RENAISSANCE 2005
RENAISSANCE
The Writers’ and Artists’ Magazine
of
Wayne Community College
Goldsboro, North Carolina
Volume 21, April 2005
STUDENT AWARDS
Cover Design - Michael Elliott
Art - Po Wah Yeung
Poetry - Julie A. Aycock
Essay - Debra Curl
EDITORS
Rosalyn Lomax Paula Sauls Kathryn Spicer
Marian Westbrook, Editor Emerita
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Liberal Arts Faculty
Patricia Turlington and Margaret Boothe Baddour
Jennifer Stroud
Crystal Lewton
Jeff Williams
Educational Support Technologies Department
Thomas J. Garrou
Grace Lutz
Ron Lane
Wade Hallman
Alice Wadsworth
Student Government Association
Kornegay Printing
and
The Artists and Writers
No part of this magazine may be reproduced without permission.
Copyright 2005 Renaissance
Views expressed are those of the individual contributors and do
not necessarily reflect the views of the editors or this institution.
Table of Contents
Paper Cup .............................................................................. 1 ................................................ Julie A. Aycock, Associate in Arts*
Fragile ....................................................................................1 .................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Sand Castle .............................................................................2 ................................................ Julie A. Aycock, Associate in Arts*
Summer Day ........................................................................... 2 .................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Hawk and Spin ....................................................................... 3 .................................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor
A Day with Friends ................................................................3 .................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Twenty Years of Chaos .......................................................... 4 .......................................... Benjamin Strickland, Associate in Arts
Jagged Edge ........................................................................... 4 ............................................. Hannah Yarbrough, Associate in Arts
From Here to There ............................................................... 5 .......... Rachele Woodham Bartlett, Medical Office Administration
Dream of Escape ....................................................................5 .......................................... Benjamin Strickland, Associate in Arts
Charlotte’s Subdivision .......................................................... 5 ...................................... Gabrielle Sara Turnage, Associate in Arts
Loneliness ............................................................................... 6 .................................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor
Daisy ...................................................................................... 6 ................................. Tara Humphries, Public Information Officer
Light ........................................................................................6 ...................................... Gabrielle Sara Turnage, Associate in Arts
Self-Portrait ............................................................................7 .................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Which Way? ............................................................................8 ............................................. Hannah Yarbrough, Associate in Arts
Where My Feet Have Just Been ........................................... 8 ............................... TJ Garrou, Educational Support Technician*
Crimson Blue in E minor ........................................................8 ..................................................... Terre Terrell, Associate in Arts*
Thesaurus ............................................................................... 8 ...................................................... Terre Terrell, Associate in Art *
Gabriel in Darkness ................................................................9 .................................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor
Repetition ................................................................................9 .................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Recurring Dream of Battle .................................................... 10............................................... Julie A. Aycock, Associate in Arts*
Shards .................................................................................... 10............................................ Rebecca Thomson, Associate in Arts
Shadow of a Soldier Past ...................................................... 11................................................................. Brent Hood, Webmaster
Retreat—Pickett’s Charge ..................................................... 11....................... Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities Instructor
Lost ........................................................................................ 12......... Rachele Woodham Bartlett, Medical Office Administration
Hug-a-bear ............................................................................. 12................................ Tara Humphries, Public Information Officer
Widowed Lover ..................................................................... 12.......................................... Crystal Lewton, Associate in Science*
Forever Green ........................................................................ 13.................................................... Keri Worrell, Associate in Arts*
Prologue to an Unfinished Novel .......................................... 14......................................... Benjamin Strickland, Associate in Arts
Ode to Thee, Bright Star ....................................................... 14.............................. TJ Garrou, Educational Support Technician*
Hyperspeed ............................................................................ 14............................................ Rebecca Thomson, Associate in Arts
This is just to say ................................................................. 15.................................................... Keri Worrell, Associate in Arts*
Bouquet of Flowers ............................................................... 15................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Hmmm ................................................................................... 16........................................................ Derek Hubbard, Maintenance
Colors .................................................................................... 16........................................................ Derek Hubbard, Maintenance
Foliage ................................................................................... 16........................................................ Derek Hubbard, Maintenance
Spiralgraph ........................................................................... 17................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
The Dolphin’s Song .............................................................. 17........................................................ Derek Hubbard, Maintenance
Morning Glories .................................................................... 17......... Rachele Woodham Bartlett, Medical Office Administration
The Story Has Ended ............................................................ 18.......................................... Crystal Lewton, Associate in Science*
The Wrong Ball ..................................................................... 18.......................................... Crystal Lewton, Associate in Science*
Alone in the World ................................................................ 18......... Rachele Woodham Bartlett, Medical Office Administration
Too Late ................................................................................ 18........ Rachele Woodham Bartlett, Medical Office Administration
Scribble Ball .......................................................................... 19...................................................... Mike Elliott, Associate in Arts
Contradictions ....................................................................... 20.................................................. Tessa Brannon, Associate in Arts
Wicked Stairs ......................................................................... 20................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Self-Portrait ........................................................................... 21..................................... Gabrielle Sara Turnage, Associate in Arts
