SPRING, 1968
Addenda p'...TWlZ AND QUILL CLUB 1967-68 Karen Anderegg Mary Lou Bistllne Josephine Platz p, 5 QUIZ AND QUILL POETRY CONTEST Honorable Mention.. Sharon Luster QUIZ AND HUMOROUS SITING Second Award.. Rachel Cring ROY A, BURKHART RELIGIOUS POETRY Third Award,..Erin Br@wn
The Quiz and Quill Published by THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB of Otteibein College
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THE STAFF Larry Edwards..................... ..................
. Editor-in-Chief
James Jones...........................................
Assistant Editor
Paula Kurth.............................................
Assistant Editor
Sharon Luster........................................
Assistant Editor
Spring, 1968
Founded 1919
THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB 1967-1968 President ..................................................................... Rachel Cring Vice-President ............................................................. James Jones Secretary-Treasurer ................................................. Linda Clifford Faculty Sponsors ....................................................... John Coulter Todd Zeiss Alumni Relations .........................................................Sarah Skaates
Craig Blanchfield Linda Clifford Rachel Cring Larry Edwards Fred Glasser Linda Grznar James Jones Linda Karl
Dee Dee Krumm Paula Kurth Steve Lorton Sharon Luster Dave Partridge Bobbie Stiles Allan Strouss Dave Thomas
HONORARY MEMBERS Dr. Harold Hancock Walter Jones Dr. John Laubach
Two
Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price
LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest First Award ................... Second Award .............. Third Award ................... Honorable Mention ........ Third Honorable Mention Third Honorable Mention
....... Rachel Cring .....Dave Partridge ...... Mike Metzger ..... Linda Gladura Frederic Ackerman Susanne Ackerman
Quiz and Quill Prose Contest First Award ................................................................. Dave Gallup Second Award ........................................................... Richard Klein Third Award ....................................................... Brian Hutchinson Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Dave Partridge Dee Dee Krumm
First Award Third Award Quiz and Quill Short Story First Award
Si even R. Lorton
Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest First Award ............................................................... Mike Metzger Second Award ............................................... Jennifer Lynne Kelly
Three
CONTENTS The Difference, Linda Gladura ................................................. At the Cleveland Art Museum, Dave Partridge ...................... Camelot, Maggie Tabor .............................................................. A Most Remarkable Cat, Dee Dee Krumm ............................... El Recuerdo, Judith McNeely ................................................... our bag, Don Kinsler .................................................................. I’m Watching Myself Go In as I Come Out, Robin Hike ........ ........................... Erin Brown ........................................................ ........................... Frederic Ackerman ......................................... Haiku to Mothers, Jim Granger .................................................. ........................... Loretta Feller ................................................ Illustration, Rachel Cring ..................................................... Coffee House, Linda Karl ......................................................... To Take a Firm Stand, Robert Harmelink ............................... Ml, Dave Gallup ........................................................................... On Reading the October Issue of Playboy, Dave Partridge .. Mary McClary, Virginia DeWitt .................................................... Haunted Forest, Virginia DeWitt ............................................. The Giant in the Dark, Larry C. Edwards .............................. Question, Jennifer Lynne Kelly ............................................... A Storm Between Flatbush and Boston, Steven R. Lorton .... A Vision, Gregory Prowell ....................................................... The Stairway, Charlene Simmers ................................................ Peddler, Jim Jones .......................................................... ^........ ...........................Marcy Farkas ........................... In Deep Summer, Rachel Cring ................................................ Illustration, Larry C. Edwards .............................................. ........................... Susanne Ackerman .......................................... ........................... Frederic Ackerman ......................................... ........................... Sharon Luster ................................................. thinkin’, Don Kinsler ................................................................... Older Than I Am?, Robin Rike ................................................ Illustration, Rachel Cring ...................................................... ........................... Susanne Ackerman ......................... Atlantis, Maggie Tabor ........................................ ........................... Erin J. Brown ................................................. Illustration, Lucy E. Evans ................. .............................. Motion, Ward Hines .................................. Towards Life, Saranne Price ......................................................
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7 8 8 9 10 10 11 11 12 12 12 13 14 14 15 16 17 17 18 18 19 24 25 25 26 26 27 28 28 29 29 30 31 32 32 32 33 34 34
January, Fred Glasser ........................................................ ...........................Sharon Luster ......................................... A Day’s Ride, Richard Klein ........................................... ...........................Sharon Ruhly ........................................... Une Vie, Jean-Marc LaBorde ........................................... ...........................Maggie Tabor ................................... ....... Illustration, Rachel Cring ........................................... My Most Unforgettable Character, Brian Hutchinson .... i ME, E. J. Brown .............................................................. Parable, Dee Dee Krumm .................................................. Proverbial Enticements. . , Don Parsisson ................ Power Failure, Dave Partridge ........................................ To Ponder O’er a Noble Thought, Jennifer Lynne Kelly Pause, Mike Metzger ......................................................... Quite Late One Twilight, Larry C. Edwards ................. One World, Rachel Cring .................................................. Illustration, Larry C. Edwards ................................... Blue Bells, Richard Klein ............................................... Sonnet for Shelley, Dave Partridge ................................. Easter, Jennifer Lynne Kelly .......................................... After the Sun Goes Down in the West, Allan Strouss .... Clock of Truth, Paula Kurth ............................................ The Mole, Bobbie Stiles ................................................... In Vivo, Mike Metzger ....................................................... ........................ .. Connie Born .......................................... Song of Mistaken Lovers, Steven R. Lorton .................. The Price, Paula Kurth .................................................... It Worked for Goethe. . . , Sharon Luster ...................... the da(ze), Don Kinsler .................................................... A Sonnet for Sharon Dave Partridge .............................. Mud, Fred Ghe ser ............................................................. The In Croup, Linda Karl ................................................ The General Store, Gary R- ^olf .................................... For the Byrds, Allan Strouss .......................................... To Dust, Mike Metzger ..................................................... House of Fathers, Allan Strouss ..................................... Sonnet to Milton, Dave Partridge .................................... Heron, Linda Schamber .................................................... In the Bounce and Heat of Desire, Larry C. Edwards .. Illustration, Larry C. Edwards ..................................
