking at the snow. Where warmth would waltz with cold Alternate week Was Persephone playing hide and seek? Sigh... On the go from the wind-chime, I walked down that mystic isle – With a mirthless smile-Knowing this will be my last time.
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Dukkha Isaac Eustice
The days come as a procession of pains And then rest, between the pains, where you lay At night and wish for it to end And to be taken to a cool, bright field Where you rest all day and there is no pain But the pain and the rest, together, dance And together they are the dance of life And one without the other would be death So learn to love the struggle and dance with it
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The Coin Judith Parrish Broadbent
He emptied his pockets and put the objects in the brass dish on the counter – a collection of odds and ends of the day: seventy cents’ worth of assorted coins, car keys, a wrinkled receipt, a black nut and bolt, his tri-fold, worn leather wallet, and a ring. One coin’s clink made a lighter sound. He picked it up, turning it over carefully in his hand. Odd, it was a real silver quarter with well-worn edges. One rarely found one of those floating around in loose change these days. He picked up his reading glasses to examine it more closely. The date was almost worn smooth –1940 – the year of his birth. It seemed there was always a reminder of that half-century that he wanted to forget. There seemed to be youth everywhere, and this only added to his frustrations. The competition for jobs was wearing him down. True, he was a fierce competitor even at his age and athletically could out-spar men half his age which he often did at the club on the racket ball court. However, in the business arena, he was over-qualified, had too much powerful experience, and was not “fresh-out-of-college.” The coin still intrigued him. Money had ruled his life for many years now. He had stumbled into his career and built it into a position of power. He had finally admitted to himself that it was the power that he missed – the searing heat of millions of dollars passing through his hands and controlling what had happened to these had made him feel truly alive. Even though he was alone at present, the excitement of his career had kept the loneliness from slipping in. He had many friends, most of whom were also involved in this money business, and they had been his social circle. Strange, he thought, how one could let a job completely dominate one’s life. He had become involved with an old college friend again, and she had said to him, “Can you give all of this up?” He had said that he could, but as time passed, it became more and more difficult. It seemed that if he gave it up, it would be like closing the door on that twenty years of his life, and he felt betrayed and unable to refocus on any new direction. He looked at the other things that he had put down, a small sum of a day’s activities. He had spent the better part of the morning trying to find another black enameled nut and bolt to match the one he had. 15
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Somehow, one had disappeared from his car, and he wanted to replace it. It had given him something to accomplish and to get away from the house. The car was his love at the moment. It had become an expression of himself -- a sleek, sexy, fast-moving, well-oiled machine, full of explosive power. He had bought it, a Porsche 928, because it appealed to him, and it was expensive. He had made such a sweet deal that it became irresistible. He had kept the car in mint condition. That was the excuse for hunting for the nut and bolt. Funny how nuts and bolts come apart, just like your life. His friend’s girls had been impressed with the car. The littlest one said when she grew up she’d drive it. He doubted it. He let no one drive the car. He had thought to let the friend drive it, then changed his mind. Just as well, perhaps she would have read some message into that act. What would she read into the package that he had sent? The wrinkled receipt reminded him of that. Her honesty ate at him. She didn’t like to play games which often got the best of him, and now, there was silence and the ring. He had meant to keep it shut up in the box in which it had come. Its simple clean lines surrounding the coin were a disguise of its really convoluted meanings. He turned it over and looked at the inscription on the inside, nothing syrupy or passionate, just pure honesty: “Forever” was engraved in very small script. He knew she meant it, but it gnawed at him. There were too many problems pushing at him, and he couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with her as well. He slipped the ring on his finger; it fit perfectly. How she had managed that, he was unable to figure out. Still holding the old coin, he walked quietly down the hall. He stepped into the bar and mixed himself a vodka and tonic and listened. The silence imploded on him. Tonight it was pleasant yet haunting.
