Ivy Leaves Staff Literary Editors
- Ada
Ezeokoli, Aliya George, John Lyons, LaTonya Scott, Joyce Stein
&esign Editors - Keith Babinchak, Matt Boston, Chasity Baxley, Carla Carter, Stacy Coleman, LaShanda Solters, Laura Wolfe
Advisors -
Wayne Cox, jane Dorn Cover Design - Laura Wolfe
driving 1-85
driving l-$5 at night at seventy miles
the^mind^f reason/grips the body harJTpase^vin the right seat eyes
in
an hour
mesmerized by one
shirwpg-;fa$i unfolding mile after mile not
\oo2^fiohfÂŁ\de to side but straight
ha nils Reeling something belf-^isjorilfig
strips
stark fear
ahead
daring to like
a puppet
to hold onto other than
a seat
metal upon metal slamming into each other
like^box GQrs off the rails like a child's blocks stacked
end
to erjd collapsing in a tangled
released ffom a :
from the devil
bow
like fleeing
from the devil
Margaret Hayes
heap
like
an arrow
or a bullet to a target like fleeing
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
lulled the night to
The
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
to
peaceful slumber.
its
a place
shadows
with
remains
someone or something
stand, waiting for
that
But
who would
seems almost haunted
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
Tall
grasses
impossible to see
the animals hiding in wait
The house the
crows
for
watch as cars pass by on
on a
is
many people
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 1
2"xl
2"
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
little
You gotta make
.
it
through
this class.
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
Dry erase and chalkboards
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
inside,
— brewed coffee and bagels —
assorted group of early risers
this
perfectly
that defy the still-slumbering
inside
Not
a
that
solitary light
world
among a town
of dark storefronts.
we'd choose
to sleep in for hours
we would
stick to
and
our
if
given the option,
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 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
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
don't often
as
is
if
to the things
a while.
feel,
arms
I
a wistfulness
but
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
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
tell
Climbed
When
when
the story
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
in curls,
answer.
for
born
when
at
I,
4
a needed nap
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" Lashanda
Salters
A Confession I
once ripped the mirror
off
my
to
park
parent's car, trying
I
the
in
it
To avoid
my
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
fell
off
a stop sign.
convinced
To give dollar
me
my younger sister new crisp
her
bill, 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 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
slowing
stopping an instant before she does.
dance again, box crashes to the floor.
Tiny hands reach out to start the
They
slip
and
the music
The ballerina races out of
control.
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
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 tuna
'Ere they'll taste
a spoon
Anything else
the fridge.
in
o'
"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 trees.
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,
Fumie oil
on canvas
28"x34" Tracy West