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THE DIFFERENCE Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Armed with the scholar’s knowledge of poets’ mechanics, Head crammed with cleverly worked-out phrases, Men of words struggle in vain to capture On shallow starkness of black and white The awing diverseness of green on green. The sweet, fragrant fullness of shade and light; Try to confine the infinite warmness. The ordered disorder of day and night To sleek, polished lines on nine by twelve paper. Though men pursue, these will slip through their fingers. Caught but by him who will first let life capture His soul, sense, and might. Linda Gladura
Seven
AT THE CLEVELAND ART MUSEUM Second Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry let us go you and I examining the human eye wandering glancing peeking gazing quite amusing, quite amazing such delight at statues nude to some they’re art, to others lewd pornography? or is it art who can tell the two apart unless the way the mouth is shaped when viewing bodies quite undraped one patron shows aesthetic joy the other smirks like a little boy yet little boys are often men reliving their lost youth again can age remove the evil thought of those who never have been taught to appreciate the human form for reasons other than keeping warm Dave Partridge
CAMELOT The forest is raucous with bestial sounds. Plagued by the snarl and the tusk of the boar. Mournful with cries as the dragon pounds His smoky way past slapping trees, the roar Of galloping knights a memory in the mists Behind his yellow eyes. And far in the wood. Where Lancelot fought for Arthur in the lists. Tumble the battlements where Camelot once stood. A fettered Merlin, buried with his art. Remembers glory, shudders at visions; the stark And lonely eyes of Arthur, and the queen apart With her lover against the looming Juggernaut of dark. The dream of peace has fled, and only the bones Of a table remain, and are mute under ivory stones. Maggie Tabor
A MOST REMARKABLE CAT Third Award, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing She moved in with that air of authority. Almost immediately, she made it absolutely clear to all of us that she was to have the final word in important matters. We gathered family forces, and battled magnificently for a while, but ultimately we realized how futile the struggle had been. She had come by invitation, and we had to succumb to her will. Honey Zu Zu Bright-eyes was her name. Any less unique name would have been unworthy of such a cat. Permitting occa sional familiarity from well-behaved members of the family, our regal feline allowed her title to be shortened, for everyday use, to Zu Zu. Zu Zu’s first proposed change for our family concerned her eating schedule. We had some rather well-defined ideas about viien Zu Zu should be fed; namely, she should eat while we were eating our three meals. Unfortunately, Zu Zu’s ideas were just as well-defined - and conflicting with ours; namely she should be fed whenever anyone set foot into the kitchen. As soon as a victim entered the kitchen, Zu Zu came bounding from some unknown comer. She deigned to mb against her victim’s legs, and purr enticingly. When Zu Zu’s petitions were refused, she displayed her royal sense of injured pride. With dignity, she stalked to one side of the room, and sulked with contemptuous hurt. On the issue of sleeping Zu Zu’s ideas were clear-cut, too. She was convinced that my bed was her bed. We were equally convinced that she had a nice, dry, soft bed - in the basement. We had such difficulty getting her into the basement that we finally developed a clever, logical plan. Daddy picked Zu Zu up and held her (She enjoyed being fussed over and spoiled. Doesn’t every queen?). After a time, he ambled over to the basement door, where Mother and I stood casually. Whistling, or engaging in some other unobtrusive occupation. Mother wandered into the basement, coaxing Zu Zu to follow. Mother mshed out of the basement, I slammed the door, and we relaxed for a good night’s sleep. I slept soundly for a full twenty minutes. Then I felt the familiar wet tongue on my face. She had out-witted us once more. On one other matter was Zu Zu insistent of equal rights church-going. She was devout in her feline way, and refused to be denied the privilege of worshipping in the church of her choice. One warm Sunday evening, Zu Zu had particularly ob jected to being locked in the house while we went to church. During a moment of silence in the service, a faint “meow” came from the back of the sanctuary. Fearing the worst, Mother and I looked back. There was Zu Zu, walking regally down the aisle. When she reached my father, who was in the pulpit, she seated herself deliberately in the middle of the chancel, and surveyed
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the congregation. She had made an effective protest march in favor of cats’ religious rights. Even Zu Zu’s death was in keeping with her character. Hav ing lived seven years fully, Zu Zu was poisoned. It was almost as if some faction sought to undermine her queenly powers. Zu Zu died as she had lived - royally and with dignity. Dee Dee Krumm
EL RECUERDO Calles calientes, brillantes del sol Cantan de rosas en el mar. Manos sudorosas me tocan al brazo y de repente... Amarillo, azul, rojo, y moreno el sol ardiente todo caliente Valencia eres tu. Judith McNeely
our bag Life’s just a big bag of wind (an d every time i open i t to see what’s ins ide) i lose a little more of it Don Kinsler
I’M WATCHING MYSELF GO IN AS I COME OUT I’m watching myself go in as I come out. Can’t seem to figure what it’s all about. I go in with a purpose and come out with a look That shows I don’t know what I took, Or why I entered through the door at all. I was large, and now I am small. I was growing outside and coming in. But I was reduced to nothing - something very thin. With no ideas or opinions anymore All because I went through the door. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone through the “In” Or been reduced to the “thin”. If I had entered through the ‘ ‘Out’ ’, Not really grown from without - but within. Would I still be coming in - watching myself come out? I’m watching myself go in as I come out. Can’t seem to figure what it’s all about. Is there an answer to the riddle of the door? Or will I just have to go through more and more Until I decide whether to go in the “Out” Until I figure what I’m all about? Robin Hike
Listen tomorrow the night cold, calm, black, my all too cluttered mind rearranging. Heart knows I love thee. crack! pop! a man dies? I sift together... I drift apart....... Oh restless soul be quiet, be numb. Sleep hurry - that I may know TOMORROW. Erin Brown
E leven
In or out of wedlock’s grace Chastity should have no place; Yet lest we should destroy a soul. Let contraception be our goal. Frederic' Ackerman
HAIKU TO MOTHERS Let the child cry now. Later he may not know how Or why he wants to. Jim Granger
White doll, you lie alone upon the bed; And to your white, a thin, gray film of dust Adds urgency to the thought that must Ask where the child has gone. Or is he dead? Three years ago he took his mind, and fled The sleep of child dreams. Or was it just A loss - a change of schemes? For want of crust He left, now suffers in the need of bread? White satin and china - passive, painted crypt Of equestrian truths that rode away to find The dragon, but found themselves instead - he peers At you, but knows he will not touch. He sipped Hemlock. Now turns his head, but is not blind. Call him! Cry! See whose voice he hears. Loretta Feller
T welve
Thirteen
COFFEE HOUSE Glowing tips of cigarettes In the darkened room like miniature stars Whispers, shadows, a word, a touch, A tinny tune from a guitar or two Cups of coffee held in ghost hands People talking but without words. No one hears what others say. They try to listen, but their minds Are tuned oily to themselves. So they sit in semi-darkness. Wrapped in themselves Like in blankets of thistles. Fearing to move lest they be wounded Lest others laugh from inside their blankets A hollow sound. So they sit within themselves. How can they sit so long With all the sound around them Yet hear nothing? Linda Karl
TO TAKE A FIRM STAND It's always been hard to take a firm stand; I can see the one side, - on the other hand... Now, we’ve got to have someplace to put all those bombs; Why not on some of those Vietnamese towns?. There’s lots of young men with nothing better to do. The world’s getting crowded; let’s get rid of a few. There’s pros and there’s cons, and it’s tough to decide. I want to be sure that I’M on God’s side. i think that i know now; i know through the tears of a girl who looks old after twenty-one years... my brother’s widow. Robert Harmelink
Fourteen
I First Award, Quiz and Quill Prose It was late in the day as she fluttered gaily into the bandroom. The chatter was filled with gossip and loud, having to overcome the blare of brass warming up for the afternoon session, but this time the sound pleased her. Everything pleased her. Quite obviously, the surprise of a spring day in the middle of January had subdued the dismal aspects of the past week. Her smile suggested even more; something had happened to make her forget her problems and take a deep breath of life. She was happy. As she bounced up the tiers to her place in the horn section, people responded to the first spirited greetings she’d given in days. Her smiles begot the same, and the response augmented her joy. Just then she glanced into the back comer of the room at the boy sulking there. She felt the msh of blood as she took a longer look. He was watching her, staring stoically into her eyes with just a hint of anger. Her heart ached for him, and for a moment she felt the frustration return. Soon she took the seat next to Sue, her roommate, and was busily getting her music ready, deep in thought. Suddenly she remembered and immediately bri^tened. “Guess what happened today!” she exploded to Sue. “Well good heavens, what?” asked Sue, surprised to see her roommate smiling again. “I got an ‘A’ on my paper! That means I get a ‘C’ in chem istry this semester!” She needed a ‘C’ in chemistry to qualify for nursing school, a goal she had set while still a child. She had almost given up, but the research paper she received that day renewed her hopes. Depression vanished as she looked to the future. She took one final look behind her and settled back knowing that one day she would find someone she could love. II This has undoubtedly been the worst day since it happened. I know it would be a lot better if I didn’t have to see her every day. At rehearsal she was ridiculous: gaily prancing around, making believe she was happy. She bounced through the door with a grotesque, unnatural smile on her face. Who does she think she’s kidding! She was wearing that dress she knows I like, and all the way up to her seat she flirted with the clarinets. It was as though she wanted me to feel this way. Then, as though by accident, she glanced up at me. I tried not to show that she bothered me, but most likely I failed. Dad always said I could never hide an emotion. She frowned for a moment as though my sight had destroyed her “happiness.” After she sat down, she said frantically to Sue, “Guess what happened today!” I don’t
Fifteen