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New Perspective Mikkel Sv
Seeking Authenticity Deanna Alexander Living in the big city suffocates me to the point that I can no longer feel myself breathing, and I am left gasping for air. The noise jars me and leaves me thirsting for the great wide open spaces. I long for the sweeping green and golden fields which just seem to roll on farther beyond what the human eye can even see. It is time to reconnect with nature to hear the gentle whispers of what she just might have to say. It was John Muir who said, “In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks,� but the ears must be inclined to listen and the heart inclined to receive the truth which can be found. The rushing of a soothing, cascading waterfall transports my body, mind, and spirit to another place, as I escape the place where life became so complex. Life gets messy. Schedules become demanding, pressure builds, thoughtless words get said, and friends misunderstand, and suddenly, these things rage for control of my thoughts to the point where I am no 17
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longer functioning from my core center. Fear for tomorrow, stress, misunderstandings, and frustration from the surmounting pressure of obligations overwhelms my whole being, sending me spiraling ever so quickly into the zone, yes, THE zone, that God-awful zone where everything snaps, and I just B-R-E-A-K! Limits. Breaking points. We all have breaking points, but do we really listen when they strike? I sense my breaking point is causing me to realize just how far I have strayed from the center core of my being. Sometimes it takes a few days of carving out space to care for the soul. I often find myself wondering why we can commit so much time to proper nutrition and doctor visits, yet is care for the soul not just as vital? When the soul is no longer centered, it becomes only a matter of time before everything else falls out of alignment. Reconnecting with nature, life moves at a slower pace. I feel the sweet release of knowing there’s not a single place I have to be or deadline I need to meet or a single person demanding a piece of my time. I’m free to move about as slowly as I care to, basking in the walk in the garden in a state of prayer virtually flowing from my lips out loud as I walk alongside a quiet path. As if expectantly, my soul seems to scream out loud to no one in particular, “I didn’t realize just how badly I needed this!” I have my secret happy places I escape to when the pressures of life push me to my limits. We all have them. It is no different for men, either, who find the same refreshment and soul restoration I speak of after a personal fishing trip getaway. I have learned to listen to my heart, for out of it flows the very well-spring of life. It is in that sacred space of personal prayer and reconnecting with nature where I get out of the mire of my circumstances and back into life. I observe the beauty of nature around me, pausing to recall that all of this was done for my enjoyment. There’s no room here for the lukewarm or the stagnant in this sacred space I speak of. Too often, I observe myself and all of life operating out of these artificial, mundane stances in our routines of life. They reach a point of becoming superficially artificial. We put masks around being vulnerable dare we ever be thought of as emotional. Yet authenticity requires tremendous vulnerability, transparency, and integrity. I’m certainly not talking about the majority of church worship where worship is referred to as lips moving, or barely moving that is, on expression-less faces as if in a trance-like state. I’m certainly not saying that it’s a bad thing, but it sometimes can feel, well, lifeless? Too routine, maybe? I’m seeking out worship of a far different kind, from that raw place so far deep down within you that it never sees enough light of routine day. I’m seeking out authenticity. Real and genuine emotion and soul so raw and full of conviction that it practically gushes out of a place that’s so sacred and genuine, but it takes digging down much deeper than most ever care 18
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to go, fearing being seen as emotional or vulnerable. For crying out loud, I fear we’ve grown so accustomed to our masks that we have forgotten what it means to be real and have been deceived into believing that the mask we wear is somehow genuine because we simply don’t know any other way of being, and dare I say, have forgotten what real even looks like anymore? Yet, to be real requires emotion, which society tends to avoid like the plague. Emotion. It makes me mad when society around us avoids emotion at all costs, as though it were some contaminating virus. Emotion gets a bad rap in a society that fails to realize that emotion is a sacred and beautiful living expression of the very life force within us. Authentic worship requires emotion of some type to be experienced, and the fuller the better. Fervent emotion of a passionate person who knows what it is to