Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art — Vol. 77 (cover 4)

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Anderson College (f 8.

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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