know what happened because just then those damned trumpets decided to show off, but I can guess. Some smug fraternity jock probably asked her out. There certainly wasn't much salt on that tail! Knowing her, she wouldn’t get excited about anything else. Getting a boy seems to be her chief ambition. 1 ought to know. Just before we began to play, she looked at me again just to make sure I was taking in her act. She got satisfaction of course. When she had fully resumed her joyful facade, she forced a con versation on the boy sitting next to her while I tried in vain to concentrate on the music. It may take several weeks. Dave Gallup
ON READING THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF PLAYBOY (for Pam, Jim, and Christi) First Award, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing the time of year arrives again and crews create the fashions designed to transform boys to men and arouse the women’s passions suave sophisticates of the sex dress in the latest style hopsack, herringbone, and checks cause coquettish smiles transfer yourself to his place reads the print beneath the ad you too will gain his poise and grace if you’re smartly clad the words cause carnal visions and Walter Mitty dreams he makes a quick decision just as the stylists schemed impulsively he buys new threads just as the experts planned unaware, that once the clothes are shed, there still remains the man Dave Partridge
Sixteen
MARY MC CLARY Mary McClary, the constable’s wife Scrubbed and tubbed and mopped all her life. She bleached her lace curtains, then stretched them to dry And hung them up at the window nearby. She swept the dirt from the porch of her house, And she scrubbed and mopped the floors for her spouse; She cleaned out her cupboards, no dirt did she miss. She scoured each pot and each glass and dish. She tore down the cobwebs that she did spy No speck of dirt was safe from her eye She kept her surroundings bright, clean, and neat! Then she died, and they stuck her In dirt six feet deep. Virginia DeWitt
HAUNTED FOREST Bars of bark and xylem Towering beyond reach and hope. Spreading, to join and form A net of living rope Hung leaves swish aimlessly Blocking light from the floor of dirt. Roots rise to mock and trick Twigs reach out to scratch and hurt. Deep in the forest Far removed from the path of the fleeting sun Woods grow dense to hide the thicket Where the spider’s door is spun. Virginia DeWitt
Seventeen
THE GIANT IN THE DARK The giant in the dark of the diabolic year whistled and roared up the creaking steps cracked a joke as he paused by the door called to the child as he lifted a star. “Outside it is dark,” said the autistic child with a grin of truth flying away on the rivets of youth. “Inside it was dark,” the giant sighed glowing in the majesty of his sacrifice. ...down the long hall the shadows fell as the child called the name without a name... “A lily field awaits us child, and you shall weep no more; we shall sit beneath a platinum tree and lie on the banyan shore. We shall sing the desert Hebrew's song; We shall play our harps in Babylon; We shall wait 'til that blazing star comes down and sets our tongues aflame. The giant in the dark of the diabolic year left with somber tread, then stopped by a laugh as the child smiled, he struck the doubter dead. Larry C. Edwards
QUESTION What mad magician is it who would saw my heart in half and then stand back and laugh? Jennifer Lynne Kelly
Eighteen
A STORM BETWEEN FLATBUSH AND BOSTON First Award, Quiz and Quill Short Story I can clearly remember when as a child my parents would speak of not having seen some of their friends in two or three years. It seemed to me then to be an eternity, but it was at least two years since Jessie and her four-month embryo had gone off on a plane to Honolulu where she was to marry a sailor - the source of her motherhood. I hadn’t seen her since, and although we had occasionally written, I felt as though I hardly knew her any longer. I chuckled at myself for my passive acceptance of something which I had once viewed with near disbelief. It was a sign of advancing age, perhaps that esoteric state which all young people covet - maturity. I wasn’t concerned with being grown-up then, however; my mind was elsewhere. Although I hadn’t walked along Jacob Street for some time, my feet passed over the buckles in the decaying concrete walk just as easily as they had many times before and the dark alleys and barking dogs caused me as little consternation as they always had. I was on my way to pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Henry, Jes sie’s parents, a visit which had been in my heart for sometime but until now had not become a physical manifestation of my desire. The Henrys had lived on Jacob Street since before Jessie and I had started school together and I expected that they would live there until we no longer knew one another. Mrs. Henry had come from a wealthy family in Flatbush, a once fashionable section of Brooklyn, but an area whose resplen dence had steadily diminished since her residency there in the 1920’s. Mr. Henry was a young and natty entrepreneur from west ern Ohio when he met his wife during a business trip to New York. He was well equipped mentally and she was petite and socially graceful. At least this is the way it seemed from the stacks of photographs which I had viewed with interest on count less occasions, and by all the indications of their vocabulary and demeanor the photographs had not lied. Their grace had tar nished perhaps a bit in the years of misused resources and life on Jacob Street but their foundation was clearly in the defunct nobility of the Gilded Age and they possessed a certain nonde script antiquated charm. As I passed the old Copeland warehouse and the coal yards, I vividly remembered the hot summer days of ripe childish indolence when Jessie and I would set out for Tawawa Park to take Prince for a walk and Mrs. Henry would stand quietly on the porch watching us until we turned at the comer and were out of si^t. Jessie and I were very good friends; we worked on history projects and banquet committees together and I always found some kind of cockey satisfacticm in sensing that it was her mother’s covert wish that one day we would wed. And now, nearly a decade later and six thousand miles from my schoolmate, I was approaching the decadent white frame house where I had first learned to know the three Henrys. Nineteen
I looked forward to seeing them, and to resurrecting the de tails of our past as weU as sharing the undiscussed happenings of the near present. There was a second and perhaps more promi nent interest in my call however. I had talked with Mr. Henry just three days earlier on the telephone when he called to offer me a summer job at his carry out. 1 gratefully declined his offer, since 1 had no interest in selling liquor for three months and, more important, 1 had some longstanding plans to work in Boston with my roommate from the university. He had mentioned then, among other things, that he and Mrs. Henry had felt the presence of an elderly man who had died from a fall in the basement of their home some years ago, prior to their ownership of the building. The Henrys had been avid spiritualists since the death of their only son in 1940. Their interest had not subsided when Jessie was bom six years later and they still attended seances regu larly. Somehow Mrs. Henry felt that her daughter was a heavenly compensation for the loss of Donald, for they had kept in touch with him as well as dozens of other loved ones and ancestors since his death. I had never been to a seance or materialization but thanks to my acquaintenceship with them, I was well in formed cm the matter. It was the thought of at last meeting one of their ethereal communicants which had served as an added incen tive for my visit with them in the few days remaining before my flight to Boston. The Henrys had always known that the old gentleman had died in the house but they had never suspected that his spirit still dwelled there. For nearly a year they had heard a vague knocking, but not until they had connected the noise with the long forgotten incident, thereby opening their minds to the possibility of his presence and affording him a channel of communication, had the knocking grown louder. Reaching the house, 1 ascended the one small step to the screened porch and passed on to the main entrance without thou^t. The house was dimly lighted, but the sounds of the sleepless industrial city and the warm June wind made the pic ture anything but indicative of the standard illusion one has of a spiritualistic experience. It was a moment before anyone an swered the door bell and so quite naturally my mind slipped back over my years of knowing Jessie and her parents. The tall smoke stack was still standing across the street and the strong old brick buildings which surrounded the house made me feel that I was being sheltered by a mushroom which had sprung up among the rodcs and was now wilting away. Mr. Heniy finally came to the door and greeted me with a healthy smile which had always had the power to make his white hair and wire rim glasses look youthful to me. “Good to see you, Steve,” he said with his hand outstretched. We exchanged platitudes and he led me on into the house where his wife stood, feet apart with toes pointed outward, her hands folded in front of her stout frame and her amazingly youth ful face flowing with affection. She stretched her hands forward to grasp mine. Twenty
“Good heavens, what a handsome young man you’ve become Steven! Mr. Henry and I have looked forward to your coming all day.” Neither of them had lost their gentility although I hadn’t ex pected that they would. “Oh, thank-you,” 1 replied, “it’s very good to see you too. Nothing has changed, you’re still the same radiant people. Where is the Guy Lombardo and Sammy Kaye music?” Mr. Henry chuckled, “Our victrola is broken.” “We don’t need music anyway. Mr. Henry mentioned our visi tor didn’t he?” I nodded. “Well, we know how interested you are, so perhaps if we can keep all reasonably quiet and you would enjoy meeting him, we’ll try and call him tonight.” Mrs. Henry smiled as if to say “enough of that” and turned toward the gold over-stuffed sofa with the multicolored cushions propped on it, grabbing my hand as she moved. “Come, sit down. I’ve made some butterscotch brownies. You see I remembered, they’re your favorite.” I sat down and immediately began to devour the brownies. I had almost forgotten her refined Brooklyn accent but just then it was quite evident. Mr. Henry just stood behind his reading chair musing with delight. I was delighted too. They were a fragment of my life which I hadn’t exposed myself to for some time, but aside from their unique eccentricity, it had become rare in my sophisticated world to feel that someone really wanted my com pany - and this they did. It was obvious to me that they had been quite lonely with their beloved Jessie in Hawaii, but even if loneliness was the stimulus for their apparent joy, I appreciated it. Perhaps loneliness was the stimulus for my appreciation. Mr. Henry finally took his seat, lighted his pipe and rested his feet on the hassock. His wife sat near me on the sofa and watched contentedly as I ate one brownie after another. “How is Jessie?” Mr. Henry drew on his pipe and Mrs. Henry smiled with typi cal eastern stoicism. They had been very hurt by her premarital pregnancy. “Oh, Steven, she is so happy. Her letters are filled with love. She is quite happy in the islands and the baby is beautiful.” With this she jumped from her place on the couch and searched through a nearby desk for a package of snap shots. For at least two hours we looked at the photographs and we chattered about Jessie and the past, the present and the future, drinking coffee and eating an assortment of pastries intermittently. As we talked, I remember wondering why Jessie had gone off to Honolulu, or should I say put herself in the position of being forced to go. She was intelligent, reasonably moral, attractive and certainly more practical and money-minded than to become involved with a sailor. The answer may have been in the silent but ominous frus tration of life on Jacob Street. The Henrys were peacocks in a T wenly-One