truly be alive and not just merely existing. You cannot describe it. You only know it when you see it. I enjoy the beauty of corporate worship with others, but at other times, I find that the soul feels stifled, just as the city leaves me feeling suffocated of breath, and I tend to guard those sacred spaces that I can truly call my own and worship alone from a much deeper depth of my soul, where I can worship like no one is watching. It is then that I have opened myself up to life around me, to the discoveries that life and nature has to reveal to me. When I worship in my own sacred time and space from a deeper realm, it is then that I am exactly what I am seeking to be: an authentic human being fully alive and functioning from my core center. Yet worship is only one segment of life where I am seeking a fuller and deeper authenticity. I am seeking authenticity in all areas of life from myself and from those around me. Authenticity is the freedom to say, “No, I ‘m not O.K., I’m hurting right now,” and not faking fine when my soul knows that I am not. Authenticity is giving myself permission to hurt and to cry when I need to without allowing the world’s message of “toughen up” or “get over it” to speak to me on any level, knowing that they function and operate only out of the mode of misconceptions. Authenticity is being able to open myself up enough to bare my soul and to be that honestly in tune with myself and my emotions. Too many people, I observe, are not well in tune with themselves, nor their emotions. Authenticity is not pretending to feel any other emotion other than what I am truly experiencing in this very moment. Authenticity is knowing myself well enough to know when I need to carve out time and space for myself to simply be the sacred human being that I am. Authenticity is finding a balance between firmly taking control and allowing myself to lose control when the need arises and knowing that is perfectly acceptable and understanding that is the very process by which healing comes. Authenticity is me simply being my genuine, authentic self in every moment I am alive. Authenticity is courage under pressure in the midst of demanding schedules and thoughtless, cutting words from those who are supposed to be my friends. It is knowing myself well enough to tend to my needs and loving and accepting my own genuine, authentic self. 19
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Losing Touch, a Hand Steady Sarah Corcoran
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Old Guy Dennis W. Holley I’m an old guy, I’m not good as I used to be. I’m an old guy, But I’m good as I need to be. I’m an old guy my wit is still keen, And you could write a book from what I’ve seen. I’m an old guy, I put to rest all my fears, I’m an old guy, I got hair growing on my ears, I’m an old guy somehow I’m going on, I’ll wait for you but don’t you wait too long. I’m an old guy, My legs wobble when I walk, I’m an old guy, But I can still talk the talk. I’m an old guy my head can still be turned, My heart’s not aged a day is what I’ve learned. I’m an old guy, It’s not sad but it sure is true, I’m an old guy, I hope life is as good to you. I’m an old guy my Jesus loves me so, And when he comes for me I’ll gladly go. P.S Jesus please bring my dogs Bud and BO!
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The Perfect Child Sarah Grimm
For my sister “You’re the perfect child” they say Never stole Never lied Never drank “Did everything they asked you to” But you see They missed me putting my toe over the line Because they were turned around looking at you You running past the line they placed As soon as it was set As I silently grinned with their backs turned Telling no one and patiently waiting for the next time you ran Because they were looking at you But “You’re the perfect child” they say
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Cigarette Girl Maddie Unger Does she care? Only Jupiter knows. She is queen of there,
here and
But her heart is under her clothes. Someone
told
me
She s l e p t with the whole city. She belongs to everyone but Cigarette girl leaves her emotion on the shelf.
herself.
Use it one time and then destroy‌ Just like a ci - gar - ette ‌ 23
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Reflections Nicole Freeman
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Daisies Carl Jones
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The Things That Kill Young People Maddie Unger
Voices that whisper you should, The clouds blowing too far to grasp, Girls that swear they would, Date if you had the guts to ask. Means without degrees, Schools trampling sneakers underfoot, Faces made into Swiss cheese, A half-assed dream left undercooked. Mom and dad’s statues crumbling away, Tears that never reach the surface, You ask God to give you the courage to say, What if this world had a justice surplus? Friends experimenting on their walls with red paint, Seeing the stain colored glass of the steeple, Trying to understand a moral code so faint, These are the things that kill young people.
