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IVY LEAVES STAFF Literary Editors Ada Ezeokoli Aliya
George
LaTonya Scott Joyce Stein
John Lyons
Design Editors Keith
Babinchak
Matt Baston
Chasity Baxley Carla Carter
Stacy Coleman
Lashanda Salters Laura Wolfe
Advisors Wayne Cox Jane Dorn
Cover Design Keith
Babinchak
-
driving 1-85
driving 1-85 at night at seventy miles
the
mind
of reason/grips the
harnessed
in
body
the right seat eyes
in
an hour
strips
stark fear
mesmerized by one
shining ray unfolding mile after mile not daring to
look from side to side but straight
hands seeking something belt visioning metal like
box cars
end
to
from the devil
off the rails like
bow
in
Margaret Hayes
a puppet
a
into
a seat
each other
child's blocks stacked
a tangled heap
like
an arrow
or a bullet to a target like fleeing
like fleeing
from the devil
like
upon metal slamming
end collapsing
released from a
ahead
to hold onto other than
from the devil
like fleeing
Mon
grand-pere
Papa, walking blessed the
hand
stick in
fruit
of his loins
with the palm tree's sweet wine.
He made music
with a
gnarled, carved
in his
and The
lulled the night to full
bamboo youth
stalk,
rhythmic slumber.
moon gazed, entranced
by the poignant melody of
whose brown eyes whose wrinkled quietly smiled.
Ada
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
Ezeokoli
retold
face,
this
primeval soul,
a century of earthy splendor,
upon breathing
its
last
The House Up on
the
skeletorial
hill, its
to disturb
come
to
as you walk the
peaceful slumber.
its
But
who would
a place that seems almost haunted
shadows
with
remains
someone or something
stand, waiting for
that run across the floor
by,
wind
that howls through
open walls and doors.
Rain falling onto the open floors,
lightning flashes across the sky
leaving
all
who
see
feeling both horror
Where
One
is
this
this
—
great sight
and wonder.
—
place
lone tree stands
in
the yard,
no branches only a trunk pointing upward, a perching spot to
for
watch as cars pass by on
dirt
road, sending dust and gravel
into the
empty yard.
growing, making
it
the animals hiding
The house the
crows this
on a
is
many people
Tall
grasses
impossible to see
wait
in
hill,
—
looking over
below, haunting
some
with each clap of thunder causing them to
shudder
Maybe we
in fear.
should
all
take a
moment
and look up
at these remains
with respect
and even
then quickly run away.
Mary Morris
fright
—
Miles linoleum print
12"xl2" Stacy Coleman
Epitaph Stranger, look
upon
this
marker and smile
in
the knowledge of the exceeding
of
my
life.
Not
that
it
was
easy,
but richly blessed; not that
but that to
I
I
overcame the world,
now go on One who
be with the
John Lyons
did.
abundance
Les Saisons
Trees
spew
forth fire,
Valleys rage with shifting hues...
White death, backstage,
Outside children
smiles.
frost,
Taste fluffy drifts of white rain...
Angels
sifting salt.
Frozen breath escapes,
Tanned Birds
Ada
skin
pen
on white sand beckons.
their lyrics.
Ezeokoli
Sleeping through class. Stay open
.
.
eyes
little
You gotta make
it
through
this class.
Dry erase and chalkboards blur
As my
coffee wears off at
last.
I'm drifting into oblivion
Where no science teacher exists And no one can remember How many classes have missed. I
Beri
Hancock
.
Marriage oil
on panel with cheese cloth
5'x3'4" Allison Holdredge
The Bagel Shop At the door,
I
pause before entering
considering the sanity of myself
and those
â&#x20AC;&#x201D; brewed coffee and bagels â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
inside,
assorted group of early risers
this
perfectly
that defy the still-slumbering
Not
solitary light
that
we'd choose
to sleep in for hours
we would
stick to
rising before the
world
among a town
a
inside
and
if
of dark storefronts.
given the option,
our tradition,
sun
like
the fresh bagels
to experience the familiar consistency
that suspends daily
chaos
allowing us to prepare for the day,
one hurried
task after another
where we can,
for just
a few moments,
peacefully sip our cream
just that
It's
that never
and sugar-laden
the eyes of the tired looking clerk
seems
to muster
a
smile,
the salesman's neatly pressed suit
and
the wrinkled T-shirt of
proudly displaying
his
random
and well,
to
tattoo...
the hour,
collection of lives,
I
can't help but appreciate the purpose in
when we
our only shared experience of the day
Moore
common
leave.
each of us
being here
unknowingly acknowledge our
Jill
tie
the infinite possibilities that will meet us
has even this,
and
a man
forearm
and when you consider the
coffee.
ground.
A
Home
Feeling of
Sometimes when
Though
I
pass by a particular house,
suddenly
I
is
it
sad and
feel
a house
lonely.
never lived
I've
in,
never even entered,
something about
look brings back
its
known sometime, somewhere in the past.
a happiness
It
a feeling of home,
is
memory
a
I've
of
my own
that clings
to the place,
as intangible as a wish,
as solid as a stone. It
as
is
if
I've
been away and
left
behind something or someone meaningful,
and now have come back I
It
I
it
lost for fills
my
soul with a wistfulness
somehow
don't often feel, but
as
is
if
to the things
a while.
arms
I
once
trusted
beckon me back,
and a voice calls to welcome me, and wish with all my heart it were I
my
house,
that
take It
is
my home
away
or completely forget.
the joy of being a child again
with the innocence
so
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
childhood place no one can ever
little
and
trust
which hasn't grown up as nor
one
feels
as time escapes us,
become
cautious as
I
but remains forever sealed
remembered simply as
Margaret Hayes
have,
I
have, in
love.
the heart,
Confessions They
When
when
the story
tell
Climbed
at
I,
into Frances' crib
alone
left
for just
"What happened
4
and
cut her curls
a moment.
to this
baby's hair?"