barnyard. Perhaps it was an adolescent desire to escape a feel ing of inferiority which resulted from paternal eccentricity. Or, maybe, Jessie was in love. This was the alternative that the Henrys wanted to accept and I would have liked to accept it too. Somehow Donald was maitioned in our conversation and I was reminded to ask if they were still in touch with him. “Oh, yes,” answered Mr. Henry, “quite often now. Which re minds me, Florence, we’ve not bear too quiet tonight and we wanted Steve to hear our friend.” Mrs. Henry gazed for a moment at the carpet in deep preoccu pation. “He’ll come don’t worry.” Then she quickly glanced up at me. “Are you interested, Steven?” “Yes, of course,” 1 answered, “you know I am.” And with this she jumped up and arranged three wooden dining chairs in the center of the room. “He only knocks now you know. He must have some terrible inhibition. We hope that through our communication we can re lease his frustration. Soon he should speak and perhaps within a year materialize! Of course he will eventually release the energy which keeps him on the lower planes. I feel rather sorry for him. He tried for years to attract me, Mr. Henry too, but we just couldn’t hear him. Mrs. Widney says that probably since Jessie is gone now, we can communicate more successfully. Often spirits are unwilling to be known in a home with young people. Mrs. Widney was their medium. Not Madam or Her Excellency, but Mrs. When she finished arranging the chairs, she motioned for us to sit down but before we could, she began to talk again. Mr. Henry said nothing. “You know Steven, it is quite disturbing to see people so in different toward spirits. Today rockets go into space, doctors cure cancer and spirits go unnoticed. In Shakespeare’s day people thought nothing of a materialization. He wrote about it, “Hamlet” and “Macbeth” and others are examples of this! Why do we refuse to accept something which isn’t even phenomenal. I think we’ve lost something. Something beautiful.” Mrs. Henry rubbed the wooden back of the chair keeping herself in touch with reality as her soul leaped across twenty years of doubt, acceptance and strong conviction. “Yes, something very beauti ful. I wish...” She stopped speaking and looked up at her hus band as if to plead for his help. He looked back at her with the same intent compassion with which he had been watching her through her entire discourse. Mr. Henry rose from his chair. “Come, sit down Steve.” We took our seats, Mr. Henry explained that we must join our hands, keep our feet flat on the floor and concentrate with our eyes closed. With a short incantation which I was too awed to remeuber, the two of them bowed their heads and concentrated. I followed their example and after some short time managed to make a sincere effort toward the matter at hand. I couldn’t possibly estimate the time which elapsed, but
Twenty-Two
eventually I began to hear a clear but distant thumping. At that moment my mind sprang from our intimate circle and instantly accused itself of being a victim of the powers of suggestion. The noise did not cease. With the awareness that my ear drums were responding to a physical reality, I somewhat frantically sought explanations for what I heard. The factories on Jacob Street often produced similar sounds. The water pipes in the old house often knocked, and yet seldom if ever so methodically. There were conceiveably hundreds of acceptable answers, yet the fact re mained that prior to our joining hands and concentrating the sound was nonexistent. Even with my mind now filled with skep ticism, the thumping persisted and was increasing in intensity. All this while I had kept my eyes closed, my head bowed and my hands firmly in those of my hosts as I had been instructed to do. I am slightly ashamed to admit that I was frightened and I could feel my heart beating vigorously. Soon the throbbing reached its peak, which seemed comparable to being in the same room with a beating kettle drum. I find it nearly impossible to describe my emotions at that moment. My mind was in no way rational. The feeling was one of both im pending disaster and great joy, but before I could adjust in the slightest to the situation, the beating stopped short. Without warning the room was perfectly silent. After a lapse in time Mr. Henry dropped my hand and his wife followed. He moved from his chair to a floor lamp which he switched on. It made the room, which had been dimmed for the communication, almost unbearably bright. In a few momaits our eyes adjusted to the light and I was looking upon the tray of butterscotch brownies which Mrs. Henry was holding in front of me. I took one and began munching taste lessly. "You look stunned, Steven!” Mrs. Henry spoke with honest concern but a note of humor. "Hadn’t you expected our visitor to come?” "I don’t know,” I answered munching on the brownie, "rve never seriously doubted you and I knew one day I would be in cluded but...” My speech had dwindled to nothing along with my thoughts. "But what?” said Mr. Henry. "Oh yes! Ah...but the knocking! It was a knocking wasn’t it?” They both nodded. “The knocking was so loud! There’s no question, no question at all. Tell me the rest.” "You know as much as we do, Steve,” Mr. Henry answered with a studied tone. For a short time longer, perhaps half an hour we talked of spiritualism and finally I decided that I must go. My hosts were reluctant to let me leave, but with a wish for my happiness in Boston which I accepted and matched with a message to Jessie I departed from my friends. Walking off the porch and back into the veins and arteries of Twenty-Three
the Jacob Street neighborhood, I noticed that the night air was much cooler and the early June wind was blowing the leaves until their bottom side, which was a lighter - an almost white green, caught the moonlight and then let them fall lazily back into place. The sounds of the city were still there, but muffled by the mildly turbulent atmosphere. When I reached the comer, a few heavy drops of rain began plopping about me. One drop was followed by two more until the rain streamed down and I heard the sky rumble and saw it flicker in the distance above the smoke stacks and houses. 1 walked slowly and pensively, feeling, with almost a sixth sense, the soot dripping from the old buildings and running into the gutters. The rain was beautiful and refreshing and I made no attempt to quicken my pace. My cotton shirt stuck close to my skin, the water moved in sheets across the brick streets and when 1 was younger such moving moments of nature made me feel as if I were sitting in the hand of God. It had been a long time since I had thought of God and only now in retrospect can I identify the inde terminable feeling of then with the recalled emotion of the earlier past. The rain, like the knocking, had come unexpectedly but because of its familiarity to me, it seemed less tempestuous but equally miraculous. There was a strange comparison. As 1 walked on from block to block returning to my home on the other side of town, feeling the raindrops rolling off my saturated skin, I thou^t a lot about Jessie and Jacob Street, Flatbush and the world forty years behind me, Boston and the knocking and the rain; while the words of Mrs. Henry echoed through a soul that for the moment had been washed hollow. ‘‘iL think we’ve lost something.”...“I think we've lost something.”... Steven R. Lotion A VISION There Things Sing, Where Fair Wings Fling Air. Why Then Cry, When I Die? Gregory Prowell
Twenty-Four
THE STAIRWAY The stairs in our house Are old and steep. Yet softly fleeced Like a lamb at sleep. Slowly they grow Up the wall to the roof With the railing Set gloriously high and aloof. As a child I timidly Would grope between the bars For some unseen foliage, And dance upon the carpet stars To the rhythm of the elegant affairs I dreamt were held below. While somewhere in my child’s night The stairs had ceased to grow. I climb them now, treading On hard and worn rags. Resting my hand of the Pigmy banister which sags. Wondering how I ever came To call these stairs my own; These rickety stairs and drab walls, I called these things my home. The stairs in our house Are old and steep; In their laps I once did sleep. Charlene Simmers
PEDDLER A Peddler Came today Knocking on each door, ’(He had only one arm) Smiling at each face, (He had no teeth) Selling smelly old clothes And pink wall paper. He left our house Without a sale; My mother called after the dogs That chased him away. Jim Jones
Twenty-Five
Oh gentle sea of Love That in such stillness lies, Why must the storm of Doubt With waves on thee arise? With leap and bound and crash, The foamy frothy waves Splash up and smash upon The rocks - No wrath it saves. The sands of Certainty Are pulled from shores of Trust While winds of Fear do gust And Hesitation mounts. And yet the sea remains The sea. The Love is there — ’Tis but in different form Though no one is aware. Matey Farkas
IN DEEP SUMMER On a night when the moon rose (The sun shining bronze), A heat wave washed in from the sea. Lapping and licking, its lazy hot tongue Brought a fire the wind could not quench. “Where did the sky go?” “Where did the sky go?” The feverish sea-bird cries; Caught in the hot arms of languid strength. Trapped by a kiss on its eyes. Rachel Cting Twenty-Six
T wenty^Seven
Third Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Fleeting flash of orange dress... Bare toes splashing and wiggling in Bubbling, babbling brook... Brazen brown body: Bohemian... Sun-bleached blonde strands of hair Flowing with the breeze... Sun... sumptuous rays beating down... Sun... hot... running... shining face... Reflections in sun-glass lens... Flowers: billions of them growing wild Along winding dirt roads... Running through them... bees buzzing... Keep running... YeUow... white... green... Bobbing flower faces... run quickly... Ah, at last... shade... cool... breeze... serene. Susanne Ackerman
Third Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Now I must see you leave... You’ve been the best of me And I, the worst of you. Are you alarmed to see me cry? You have shown to me More than I’ve taught in all. We are not one - but parallels And of time’s track I was the rustier rail. While I’ve existed, you have lived To make me love a lifetime’s learnings. Would that I had loaned to you all you’ve given me. Frederic Ackerman
Twenty-Eight
.ainsi nous ne vivons jamais.� Blaise Pascal, Les Pensees Dead are we who rush in widening circles rushing forward, looking back. The sacred past we drag behind us long dusty with togetfulness and rusty with regret is nonetheless respected and preserved to prod us onward toward the hope that is the faith of fools. We dream of moments dimly lit, of yet untarnished tranquil consolation for castles crumbled by old expectations. Scurry past the suddenness of now; Hurry toward tomorrow, timeless, shadowy, eternally beyraid. Sharon Luster
thinkin’ like a smoke ring in uh alcoholically lighted room (Strobe light roaring band glaring) the thought of Y ou flashes and f
1 0
a t
s and I realize...