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Green Flower Monica Gutierrez-Garner
Crossing the bound of an open yellow line Screams a darkened patch as heavy souls What unbearable heat engulfed you I am frozen had I only been so cold Might the musty rain too light pour faster than the spinning Metal through black Tapered curves, an ombrÊ rose box Remain empty as the body it now lacks To watch it go under is the see my heart Descend, his shoveling vigorously swift You’re not in there, who else knows? my goodbyes are unfulfilled and never desist
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Evening Rays at the Frist Elvira Eivazova
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Pink City Deborah J. Miller
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Luck Jared Nesbitt I don’t know, man. Luck is weird. Like why does George Colombo have so much of it? He doesn’t deserve it. All he does is win at poker, guess football games, and drink six beers before driving himself home. Why does George Colombo have luck? Why did Lee Smith get pulled over and then pull over too far? Why did Marianne Krup turn the wrong corner? Why did Mara Kinski leave? Where was George Colombo that night? He was drinking and twirling a knife around his fingers, after beating us at hand after hand of poker, and telling us that it would be the Steelers, forty-six to thirty-seven. And then he had another beer, lined that can up with his five other empties, and said he should get going. Lee mumbled something about home and staggered out behind George Colombo. Marianne said that she should get back, too, and we watched her walk off and giggle at George as he fumbled for the clutch. George smiled at her as he slammed down on the gas and just missed my mailbox. Mara had left an hour before, and it was just me and Robert Brega, and we watched the Steelers score one more time to reach forty-six. And across town, Lee pulled over too far, and Marianne turned the wrong corner, and Mara left, and where was George Colombo? Passed out in his bed, without a scratch on his car, and his parents out of the house for the evening. They’d gone out on a spontaneous dinner date and wouldn’t see George Colombo stagger through the door, wouldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath, wouldn’t question where he’d been. When the Ref blew his whistle at forty-six to thirty-seven, Robert drained his beer and threw it and knocked over George Colombo’s empties. He said that he should get going, and I almost said okay, bye, but then I said no, you should stay, you’re drunk. He said that I had let everyone else leave, and I said yeah, but I shouldn’t have. 30
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Just sleep here tonight; you can have my bed. He agreed, but he passed out on the couch instead. And in the morning, my parents were standing over him, asking me what the hell happened. They had decided to cut their trip short, so they came home and found Robert and asked me what the hell happened. Robert and I both got busted by our parents for drinking, and Lee pulled over too far and put his wheels in the ditch and rolled on to his head, and Marianne turned the wrong corner right into the man with a neat suit and chloroform, and nobody ever heard from Mara again. And where was George Colombo? At home, waking up without even a hangover and checking the final score and pumping his fist in the air. Then he called Lee who didn’t pick up because his brains were all over his car, then he called Marianne who didn’t pick up because she was naked and sobbing in the back of an alley, then he called Mara who didn’t pick up because she was gone in to thin air, then he called Robert who didn’t pick up because his dad was screaming at him, then he called me who did pick up because I was waiting in the kitchen while my parents shouted down the hall. And George Colombo said that he was right about the Steelers, and I said yeah, you were. And he asked what’s wrong, why is no one picking up, and he asked it with a laugh, and I told him hell if I know, I’ve got to go, and I hung up on George Colombo. After that, I got a call about Lee Smith, and that afternoon, I got a call about Marianne Krup, and at the end of the day, I got a call about Mara Kinski. Nobody’s heard anything from her since. At school the next day, Robert told me that his parents took his car, and he wasn’t allowed out of the house without one of them anymore. He looked like he was about to cry. He looked like he had been crying. He asked me, what did we ever do to deserve this? And then he walked away. But I know what really happened to us. Someone stole all of our luck, stole it, and frittered it away. George Colombo doesn’t deserve luck. 31
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Sarah Tierney Pine
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Heat Death Charlie Moles
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A Love Song Mikkel Sv I’ll sing you my love song from the stars I’ll sing you my love song amid the trees I’ll sing you my love song through the scars I’ll sing to you, how much you mean to me You turn your back and you walk away But constant and steadfast I’ll always stay Tears may flow in the time we’re apart But I love you, my child, you’re in my heart When you walk away just please look up See the stars pulsing and know I’m enough The stars, they whisper, they are screaming My love is not bondage but totally freeing The trees open arms are like my own Through drought and through rain have steadfastly grown To be strong, ready when you come in And together this battle of life we win I know this pain that you suffer through Just look at my hands that are holding you These scars you bare won’t be born alone Your wounds even now are completely known So I sing you my love song from the stars I sing you my love song amid the trees I sing you my love song through the scars I sing to you, how much you mean to me 34