Mother laughs as she repeats my ready
lie.
Looking straight into her eyes without blinking,
Holding her scissors behind me, covered
"The
rats
did
it,"
I
My conscience was Was
laid
Among
down
coats
in curls,
answer.
for
born
when
at
I,
4
a needed nap
and handbags
of visiting aunts.
Sparkling coin purses inside handbags beckoned. First
Then
a penny from each, then a dime, guilt,
remorse
for all of
I
my
life.
shame me? always worried, "did they know?"
Did they find out and
Joyce Stein
silently
Hinduism on wood
acrylic
24"x24" Lashanda Salters
A Confession I
once ripped the mirror
off
to
my
parent's car, trying
park
I
the
in
it
my
To avoid
tried to fix
narrow garage.
father's wrath,
with help from a friend
it
who knew all sorts of things about cars. thought we had done a good job And reveled in my success until the next day when my father was driving to work and I
the mirror at
I
a stop
fell
convinced
To give dollar
off
sign.
me
bill,
my younger sister new crisp
her in
exchange
for
a magic quarter. I
could buy so much more with a dollar
Than I
was
I
could with twenty-five cents. quite proud of myself for
outsmarting a six year old
showed
to
Mom
until
she
the "magic" quarter.
Andrew Anderson
Solitary
I
walk over
flattened, shining leaves,
Through a lamplit
stretch of
parking
lot.
My hand, as reaching to scratch A phantom itch, searches to hold your if
down
look
am
the
lot
hand.
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
acquainted with every step
I
will take,
Trudging through a photograph
Ve seen
my
pull
Resting
too
many
times...
step before crushing a red
in
cannot fathom why, only Like
bloom
the sea of trodden foliage.
a drop of blood
Forgetting myself
I
lift
in
a
how
solitary,
field of
snow.
up the flower,
Chagrinned as my careful fingers crack The
stiffened petals,
Dry as a desert. There I
is
cinch
And
it
Allison
nothing more to know.
my
grip over the dried rose,
crackles like a
Holdredge
fire in
my
hand.
Music Box
On
A
a stage of
velvet, gracefully twirling,
miniature ballerina
weaves dreams
for
Tiny hearts. Her porcelain flesh draped
Gossamer
in
a
fabric, forever frozen in time.
Arms posed above her head, as if she Ready to take flight, instead of racing Around and around her lonely stage.
is
The haunting music of a forgotten
Composer
rises
from beneath her feet
Racing to keep up with
And
her, then
Tiny hands reach out to start the
They
slowing
stopping an instant before she does.
slip
and
the music
dance again,
box crashes
The ballerina races out of
control.
to the floor.
The music
Gets louder and louder, then suddenly Silence.
LaTonya Scott
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
Brice oil
on canvas
74"x41" Carter Boston
Life is
a merry-go-round
Constantly moving,
until
That one moment,
You lose your grasp,
And
fly
off
Hitting the
I
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
pavement.
super glued myself to the bars,
Hoping
to
be the
last
Then a persistent
doused
Idea,
And
I
Head
hit
the
person there.
idiot with the
my hands pavement
in
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
first.
LaTonya Scott
Outside the
air
has
Settled in the crystal cold
Of
winter evening.
The rasping crawl of Fallen leaves rakes along
Midnight parking
lot.
As the door clicks shut, draw ice into my lungs, I
And
cling to
my
arms.
Allison Holdredge
same
acetone
a
Cats'll eat tuna
'Ere they'll taste a
Anything else
in
spoon
o'
the fridge.
"Cats won't touch boiled cabbage,"
new adage,
To coin a
But they'll help with the
bacon a smidge.
Cats won't take their vitamins.
Why
just
Enough
the sight of 'em's
to
make my
kitty
cringe.
But give her a spider That'll fight
She
purrs,
back and
bite her,
"O, what a heavenly binge."
Angle Owens
The carnival
A
sits in
faded rainbow
Of
the valley
in
the midst
nature's green.
Lights as bright as the sun
High above
brilliant
once blinked here
patchworks of
tents
That held within their folds
Throngs of excitement.
Mechanical rides soared, the creaking machinery Mixing with the
And
jovial
Over the unusual and Children laughed
Candy At
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
exhilarating.
coated, sticky joy
â&#x20AC;&#x201D;
sights of delight.
Their voices
A
sound of music
the delighted voices of crowds exclaiming
still
drift in
the wind,
haunting sound chanting through the
Left
behind are
Faded booths and abandoned Broken
lights
and
tattered tents
Forlorn, Left for
reasons forgotten,
Nothing but a memory That
will
always
Wendy Morgan
exist.
rides,
trees.
Fumie oil
on canvas
28"x34" Tracy West
My
was
objective
cism of using
to
escape the
ivy leaves,
the raw creativity of the
whose hard work
and
visual histori-
to replace
artist;
same
the
Raw
in
g
bulb,
a
familiar
of one's
tongue
sion, the
humor
on the back cover
symbol finally
for
be an
being realized.
two merge together
artist,
and how
is
a
to the light
a good idea on the
in
enhance the audience's perception to
not
feat, that is in turn
describing such an act, only adds Illustrated
is
the profession of invention.
Taking a snapshot of this
piece.
at
locations, therefore
doodling on the face of a spare napkin
i
artist
emerges
creativity
random times and various
uncommon
with
inspires the production of this
annual magazine.
too
it
his or her
are set into motion.
In
tip
conclu-
order to of
what
it
is
mental gears
.