or
M i me r u just HOPING.... Don Kinsler
Twenty-Nine
OLDER THAN I AM? Older than I am? By what? A day, a month, a year? Older than I am? So what? Of our age, I have no fear. Older than I am? Not much. By what do we measure age? By maturity and such? Or by mutual experience? That seems to be the rage. Does God count age As a means by which to judge The closeness between a page Of friendship or smudge? All known statistics out of the way. Not keeping track of anything today. Except the heart. You can put an age on the heart. It’s always been there - a part Of aU mankind. Won’t be put behind - in a comer, Somewhere in the air. It’s been there ever since we were born Though it’s been knocked and cut and torn Apart by everyone I know. But still I go - to the topic of age There is no age to man. He’s done the best he can To make himself an eternal thing Which has no age - just always been Will always ring Must always be - but there’s no age to me. They told me so. But how do they know? Do I look my age? Act my age? It all depends. Do you? Do you act your part? Do you act the age of your heart? Robin Hike
Thirty-One
The sea rolls over and covers the shore Then quickly withdraws his affections, Leaving the shore behind... Yet taking a part. The sea places his foamy hand Upon the shore and strokes her Then again quickly withdraws. Fickle sea... and yet the shore Complains not. She is still beside him... After all these years... Susanne Ackerman
ATLANTIS Drowned in a glimmer of pale green light, washed By currents more ancient than its marble facades, A city of silver shimmers in an ocean of seaweed, calm Yet terrible in its ruin, its man-fashioned lines at odds With wild-tossed darting fish, sand, and silence. Here lies a stone-smooth sliver of...something, speaking Of life pursued on an island of (or so we think) wonder, A templed place for pagan gods, gilded ladies, And an occasional dirt-dumb peasant. Yanked asunder By a cataclysm of wrath, sun-scalded buildings Piled haphazardly on trembling earth, a city, a continent, toppled, depopulated, deposited, (oh, yes) So gently, so soothingly, so floatingly into the depths. Remembered for its temples, its ladies, and, somewhat less. For the dirt-dumb peasant. If at all. Maggie Tabor
Third Award, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Man is but a grain of sand scattered on the bleached beaches of eternity, tormented by the stormy seas of life’s existence, surviving only by the grace of God. Erin J. Brown
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
MOTION Striking stars stark stood still Above; a mind studded bent filled Of wanting - seeing seen not knowing: What straig desire surrounded by known not known. I walk, I touch, I touch within without my Humming hot whole shriekfed-warped into Lethal less - and eyes seeking eyes down, Turned up as bitterly blown, feeling lone in sky. And this breathing body whole - more breathing than Whole - saw softer, silver syncopations Pour power rearing pinioned wings loose over man Wanting. Woman’s velvet vibrations Meeting hurling sight up; now hand reaching hand Winding over rainbow, leaving each in each their motion. H'ard Hines
TOWARDS LIFE three summers gone since our first meeting there where we two fall into a sort of mu tual dependent youth both I and You embraced a span of time a close-knit pair unravelled and I cried it was not fair at first then I saw life apart we grew to greater freedom - all the world was new with one regret - no one with which to share now much has changed since three short summers past two people chained became two people free our glances smiling reprimanding cast at each other to take or leave them be whatever thing there was, it could not last; for you are You alone and I am me. Saranne Price
Thir/y-Four
JANUARY A low-hanging sun Scurries across a bleak, grey sky, Hiding behind the snow-cloud shield. Offering little to us who seek her. A crystal frosting covers the firm, cool earth, and the wind finishes the smoothing-out job. At night a shiny-disc moon Reigns over the sky With more presence and control Than does her daylight sister. Deep velvet nothingness Absorbs all. And we lose ourselves and our senses in the crisp cold. Morning brings awakening and The sounds of motion: The groanings of snow pressed down by heavy-booted feet, The straining wheels of man’s machines, grabbing at the snow, and chewing, spewing, it all around. Fred Glasser
Winter hearkened back today, with splash of sun-wave billows breaking past the chalky cliffs of cloud, a day covered in death so softly grey by time-dust’s shroud. This briefest breath of warm blows forth mind-tides that stretch to worldless isles within your touch. Soul-sail unfurls in biting gusts; its sea-spray drunkenness prolongs the heave of senses’ silent song: an endless reeling seagull white of wing upon the wind. Yet light from sudden slippery gleam of wave shall ebb; remains the silent grave of hollow white, mute, life-sounds lost, save echoes of a frozen ghost. Sharon Luster
Thirty Five
A DAY’S RIDE Second Award, Quiz and Quill Prose Often when winding my way through the sage brush and dry prairie grass, watching and feeling the pre-dawn wind ignite the impatience within my horse, I wonder why there is more than this one world. Here 1 am in a broad valley between two mountains. A mile away I see Pete on his horse, pushing forty cows and their calves up the trail. Occasionally a faint yell makes it through the dust and day, and I am jarred to the awareness that this is not a dream, and I should pay mwe attention to the cows and calves walking before me. Here it is mandatory to think a few jumps ahead of each cow, to know when yellow ear-tag 187 is about to take off down a draw, or when white on red 39 is considering jumping over a fence. And only the yell of another rider or the screams of a hawk can be heard over the trample of hooves on the hard clay and dry sage and bawling of calves. Eventually the small bands of cattle and riders come from all directions, merging and heading for a single destination. And when the last trace of dew was gone, the morning call of the lark bunting was over, and the clacking of red winged grasshoppers were heard in the now hot sun, the whole herd was a collected mass of churning cattle within the boundries of wood fence posts and rails. Here they were sorted, calves separated from the rest, lariats twisting through the thick dust, now on target, now bounc ing off the back of a cow. In the corral exists a strange atmosphere, a semi-real world of yelling men and cows searching and calling for their calves. A constant thick yellow dust of powdered clay and dung settles in everyone’s throat. The heat of the sun is supplemented by the fire of sage keeping the irons a dull red. The stench of burnt hair, the bawling of a calf, are just a part of “Shot and a brand,’’ or “Get another one over here!” And another calf is dragged or carried to the edge of the fire to receive his brand of ownership. Calves are like most men, in a corral not of their own choosing, wearing a brand they wanted no part of, vaccinated against di seases they know not of, bawling loudly for all to hear, and similarly ignored. As die last calf is branded, the herd is released into the grass and sky to which they belong. The muddy water hole is soon filled with them, stopping there before the return trek. Out of a now empty corral walks tired men with smiles and jokes about why Skinny didn’t get kicked, or how come the cow picked Stacy to hoof in the mouth. The horses are again impa tient, this time with the coolness of long shadows and late afternoon. The lark bunting returns to his song, and on a near by hill in the pines a poor-wiU begins whistling into the night. While riding home there is much talk about a new section fence between the north side rim-rock by the bent pine and flying
Thirty-Six
saucer rock. Questions of how much water remains in Dead Horse reservoir, or how good the flow is at Jimmy Mills’s spring, or how high the grass is beneath Caspar mountain, are asked of those who rounded up cows in these sections. And there were boasts of who was going to eat the most at dinner, and who roped the most calves, and how I almost caught a jack rabbit but the loop got kinked. The horses knew rest and grain was ahead, and they flew along the dirt trail. A horse is a way of life, a necessity, a part of the sea of grass, and an arm of the wind. And on this plain is a world of hard work and amusement. It is a life of heat and chills, of pain and laughter, of dry dust and beauty, of a reality that all men attempt to understand. The eerie howl of a coyote rises above the wind and hoof beats, and this is the Earth. Richard Klein