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What Is Wrong with the System Deanna Alexander 365 days in this 8x10, inhumane cell Convicted of murder, and going through hell. I have a name, my name is Roy, I’m still my mama’s precious boy. I have people who love me, kids and a wife. Confined to chains, no outside human sight. No contact with the outside world, Deteriorating day after deplorable day To the point that I no longer feel human. I can’t do this again, death seems a lovely escape From the inhumane, from the inhumane, from the inhumane… If I’m found guilty, they just might give it to me All in the name, all in the name, yes, all in the name of so-called justice. 365 days in this 8x10 inhumane cell, Convicted of murder, and going through hell. I don’t know why I don’t just plead to die. I’D say I’m going stir-crazy, but the system is crazy, the system is crazy, THE SYSTEM IS CRAZY… New evidence has pushed my trial back another 6 months, My only hope now gone from sight. Somehow, they think this is right? 547 days now in this 8x10 inhumane cell Convicted of murder, and going through hell. That was a year and a half ago New evidence has just been released. I may just get to go free, But before that pardon ever reaches me They ask me to stand, I don’t think I even can This is how badly traumatized, you have brutalized What you only now recognize, a barely-even alive Innocent man. 35
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Holding Time Lyndsay Davis
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The Work Isaac Eustice The fish will gather to mate And afterwards swim a thousand miles Upstream To the place of their birth. The beautiful seer, too Will sing her song and die And I will think of them both Alone An ember lingering into the dawn. I will push my stone up the mountain And it will roll back over me Grind out a song with the blood and tears Which is not sung for me Nor will I hear it through my own cries. There is a cloud over the mountain The dead gathered within it And they call to the living And it is their song upon your lips And their love burning in your veins And their hopes blossoming as days before you And their dreams which visit In the still, cool night Those who came before you As you were hidden within them And we are all here together at once Headed upstream To the place of our birth. 37
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Ballad of the Wayfarers: A Tale of Fantastic Nonsense Ethan Elliot The bright moon arrives And the stars shine like matches The walker looks around While the cat sits and scratches A gust of wind blows through the trees O’er the landscape a shadow lies While the joker counts his cards And the last burning candle dies The carnival’s in town The carney’s handing out prizes Holmes and Watson are on the case Of the ghost who emphasizes The wolf’s howling in the distance and The gypsy woman’s chanting spells While the night sky grows dark And the wind rings the old church bell Now the traveler he’s got his eyes fixed on Juliet As she combs her hair while bathing in the lake She spots him and says in an angry tone “Leave me be for heaven’s sake” Lightning illuminates the starry sky then A knight rides in on a black horse Says that a lonesome soul “Has been moaning and crying In the churchyard” he says with great remorse A few miles away there’s a masquerade ball Hosted by a philosopher unaware of his name Snow White dances with the blind men Cinderella with the lame The dwarfs all stand in a row 38
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Staring into the night As a meteor shower passes through And the clock tower strikes midnight The jester practices his knife act With the knife that slew Abel Plato carries his memories in a wooden box And leaves them on a table The jester’s told to hurry by the man with a third eye “What’s the hurry?” asks the jester “The shows not supposed to start.” “Oh yes it is, the night is waning fast!” Cries the angered Jack of Hearts Now the priest kneels and crosses himself And recites the Lord’s Prayer Until the storm finally touches down Blowing divisiveness through the air Now our band of misfits are all gathering their stuff They’re scrambling to get inside But the storm cloud grows a smile on his face And says “There’s nowhere you can hide” The storm raged all through the night ‘Till the sun rose and a rainbow lit the sky The darkness had no choice but to leave Light wins in the end, darkness dies All the misfits rejoiced and continued on their way All except for Old Man Goddard, where’s his wife he doesn’t know He searches for her around Rue Morgue But she’s asleep on Desolation Row
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Kintaro at Sunrise Sarah Corcoran
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Hero Complex (A Sonnet) Isaac Eustice
I’d like to kiss your raw and gaping wounds Run my fingers along the jagged scar Remind you what a rare treasure you are Compose a serenade to you of truth To sing beneath your window lined with blues Nurture your genius in my trembling arms Hold open every door of every car The hour is late why must you leave so soon? But you fear to sleep where the enemy Has sewed serpents in once still waters You shut your eyes again to the memory On the brink of each new vision of love The bruised lover, forsaken daughter Passing through, leaving soon, is not saved by me.
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Geometry of Light Elvira Eivazova
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Suddenly Blake Krehbiel I have heard tales, Of love at first sight. Where suddenly, Two souls do unite. I’ve heard these tales, And know that they’re true, ‘Cause suddenly I’m in love with you. If I must wait, From dusk until dawn, I will be here, My love remains strong. If suddenly, You fall in love too, I will be here To spend life with you. All of my life. I’ve waited for you. Since my first glance I’ve learned something new, You don’t find love, Cause you don’t need to. While I held fast, It suddenly bloomed. Let’s make it last, Turn sparks into flames. We’ll be in love, The rest of our days. Let’s write a tale. Let’s make it come true. You be my bride, And I’ll be your groom. This I can say, And promise it’s true, If you love me, I’ll always love you. Don’t be afraid, To give me your heart. There’s nothing that, Can tear us apart. 43
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Rose Resistance II Charlie Moles
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Baggett’s Feed Mark D. Stooksbury
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O Pos sum Diane Davis
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The Sandpiper Judith Parrish Broadbent
He skips and bobs along the sands Searching for insects wherever he can His tawny back and black bowtie Enhance his white shirt front and He matches with the landscape Where other colors are very rare His little eyes look here and there To find tiny mussels he can snare His feet move slowly along the edge To not disturb the water’s wedge And frighten the little critters brave Who come in on the midnight waves. A powder blue reflects his shape An upside down double to ape His movements and grace And concentration in his face.
