GENETICS.
E
ACT OF
)RDS,
AR
KL'UL^YLUe, CQKVtiV L'Ke, OU LvliUUlifc'liKVLUci Mi! ilc, O U AU2 V liAlUUVr A A'vA K L L^YAVLO K.
S
n
ivy leaves
Anderson College (f 8.
The
act of
Mathematics. An operation or a quantity stated in symbolic form, such as ~x, y2, or x + y.
out.
Ivy Leaves Staff
Literary Editors:
Ada
Ezeokoli, Aliya George, LaTonya Scott,
Joyce Stein, John Lyons Design Editors:
Keith Babinchak, Matt Boston,
Chasity Baxley, Carla Carter, Stacy Coleman
Lashanda
Salters,
Advisors:
Wayne
Cover Design:
Chasity Baxley
From
On
The Cover
Both art
and
writing
are forms of expression. This
cover conveys that the contents of this
magazine are expressions of
Anderson College students for the year
2001 - 2002. The cover
itself is
also
expressions,
applying graphic design as an art form.
Laura Wolfe
Cox, Jane Dorn
original art
work by Stacy Coleman
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
rhythmic slumber.
moon gazed, entranced
by the poignant melody of
whose brown eyes whose wrinkled quietly smiled.
Ada
stalk,
—
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
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
as you walk by, wind that howls through the
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
dirt
this
road, sending dust and gravel
into the
empty yard.
growing, making
it
the animals hiding
The house the
crows
for
watch as cars pass by on
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
shudder
in fear.
Maybe we
should
to
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"x12" 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
.
it
through
this class.
Dry erase and chalkboards coffee wears off at
blur
last.
I'm drifting into oblivion
Where no science teacher exists And no one can remember How many classes have missed. I
Beri
Hancock
.
eyes
little
You gotta make
As my
.
Marriage oil
on panel with cheese
5'x3'4" Allison Holdredge
cloth
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
Not
solitary light
that
we'd choose
to sleep in for hours
we would
and
if
of dark storefronts.
given the option,
our tradition,
stick to
rising before the
world
among a town
a
inside
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
peacefully sip our
just that
It's
that never
a few moments,
cream 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 a
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
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
I've
a feeling of home,
It
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 fills
my
soul with
a wistfulness
don't often feel, but
as
is
if
to the things
a while.
arms
I
once
somehow trusted
beckon me back,
and a voice calls to welcome me, and wish with all my heart it were I
my
house,
my home
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
—
little
and
trust
as time escapes
which hasn't grown up as nor
become
cautious as
I
Margaret Hayes
feels
have,
I
have,
but remains forever sealed
remembered simply as
one
us,
in
love.
the heart,
Confessions They
tell
Climbed
When
when
the story
I,
at
4
and cut her a moment.
into Frances' crib
left
alone
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
My
rats
did
it,"
conscience
I
in curls,
answer.
was born when
I,
at
4
Was laid down for a needed nap Among coats 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"
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
convinced
To give dollar
off
fell
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
down
look
am
the
lot
hand.
—
acquainted with every step
I
will take,
Trudging through a photograph I've
I
seen too
my
pull
Resting I
many
times...
step before crushing a red
in
cannot fathom why, only
Like
a drop of blood
Forgetting myself
I
lift
in
a
how
solitary,
field of
snow.
up the flower,
Chagrinned as my careful The
bloom
the sea of trodden foliage.
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 Holdr*
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 Racing
And
to
rises
from beneath her feet
keep up with
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
a merry-go-round
Life is
Constantly moving,
until
That one moment,
You lose your grasp,
And
fly
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 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
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
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
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