Yesterday was spring-come day. The wind strong on sky and field. They walked Two people and under the clouds. The sun shone through And touched the last-year wheat she picked. They laughed, and echoes broke on blue thawing ice. The wheat she’d keep - a memory of that spring-come day. Tender sky and sacred earth Wet-brown. Walk passed, she passed among her friends. Dry wheat spike in winter hands... building heat... person to person... sweater-cold... seeds dropped. Floor-trampled wheat. The spike almost bare, she rushed in outside air. They met. Tender, She laid the spike in spring-moist hands. The last seed dropped... earth-received... spring-fallen warm. Sharon Ruhly
Thirty-Seven
UNE VIE Cynthia Rayon de lune Glissant sur la roche mouillee Le ruisseau Froisse les feuilles en passant Douce feuille Se meurt d’indiff^rence Bateau ivre au grd’ du courant Un moment Innocente S’&orche au rocher en passant ArrSte Sa course folle un instant Vient se redorer I’Sme Sur le sable Ou la s^re 1’attend Trfes peu de temps Saignant des ailes S’en va veau-l’eau Et centre les brisants De I’oc^an Se d^chire les flancs Finalement. Meurent les feuilles Tombent Et puis s’en vont. Jean Marc LaBorde
If I were to count the hours I’ve waited for you, The times I’ve watched, and listened, and waited in silence. And hoped you’d see that the miles were few That held us apart; if I were to count, in times hence. Those trickling minutes played from a frustrated mind. Would I still think, as once I did, that sighs. And phone-tuned ears, and all the seconds behind Merit the use of time that at birth one buys? If “All things come to those who wait,’’ then I Can expect those things to arrive, all scented with rose, Beribboned, and flowered. And as the papers fly. And I have all but you, and as I close The last of boxes, yet still I cannot part With hope. It is not head rules love, but heart. Maggie Tabor
Thirty-Eight
1C.KC
Thirly-N ine
MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER Third Award, Quiz and Quill Prose My father stands about has thinning, gray hair, and ssggiiig. tired eyes. His physique has altered from his prime, the bulk of his chest dropping around his middle, a phenomenon known as the transition of the Schlitz muscle. He is all for the fitness program, and is doing his best to keep physically fit. Through the morning exercises program he hopes to stay in shape. This he must do because the work he does requires great physical stamina. My father is a doctor of obstetrics and gynecology, and his overworked appearance is due to his profession. His work is not the enjoyable business most people think it is. Rather, it may drive him almost to the breaking point, but he remains devoted to his patients. The thing that I admire him most for is his never-failing sense of humor. His gags keep him going and seem to be an outlet for his stored up frustrations. He gets immense satisfaction out of telling a “sick joke” or pulling a stupid little prank. A “sick joke” may be defined as a story that has an idiotic ending. His favorite one is about Timothy O’Shea. He tells it like this: Timothy O’Shea was an Irish lad who had a bad case of asthma. His doctor directed him to go to Antihistamine, Kan sas, where he would be free from asthma, except in the spring. When the com first comes up it may contract a disease called blight, then he may get an attack. He was all right until the spring when the doctor called him and asked, “O’Shea can you sneeze by the corn’s early blight?” When he starts telling jokes like that, I usually turn around and walk away. Sometimes when we are in the car I will just not pay attention. This pleases him, and he gets a good laugh. Some jokes, like Timothy O’Shea, are so popular by him that they must be told. Therefore, everyone who has come to the house has heard the one about Timothy O’Shea and others just as bad. Since the hospital and Dad’s office are on the same street, Corlies Avenue, a group of well meaning doctors got together and decided to organize a club. The “Corlies Avenue Reading Club” or C.A.R.C. was what they came up with. Though the name sounds innocent enough, the club does not connote what its name implies. The C.A.R.C. is actually a mthless gambling syndicate to which my father is a member. For the last few years the kind doctors of Fitkin Hospital have gotten together once a month and had a penny ante poker game at my father’s office. As was typical for our fine family tradition for winning, we would look forward to Dad coming home at night three dollars poorer and telling how one of the others “got lucky”. One of Dad’s more popular pranks was the time he got caught in a speed trap on his way to an “emergency”. (The emergency
Forty
being an urgent meeting of the C.A.R.C.) The police recognized his M.D. plates and promptly apologized for stopping him. They gave him an escort to the hospital and left. Dad arrived at his emergency on time and told aU the charter members of his excit ing ordeal. Another one of his favorites took place after an operaticai. Dad’s quick, evil eye caught a nurses’ uniform zipper down and unlatched. Without maitioning the fact, Dad zipped it up and snapped the lock. Turning around, perhaps a bit stunned, the nurse suddenly burst into a rage of laughter and immediately pro ceeded to leave the room. However, before she left she told Dad that he had better take care of himself. His zipper was half way down and likewise unlatched. 'The hospital personnel expect this kind of thing from my father. I guess they figure that if his little games keep him going, they will have to put up with them. There are other reasons that I will never forget about my father, but there is not enou^ time or paper to discuss him more. I just hope that some day, when 1 can call a family my own, I have this quality that, to me and three other dependents, dis tinguish him a “Father Above Fathers’’. Brian Hutchinson
1
MY MIND DETERMINED TO BE RIGHT PARRIED ON AND STOOD FIRM FOR I KNEW MYSELF
ME a path ahead fragrances green and red tilted round on air soft I am lost. E. J. Brown
PARABLE The masks are on. The party has begun. And midst the masquerade of kings and priests Move nameless, sadfaced clowns, who seek The right to be, the way to be - identity. Dee Dee Krumm
Forty-One
PROVERBIAL ENTICEMENTS ON A RAINY SUNDAY, 6:23 P.M. Fibrillating smoke swirls up from my pipe and catches in a spider web. The quasi multiferous network shudders from the impact and succumbs to its nothingness of content. Black ink-drops smudged across a white, crisp page. Run and blur together in an erotic race to reach the edge. Absorption overcomes their stagnant racing and their existence ceases. Quietly and grandly leaving proof in their signatures and silhouettes; rain drops of love. Ridgepole fantasies besmirch the bespecktacled ears of the now and present. Could LSD be equi-embivilent to a ten hour olfactory orgy? Mist is ejaculated from the maw of the lake. It catapults upwards and dissipates in a toneless shriek of dispersion. A cat, wallpaper-pastey wet and resolutely disgruntled trudges heavily thru the uppour of summer time snow drops. I look out from a glass panel but feel as one looking into the coloring book of reality from my pretend world of animated non-existence. But then. I’m only human? Spantuals of flame procrastinate at the log ends as the talkingcereal coals vocalize upon the problems of the world. Brief commentators of but a few hours they proclaim world shattering opinions which shatter themselves in a wave of heat. Don Parsisson
Forty*T wo
POWER FAILURE gray sunset skies stare with blank faces you greet their gaze unaware and unknowing cannot you see the light has gone out sleek silky stallion strut proudly prance swiftly drawing chariots of black bearing warriors of stone the signal is given, the battle begins commanders shout orders men curse and obey swords, spears, and arrows pierce iron and flesh blood covers the earth as dying men scream now for awhile the battle subsides now for awhile the illusion of peace yet Oriental serenity is unknown and unwanted someday the battle must be fought again you make love and laugh unaware and unknowing cannot you see the light has gone out Dave Partridge
TO PONDER O’ER A NOBLE THOUGHT Who knows what woes befall my toes when they stick fromwithinmyhose.