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Kung Stuart Lenig
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Kosciuszko Points the Way! Michael B. Sztapka The wedding celebration was still going strong beneath the neon lights at Przybylo’s (she-BEE-woos) White Eagle Restaurant and Banquet Hall on Milwaukee Avenue, but gradually winding down a bit, although there were still several participants, such as my Aunt Jadwiga (yad-VEE-ga), who found their second wind and were just picking up steam, refusing to go gently. This is how such special occasions were in my family. So many folks who haven’t seen each other in so long wanted to stay and visit with everyone as long as they could, and Aunt Jadwiga always led the charge. When I was a boy, the majority of my many relatives were highly concentrated within the 100 mile trek between Chicago, Illinois, and Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with a few familial renegades stretching that frontier to such exotic locations as Stevens Point, Wisconsin to the north, and Morris, Illinois to the south, and Rockford, Illinois to the west (Lake Michigan took care of the east). As generations regenerated, soon the family diaspora was a nationwide phenomenon spread like fertile fertilizer from coast-to-coast across our great nation. The lone setback to the family achieving this manifest destiny was that many of the relatives could only make the long, cross-country trek for selected events, such as the odd family reunion that would take place at both weddings and funerals. For this particular occasion, I am unable to say, in retrospect, which cousin was getting married, although I do recall from the jovial air at the time and the fond wisps of memory that remain, that it definitely was a wedding and not a funeral. Perhaps the hearty meal of traditional Polish fare fit for a kingdom had rendered me temporarily into a digestive coma of blissful unconsciousness, and, perhaps, also the consumption of too many bottles of Okocim (oh-KOH-cheem) and Zywiec (zhiv-YETS) at that grand occasion may have something to do with such a hazy recollection at the present date. But one thing was for certain through the happy haze as I fondly recollect that day, Aunt Jadwiga was certainly in rare form, even for her robust standards! Ah, dear Aunt Jadwiga! I can still see her sporting her trademark Buddy Holly glasses (the kind with the pointy rims) that had a safety chain attached and worn loosely around her neck to keep them from wandering off. To me, she always bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt Bee on The Andy Griffith Show. The first time I saw that show as a kid, I wondered what Aunt Jadwiga was doing on television. And she sounded just like Aunt Bee too, with that same fluttering, swirly voice, although enhanced with a lively Polish accent, of course! Aunt Jadwiga did not drive. She lived in Milwaukee and hitched a ride to Chicago for the wedding with her oldest brother, my Uncle Wally, and her sister-in-law, my Auntie Irene, who also lived in Milwaukee. Diplomatic relations between Aunt Jadwiga and Auntie Irene were sometimes tense. Uncle Wally and Auntie Irene were now ready to go back home to Milwaukee. It was getting late, and these days Uncle Wally did not like driving at night. 49
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Actually, it was more like Auntie Irene did not like Uncle Wally driving at night. I can attest that Uncle Wally driving during the day could also be quite adventurous, but Uncle Wally driving at night was just too much excitement for Auntie Irene, especially the 100 mile journey from Chicago back to Milwaukee. As Uncle Wally and Auntie Irene announced they were ready to go after saying their fond farewells to everyone left in attendance, this became one of those taut and tense-filled moments. Uncle Wally was naturally jolly by nature, but from a casual distance, I could sense his slight irritation, and Auntie Irene’s even greater irritation, when Aunt Jadwiga protested that she was not ready to leave yet and wanted to stay longer. Uncle Wally suggested she catch a ride home with her youngest son, my cousin, Peter, who lived just outside of Milwaukee, but he was not aware Peter already left with his family. When Aunt Jadwiga mentioned Peter had left, Uncle Wally kindly stated it was a long walk back to Milwaukee because he and Auntie Irene were leaving now before it got too dark. Looking back, I don’t doubt that Aunt Jadwiga could have walked all the way back to Milwaukee. For pretty much all of her life, she used to walk everywhere. As a young girl, she walked barefoot across her small village in eastern Poland. As a sturdy old woman, she continued walking uncounted miles across Milwaukee every day – to St. Josaphat’s for mass, to the neighborhood shops – she walked