Ivy Leaves Staff Literary Editors ^
Add Ezeokoli Aiiya George LaToitya Scott Joyce Stein Joiin Lyons
Design Editors Keith Bcibinciiaic
Boston Ciiasity Baxiey lAatt
Carlo Carter Stacy Coleman Lashando Salters
Laura Wolfe Advisors
Wayne Cox Jane Dorn Cover Design Matthew Boston
ANDERSON CaiEGE LIBRARY 316 BOULEVARD ANDERSON.se 29621
driving 1-85
driving 1-85 at night at seventy miles
the
mind of reason/grips the body
harnessed
in
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
to hold
ahead
like
upon metal slamming
off the rails like
end collapsing
in
a
into
like fleeing
from the devil
Margaret Hayes
each other
child's blocks stacked
a tangled heap
like
released from a bov/ or a bullet to a target
from the devil
a puppet
onto other than a seat
from the devil
an arrov/
like fleeing
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
—
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
shadows
with
as you walk the
peaceful slumber.
its
a place
to
open
remains
someone or something
stand, waiting for
that
But
who would
seems almost haunted
that run across the floor
by,
walls
wind
that howls through
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
dirt
empty yard.
growing, making
it
Tall
grasses
impossible to see
the animals hiding in wait
The house the
on a
is
many people
this
and gravel
road, sending dust
into the
crows
for
watch as cars pass by on
hill,
—
looking over
below, haunting
some
with each clap of thunder causing them to
shudder
Maybe we
in fear.
should
take a
all
moment
and look up
at these remains
with respect
and even
then quickly run away.
Mary Morris
fright
—
Miles linoleum print 1
2"xl 2"
Stacy Coleman
Epitaph Stranger, look
upon
this
marker and smile
in
the
knowledge of the exceeding abundance
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.
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
it
through
this class.
Dry erase and chalkboards coffee
.
eyes
little
You gotta make
As my
.
wears
blur
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
— brewed coffee and bagels —
inside,
assorted group of early risers
this
perfectly
that defy the still-slumbering
a
solitary light
that
we'd choose
inside
Not
to sleep in for hours
we would
stick to
world
among a town
and
if
of dark storefronts.
given the option,
our tradition,
rising before the 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
being here
Moore
common
leave.
each of us
our only shared experience of the day
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
I've
a feeling of home,
is
a memory 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
my
fills
soul with a wistfulness
don't often feel, but
OS
is
if
to the things
a while.
arms
I
once
somehow trusted
beckon me back,
and a voice
and
my
I
calls to
house,
all
—
that childhood place
take It
is
away
no one can ever
or completely forget.
the joy of being a child again
with the innocence
so
welcome me, heart it were
my my home
wish with
little
and
which hasn't grown up as nor
one
trust
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
4 and cut her a moment. at
I,
into Frances' crib
alone
left
for just
"What happened
to this
curls
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
}oyce Stein
silently
Hinduism on wood
acrylic
24"x24" Lashanda
Salters
A Confession I
once ripped the mirror
off
my
to
pork
parent's cor, trying
I
the
in
it
my
To avoid
tried to fix
narrow garage.
father's wrath, it
with help from a friend
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
I
I
look dov/n the
am
lot
acquainted
hand.
—
v/ith
every step
I
will take,
Trudging through a photograph I've
I
seen too
my
pull
many
times...
step before crushing a red
bloom
Resting in the sea of trodden foliage. I
cannot fathom why, only
Like
a drop of blood
Forgetting myself
I
lift
in
a
solitary,
snow.
up the flower,
Chagrinned as my careful The
how
field of
fingers crack
stiffened petals.
Dry as a desert. There I
is
cinch
And
it
nothing more to know.
my
grip over the dried rose.
crackles like a
Allison 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
—
Brice oil
on canvas
74"x41" Carter Boston
Life is
a merry-go-round
Constantly moving,
until
That one moment,
You
lose
And
fly
your grasp.
off
Hitting the
I
—
pavement.
super glued myself to the bars.
Hoping Then a
be the
doused
Idea,
And
to
I
Head
last
person there.
persistent idiot with the
hit
the
my hands pavement
in
—
first.
LaTonya Scott
Outside the
air
has
Settled in the crystal cold
Of
winter evening.
The rasping crawl of Fallen leaves rakes along a
Midnight parking
lot.
As the door clicks shut, draw ice into my lungs, I
And
cling to
my
arms.
Allison Holdredge
same
acetone
Cats'll eat hjna
'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
Cats won't take
Why
just
Enough
bacon a smidge.
their vitamins.
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."
Angie 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
patchv/orks of tents
That held within their folds
Throngs of excitement.
Mechanical rides soared, the creaking machinery Mixing with the
And
jovial
Over
the unusual
Children laughed
Candy At
and
—
exhilarating.
coated, sticky joy
—
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
Matthew BastonMission
My
cover
achievement.
is
We
stand on the shoulders of
breakthrough or idea.
day
in
Cover Art
based on growth and
great people and try to
that every
of the
our
make
We own
the next big
should strive for
The
lives.
climber symbolically represents the defini-
an ivy
tion of
magazine.
and the
leaf
When
I
spirit
behind the
talked to Dr. West, the
founder of Ivy leaves, he said
"it
was based
on the academics of the ivy league and the ivy
growing on the main building of the
campus." idea.
My
cover attempts to
The back
is
embody
this
a challenge to everyone
who
reads the magazine to strive for great-
ness
in
the future.
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