out Jennifer Lynne Kelly
Forty-Three
PAUSE “Arnold, will you go to the store for me and get some Karo syrup? Get the light; don’t get the dark. The last time 1 sent your father to the store he came home with salad oil instead of syrup. But then he was supposed to get maple syrup instead of Karo. So it doesn’t really make too much difference anyway. I guess. Does it? Well?’’ “Okay. I’ll get the light syrup.’’ “Arnold, you weren’t listening to me. I said it doesn’t make any difference. Does it?’’ “Yeah sure.’’ “That’s the trouble with you. It’s your attitude. You never pay any attention to anything I say. Never to anything of value. Are you constipated?’’ Why he left. He left while I was talking. I can’t figure...he... never...I bet he is...there’s the phone HeUo. Why Helen how nice of you to call. Oh God it’s not that bitch again. She must be chairman of every committee at the church. When she went to college they folded napkins this way. A lot she knows One year of college and she tries to tell me how to fold a napkin! Yes sure I’d be glad to donate something. I should have known...she never calls but what she wants something. Oh I don’t know. Would a pie be okay? The nerve of that woman. It’s bad enough that she tries to tell me how to fold a napkin, but now she has to tell me when I’m donating my own time and ingredients what flavor to bake. Yes I see. I understand: wouldn’t want just a table of cherry pie for the dinner. How about banana cream? I’ll never forget the banana cream I fixed for card club that time. Alice Murphy said she didn’t like banana cream ordinarily, but that mine looked so good that she would just have to try a little piece in spite of her diet. Lord knows about her diets. She tried to lose weight, or so she said. Never lost a pound in her life. She’s so fat that none of us could even tell when she was pregiant. And her disposition. Naturally I pretended that I knew nothing about the pie. Oh I kind of think TU take some too...I remember how casual-like I said it...it does look good, doesn’t it? Then Nora came over and took a piece. There was some talk about her and the minister. I never believed it of course...and I told everybody so too. She always did have such good taste. Claudine said how perfect the filling was - not a lump in it. And Sally, she noticed how the bananas hadn’t even turned brown. Then I remember how I said that the crust was so flaky. And we talked. I remember it was about Nancy Feldman and how she nearly died of infection when she tried to get rid of that baby with a hot bath and her sewing kit. I never did blame her though. Some people can be so cruel. And she was so active in the youth
Forty-Four
group at church. I even tried to get Jack to date her...of course that was before...They never did figure out how or who the father was. I heard she’s still going with him, but that’s just ugly rumor...bastard. But nobody could get their mind off that pie. I never heard so many compliments. Then they tried to figure out who baked it. Just then Doris said it was you- you baked it! We all laughed ourselves silly. It was kind of fun...I’ll “Yes, well banana cream it is. If you need any more help feel free to call me. Take care of yourself, bye.’’ I wonder where Arnold is. The candy will probably be ruined. Stupid dog. “Here boy. That’s a good dog. ..yes.’’ “Here’s your stuff.’’ “Oh thank you. What took you so long? I was worried about you.’’ Mike Metzger QUITE LATE ONE TWILIGHT Quite late one twilight as I woke from a dream with the sun halleujah like changing my eyes to gold, (the sky going down with a shout in the sea) the witches came with their songs of healing of the words at work in a shouldered scream. And I, being squeaked by the shout of the sun broke a prayer at the chanting heavens and watched the lightning ring ...somewhere the rain fell soft as a maiden’s clasp... And asp-like I snaked through the seas of the neptune boomings and struck their crab shells crying. Quite late one twilight with the gods of the east I turned my brains to the nerves that were tingling and heard a raven’s wing. Larry C. Edwards
Forty-Five
ONE WORLD First Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry beyond the swamps and noisy desert where beetles rush and eagles honk their screaming laughs; beyond confused babbling in Eastern dialects and innocent flowers held in arid hands; beyond the purple towers hung with strings of beads; far past the garbled underbrush where even crickets dare not chirp; beyond, beyond, run the gentle rivulets and springs that gather quietly into the stillness that flow together, gently, softly, to the pool of quiet. Grey day, cool as Appalachian spring; All hushed but the dripping of the rain Dropping softly, gently harsh. Splashing soft on resting morning leaves. All grey, gently shadowed, preparation for the coming; Till then emerges softly Shaker bride in white. Gentle, austere tapestry; . Almost static world of Shaker black and white. Tis a gift to be simple... Dreamlike world of plainness fresh as hot-baked wheat bread dripping butter, sweet as hickory nut cookies thickly iced. Tis a gift to be free... Plain People living naive spring In hearts made to be happy Gathering sweet purple berries In a patch where nettles grow. Tis a gift to be down... Against the world of greens and blues Against compelling red. Where you ought to be... Among gently falling drops of Prussian blue The gentle black and white lady Walks among wild, sweet strawberries To pick and taste the sweet of one. To let it melt upon the tongue Of the Shaker bride in white. Rachel Cring
Forty-Six
.1
BLUE BELLS From a crack in a rock I found blue bells surviving. And 1 wondered if life is always this hard. And yet, with all its struggling for food and moisture, Its quiet blue bells rang. Laughing in the breeze. Richard Klein
SONNET FOR SHELLEY Noble Promeatheus, supreme, sublime Couldst thou have come from mortal womb? Where is thy statue? thy gilded tomb? Thou hast no worthy stone or shrine “His shrine’s his art, his verse still lives” 'Tis but in books! I shout Oh shame! Pay greater homage, extend his fame! Such oversight I can’t forgive! No Ozymandias stone I crave. But carve his image in stars and cloud Let neither flames nor shadows shroud My Shelley, but let them serve as slaves And let the west wind not my Shelley wrong But entwine his verse with skylarks’ song Dave Partridge
EASTER Second Award, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry The hand that planteth the seed in the womb has plucked the flower from the tomb. Jennifer Lynne Kelly
Forty-Eight
AFTER THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE WEST “Afraid of the dark?” the man cried out. “Afraid you wai’t come back?” “No,” I replied. But I guess I lied Because that’s all I thought about. I know that wondrous things happ«i now And stars can’t shine in the sun, But somehow daylight brings the truth And a sense of having fun. If I could only see the world And know what it all means. But it’s dark outside and there is no sun And no shadows fall from trees. “Old man,” 1 shouted after him, ‘ ‘I think you know I lied But it’s not so much the dark I fear As the thoughts that come inside.” Allan Strouss
CLOCK OF TRUTH “One truth the more ought not to make life impossible...” Lord Jim Tiny troubling tearing truth Tearing shreads of sanity. Judging juggling jaded man Facing facts he can’t forget. Saddened sorrowed sleepless nights: Timorous tinkling tinny ticking Of the clock that measures life. Paula Kurth
ForlyN ine
THE MOLE Burrowing in uncontested simplicity, The mole knows quite explicitly what he’s about. He stays in his hole, minding his own business. Never ventures his nose when the sun’s out. He knows what he can do and he does it. Lately there’s been a movement to dig up all the moles And make them come up into the sun like everybody else Give them a pair of dark glasses so as not to hurt their eyes, (too much). While everyone else is going underground. Taking lanterns that distort whatever they can see. But the mole knows quite explicitly what he’s about. He knows what he can do and he does it. He stopped the movement-makers from goggling him And telling him to try the sunlight. He thought it was pretty foolish. Now burrowing in contested simplicity, The mole keeps out of the way of the would-be tunnel diggers who see distortions in the dark. He knows what he can do and he does it. Bobbie Stiles
IN VIVO First Award, Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Why has he deserted you? the mighty prophet cried Armageddon! A dollar ninety-five plus postage to save a soul Christianity’s the way let us build a cross of paper-mache brother hear my call (face it baby, man may fall) morality’s not calisthenic but is kindness psychogenic? he walks and talks with ME
Fifty
oh i see did he say it was so well no damn them to hell the lost generation Christ is the answer to save a soul and win a prize but the greatest of these is me a building is as cold as its warmth to refuel or discharge a revision is due all that love simply won’t do. billy has the answer do it on commission a donation buys a remission automated marching truth (specify color shape and creed) buy the book stamp out greed love not war trite but catchy to save a soul sterilely electronically no vulgar contacts healer 10,000 X 2/10 equals sequels a vacuum is a nice place to live but i sure wouldn’t want to visit there. Mike Metzger