everywhere! And always at a brisk pace! However, in this instance, I just couldn’t let Aunt Jadwiga make such a march. Therefore, I informed all parties involved that I would give Aunt Jadwiga a ride back to Milwaukee, so she could stay as long as she wanted. Being part of the family diaspora living out in Arizona at that time, I had rented a car with unlimited miles and was happy to be her chauffeur and allow us more time to mingle with everyone. I knew how much she cherished the opportunity to be able to visit with so many relatives at once. I shared the same sentiment and wasn’t ready to leave either. Aunt Jadwiga was delighted with having a new-found ride home and more time to visit. I assured Uncle Wally and Auntie Irene all would be well as we gave our hugs good-bye. Aunt Jadwiga, wanting to maximize every last minute of available time together with family, bounced like a pinball from table to table, visiting with everyone she saw. I can still hear her somewhat high-pitched and fluttering voice, speaking what I call fluent “Polanics,” that mystical cadence of merged Polish and English words being enthusiastically spoken by her for the benefit of the non-fluent Polish speakers, like myself, so they could have a better chance of understanding what she was saying. Aunt Jadwiga spoke fluent Polish with a strong accent with just enough of a working knowledge of English to be dangerous. Conversations with her were always a challenge for the listener and could be an entertaining adventure, but certainly never a dull experience. If you attempted to speak with Aunt Jadwiga, she truly appreciated your brave effort. As Aunt Jadwiga caromed from each table, working the room to speak with the relatives still sticking around, I laughed while noticing her simultaneously 50
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stocking up on food for the journey back to Milwaukee. At the rate she was going, you would have thought she was preparing for an extended trip to Warsaw instead of a modest drive to Milwaukee. The food at Przybylo’s was authentic Polish cuisine, a real treat! They never were stingy with their portions, so I couldn’t blame her for ensconcing leftover pierogies, kielbasa, and hearty rye bread in napkins, all while in mid-conversation, and deftly tucking the bounty in her bottomless purse, which was really more like a saddlebag, in both size and shape. It was an unwritten, though often verbalized, rule handed down from the older generation in my family that you simply did not waste food, and that it was a sin if you did. Surviving starvation endured during World War II will do that to you. If it was sinful to waste food, one should also not waste beverages either, and Aunt Jadwiga made sure no such sin was committed. As a result, Aunt Jadwiga began her campaign to save the champagne. After a couple hours of allowing Aunt Jadwiga to have her fun, I thought it best to start gradually letting her know it was time to go and began to gently guide her towards the door. I did not want to risk her getting too tipsy and swoon, and then have to organize a team lift to get her out to the parking lot. Best to get her in the car while she was still on two feet! Foolishly, I thought that she would gently drift off to sleep once she got in the car, and then I would enjoy a nice, quiet, peaceful drive up to Milwaukee. My assessment could not have been more incorrect! Instead, Aunt Jadwiga suddenly burst into a ceaseless chatter of conversation that lasted non-stop the entire trip! I could tell from the occasional hiccup that the champagne acted as a catalyst to loosen her tongue further into issuing a never-ending stream of sentences that shared priceless information learned from each relative she had visited with back at the reception in Chicago. The stories flew from her mouth at breakneck pace, set apart by the occasional, “Yess, Yesss, Yessss Meee-How (how “Michael” is pronounced in Polish), it eees trrrue!” I must confess that it was amusing to hear Aunt Jadwiga bring me up to speed on the family laundry, both clean and dirty! But as the journey wore on, Aunt Jadwiga’s soliloquy began to gradually wear me out, as she simply would not stop talking! So much for her taking a nap in the car! It seemed she never took a breath, but instead she produced an endless, effortless torrent of conversation that freely flowed from the moment we left Chicago. Aunt Jadwiga’s shining stars of storytelling were surely aligned over Lake Michigan that evening. She was speaking so much that, before I knew it, we had already passed the Kenosha and Racine exits on Interstate 94 and were quickly honing in on Milwaukee. Here is where my dilemma began. While I had a vague notion of where Aunt Jadwiga’s house was and how to get there, I was not 100% certain. I knew she lived near St. Josaphat’s Basilica and could see its illuminated dome from the interstate, so that beacon would get me in the vicinity. I also knew that she lived near Kosciuszko Park, which featured a huge equestrian statue of Thaddeus Kosciuszko (pronounced: ko-SHOOSH-ko), pointing his sabre victoriously onwards. For those who don’t know, Thaddeus Kosciuszko was a Revolutionary War hero who came over from Poland to fight on the American 51
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side and contributed significantly as a brilliant military engineer. Kosciuszko designed West Point and was highly respected by both George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson called him “The Purest Son of Liberty” he had ever known. Kosciuszko later returned to Poland and led a peasant uprising against the Russians. He remains a most beloved historical figure in Polish-American communities across our country, and many cities, parks, and other civic establishments are named in his honor. That evening, little did I know how much we would soon need Kosciuszko’s help, but I was about to find out. Just before exiting the interstate, I tried repeatedly, though unsuccessfully, to ask Aunt Jadwiga for directions to her house. “Oooh, oooh nooo, oooh nooo, not shhooor. Not shhooor, Meee-How. I cannot reeemember.” This didn’t entirely surprise me, given her festive consumption of champagne back at the wedding reception in Chicago, and also her non-stop marathon of dialogue the entire way, which both had to have her feeling tired and exhausted. Plus, I realized she had never driven a car in her life, and if she did catch a ride with someone, it was not that often, so she probably was not all that familiar with being able to provide such directions, even on a good day without the influence of Asti Spumante. Exiting the interstate around midnight, my concerns grew as some graffiti-strewn buildings quickly reminded me of the changing demographics of Aunt Jadwiga’s neighborhood. It had now become hotly disputed Latino gangland territory, despite the presence of many of the old Polish dinosaurs like Aunt Jadwiga who, although nearing extinction, still chose to roam the old neighborhood they continued to call home with purposeful strides. I was straining past childhood recollections of the few previous times I had been there throughout my life, trying to think my way through the area, making turns on automatic pilot and straining for any glimpse of a landmark that might guide me in the right direction. I asked Aunt Jadwiga if anything looked familiar. Maybe something might jar her memory and provide a directional clue. We had just turned onto Lincoln Avenue, the street on which St. Josaphat’s Basilica sits, kitty-corner from Kosciuszko Park. Recognizing the statue of Kosciuszko in the park, I knew we were at least getting closer to Aunt Jadwiga’s home. I joked that maybe we should roll down the window and ask Kosciuszko for directions. All of the sudden, an excitable Aunt Jadwiga began blurting out “Yessss! Yessss! Yessss! That ees eet! Kosciuszko knows! Look, Mee-How! Look! Look! Look! Kosciuszko points the way!!!!!! Well, I did look and followed the direction of Kosciuszko’s sword across Lincoln Avenue, and sure enough, Aunt Jadwiga was right! And so was Kosciuszko! His sword, though pointing upwards, tilted in the direction of 9th Street, which was exactly the street I needed to take down one block before turning right twice, eventually onto 10th Street, which would take us straight to Aunt Jadwiga’s home. I simply had to laugh because it really was true: Kosciuszko truly did point the way, just like Aunt Jadwiga said, straight to her house! To this day, I still laugh and fondly cherish the memory of that midnight ride to Milwaukee with Aunt Jadwiga, searching for her house, and upon seeing that helpful statue, hearing her jubilantly exclaim: “Kosciuszko points the way!!!!!!” 52
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This Is Only a Drill Carl D. Jones
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Rain, Tower, Cranes: Nashville Skyline Christa S. Martin
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Treetops Lauren Blake
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Photosynthesis Isaac Eustice
She’s telling me about her love for plants How it’s recommended you speak to them Since they inhale the carbon dioxide We exhale turn it into oxygen So they thrive on conversation it seems “Tell them they’re pretty and they’ll do well.” She says, and a black-bird caws, shoots straight out The leaves above another bird singing As it gathers up twigs for its spring nest And squirrels run up and down along the trunks And the sun lays down behind heavy clouds Everything living gives itself away The universe is a conversation.
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