The browning leaves of autumn lay gently upon the hills Like the eyes of a lover upon his beloved: Taking in all and forgetting time. Connie Born
Fifty-One
SONG OF NflSTAKEN LOVERS In some innocent, babbling way tonight I will love you, And we will watch one another stretch and move in our sleep, A nocturnal vigil of warm, young love we’ll keep. For in a borrowed bed, we will have moved to and through The cage door of the lesser free and meek. In some innocent, babbling way tomorrow I may laugh. And sit rubbing my thumbs - perhaps - if you should weep. Oh what blinding vigil did we chance to keep? Each of us, once whole, we now are only half. Of something we may not for love repeat. One of us toward sun and one toward moon we'll move. Perhaps in shame we’ll watch our days divide. Without a word to pardai - or even one to chide. With only empty uttered theories and hollow vows to prove. For one can find no secret place for self from self to hide. If it were mine to change the world, I would let my chances pass. It is no fault of Mother Earth that I have judged in error. And if my spirit’s burdened - then the burden’s mine to bear. But embraced in self-delusion - yet in joy from first to last. If life is joy and to live is good, then surely life was there. Steven R. Lorton
Fifty-T wo
THE PRICE Laughter echoing through Empty hall And I lie Relieved at love-over Until The intolerable disillusionment Of not-loving Tiptoes in and I am racked (soul-stretched) Realizing you Are just Another Person. Freedom brings its Own Price. Paula Kurth
It worked great for Goethe, but somehow I just can’t quite cut it. The German tongue is one whose words Plagued with declensions are. I’d almost rather Chinese speak, Or Portuguese by far, Than struggle with Deutsch syntax. Which is less than wunderbar. The baffling vocabulary’s filled with merger laws. I flounder in attempts to spit Out without any flaws Myeyescan’tseetheend words; my Reward is aching jaws. I’ll stick to English, for I'm told The Germans speak it like the Queen. If I don’t understand them, they’ll Without a doubt know what I mean! Sharon Luster
Fifty-Three
the da(ze) I’ve always been haunted by the thought of you. Perhaps it’s just a reluctance to become a man or just a desire to go back to lollipops and afternoon naps or merely my wanting something that (I know) I’ll never
find
I never really thought about it until today but I’m afraid that if I do find you I’ll be unsatisfied (or at least) want to go back to the da( ze)-of-the-wan ting... Don Kinsler
A SONNET FOR SHARON kiss my lips but once my sweet. I bid thee do this minor task. tis small favor that I ask, not superhuman stunt or feat. does my name or purse cause thy rebuke? or is it me that you despise? forget and let your mind disguise me as a king, a prince, at least a duke. waste not our time with thy protest these moments we can better spend. purse thy lips and let them blend with mine and give them needed rest. oh grant to me this precious gift or I’ll sear thee with satire surpassing Swift Dave Partridge
Fifty-Pour
MUD The spring’s first mud Accompanies the thaw And heralds a new rebirth of wonder That life will again awake From winter’s secret silent sleepiness. The herald comes unnoticed at first, But suddenly it’s there On your shoes. But who cares: The season’s most expected sign is Mud And it will last till May. The first mud is just a start, But to it, like the poet of yore. We sing. If mud lie ai the once-frozen ground. Can spring — yea summer — be far behind? Fred Glasser
THE IN GROUP What are these shadows Arranged along the wall? We do not know. Nor do they know themselves. Although they talk loudly Of “happenings,” of being “in” and “uptight” They talk of “where it’s at” And speak of what’s “groovy” But if you ask them, “Where will all this lead you?” They reply, “Nowhere, man. Like it’s here, man, like, now!” “.What is?” “Like, it’s what’s happening. Baby. Now will ya cool it, like!” And you leave slowly. And yet they know Still not what they are. Nor do we. Linda Karl
Fifty-Five
THE GENERAL STORE It was a place where fellowship was free, And I wanted nothing more Than to be with the circle of loafers At the old general store. They sat in captain’s chairs around a stove And spoke of present and past, As I sat enthralled by their every word Longing for the moments to last. But the store itself was something to see: The sale bills on every post; And tables and shelves all arrayed with goods Mail-ordered from coast to coast; There were patent medicines by the score; Glass jars filled with striped candy; And for Mrs. O’Malley’s aged, tired blood Were guarded pints of brandy; Hanging from the rafters were the coffee pots For household or wagon train. Rifles and traps, wicker baskets and hats, And even a weather vane; Boot jacks and flat irons were out on the shelf And Hudson Bay blankets of wool; Women’s corsets sent directly from Boston; And rawhide right off the bull. Near the base burner was a checker board Balanced on a keg of nails. And the husband would take on the county champ While the Mrs. watched the scales. Behind the counter a sign was displayed As plain as the owner’s mustache. And many have smiled at that crocheted plaque, “In God We Trust, All Others Cash.’’ Gary R. Wolf
FOR THE BYRDS
Bound but churning Found and yearning With gravity this State I see . . . A double-dealing, complete free-wheeling. Great Society! Allan Strouss
Fifty-Six
TO DUST Third Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry The Eagle has died It grew One-eyed. Begot by a Dove What a labor of love! Egg Larva Pupa adult Oft wondered who was at fault. From dove to Eagle it grew And what a Symbol A Lewd tatoo... Metamorphosis is now complete, a swarm of Insects lie at His Feet Black and Orange with Antennae God only knows how many he who wears a hat for a mind wed to One a Woman-Kind Age transcends worth turned to trees now it happens attacked by These to hear such noble decrees as Just remember Aryan that carrion is carrion The Dynasty of Death still reigns and they still rain All burned but not consumed “'What’s left but to resume” Nobility knows no bound simply ask a Clown it is it is is it must be Mike Metzger
Fifty-Seven
HOUSE OF FATHERS (We Die) Broken arrows in the sands of a land which is our land no more. North Winds across our summer home, the plain, reach down and take the old from us. My Father, the years borne upon your heart outnumber the creases upon your brow. You will go from this land - this land not yours. You will see your land peopled by your people your game your Gods once more. The North Wind blows cross the wide plains among the mountain peaks bringing its glad message to the old. The old hear its message and cast up their souls into the Cold Rage. The Wind has come and gone and taken up the old. The seasons change and we go down to the plains to cross and recross the barren land. Mules, not our own, drag borrowed plows over land we do not own. Allan Strouss
SONNET TO MILTON At seventeen with awkward eyes 1 scanned the page and damned your art I now recant with humble heart For foolish words. 1 realize 'Twas innocence that made me blind To your beauty, skill, and strength Structure, eloquence, and length Terrified my virgin mind Allusions to mythology Made your art at best abstruse But, please, forgive a child’s abuse And accept a man’s apology Sir, I’d be content with imitations Could I but equal your creations Dave Partridge
Fifly-FJghl
HERON The gentle avian beats low Across the tree-tops With langorous, sweeping strokes, His graceful, back-curled neck counterweighted By the incongruous stretch of his legs behind. Under the blue-gray arch of his wing He scans the marsh. Gliding into a settling spiral. Shifting... sliding.. .down. He skims the cattail heads. Tilts his wing-keels to the sky. And lets his stilt-legs swing forward To slip into the dusk-dappled shallow With a little splash. One homy foot Lifts slowly. Then glides down Into the warm water. Stirring a downy-soft mudcloud Which settles over it. No concentric ripple Now breaks The timeless majesty Of that reflection... Or mine. Linda Schamber
Fifty-Nine
IN THE BOUNCE AND HEAT OF DESIRE The earth moves slower and slower until in time with the tomtom’s beat, the heat rises from the fertile day and spring leaps out like a child with a cry that challenges a thighbone to make him die. These are no vapors of the eye that splash a ripping lick of the flicking light. The rippling lick of the flicking light wraps a child with the love of giving, and draws the shades away from night to draw him down to living. Life force moving in the wind. Life force salting through the jungles of the jugular, Tiger-like, the night stalks the sun to sleep. Tigers’ eyes glow in the darkness. Cats fight in the jungle for the prize which never comes easy but with the bounce and heat of desire sends up a scieam to the itching fire that creeps in the tomb of perfection. Larry C. Edwards
Sixty
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