A cat has nine lives ................................................................ 22................................ Tara Humphries, Public Information Officer
Tête-à-Tête ............................................................................ 22................................ Tara Humphries, Public Information Officer
Dream Station ....................................................................... 22............................................... Daniel Whitmire, Associate in Arts
Draw Me a Picture of a Room .............................................. 23....................... Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities Instructor
Honeysuckle Headache ......................................................... 23....................... Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities Instructor
As the Wheels Turn ................................................................ 23........................................................ Sade Baker, Associate in Arts
Variations on a Summer Theme ............................................ 24....................... Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities Instructor
Father’s Hat ...........................................................................24.................................................. Aubrey Sarver, Associate in Arts
The Big Fish .......................................................................... 24....................................................... Hebe Leung, Associate in Arts
Until Death ............................................................................ 24................................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor
Fly Away ................................................................................ 25..................................................... Jami Roberts, Associate in Arts
Ignorance ............................................................................... 25..................... William J. Howard, Medical Office Administration
On Nights like This ............................................................... 26........................................................ Debra Curl, Associate in Arts
Reflection of Life .................................................................... 26.................................................. Travis Carlson, Associate in Arts
Streaking the Glass ............................................................... 27..................................... Gabrielle Sara Turnage, Associate in Arts
Goodbye ................................................................................ 27............................................. Damina D. Young, Associate in Arts
Ninth Grade and the Rubicon River ..................................... 28..................................................... Heather Rawleigh, Jump Start*
Aura ....................................................................................... 28................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
The Masterpiece ................................................................... 29......................................................... Tara Bass, English Instructor
Spirit ...................................................................................... 29..................................... Gabrielle Sara Turnage, Associate in Arts
Self-Portrait ........................................................................... 30.................................................. Jessica Latham, Associate in Arts
Self-Portrait ........................................................................... 31............................................... Daniel Whitmire, Associate in Arts
A Mid-Autumn Night’s Dream ............................................. 32........................................................ Debra Curl, Associate in Arts
Parallel Universe .................................................................. 33.................................................. Jessica Latham, Associate in Arts
All I Need is a Little Time .................................................... 34....................................... Terri Coley Carraway, Associate in Arts
I Tried .................................................................................... 34......................................... Elizabeth Gustafson, Associate in Arts
Never Say Die ........................................................................ 35...................................................... Mike Elliott, Associate in Arts
A Father’s Love ..................................................................... 36............................................................. Tommy Outland, Forestry
Through the Boy’s Eyes ....................................................... 37.................................................. Tessa Brannon, Associate in Arts
Bubbling Memories ............................................................... 37................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Angels Among Us .................................................................. 38........................ Virginia Summers, Medical Office Administration
Twilight Zone ......................................................................... 38............................................ Rebecca Thomson, Associate in Arts
View from Above .................................................................... 39............................................ Rebecca Thomson, Associate in Arts
New York .............................................................................. 39................................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor
From Zero to Hero ................................................................ 40...................................... Cassandra R. Courter, Early Childhood+
Pick-Up Line Gone Wrong ................................................... 40............................. Samantha McClay-Couffer, Criminal Justice+
Facts about Factors ............................................................... 40............................................... Machell Moore, Early Childhood+
Identity Crisis ....................................................................... 40............................................. Verna Meachum, Associate in Arts+
Test Time ................................................................................ 41................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
My Improper Equation ........................................................ 41..................................... Alvin Randall Ingram, Associate in Arts+
Self-Portrait ........................................................................... 42...................................................... Hebe Leung, Associate in Arts
Lilacs in the Snow ................................................................. 43.................................................. Christie Mayo, Associate in Arts
White Christmas .................................................................... 43...................................................... Hebe Leung, Associate in Arts
The Brothers of Catville ....................................................... 44........................................................ Debra Curl, Associate in Arts
Self-Portrait ........................................................................... 45............................................ Hannah Yarbrough, Associate in Arts
In Remembrance .................................................................... 46................................................ Diane DeBruine, Associate in Arts
Down the Trail Towards the River ....................................... 47....................................................... Lance Milks, Criminal Justice
Vietnam .................................................................................. 47.............................. Anna Gurganus, Human Services Technology
Soldier Boy ............................................................................ 47.............................. Anna Gurganus, Human Services Technology
Duty and Responsibility ...................................................... 48................. Mary Jo Loftin, English / Student Success Instructor
Reaching for Reprieve ........................................................... 49................................................................. Brent Hood, Webmaster
Life in Marine Corps Bootcamp .......................................... 50................................................. Jacob Derrig, Associate in Science
Gun Shot ................................................................................ 51................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Family Circle ......................................................................... 52............................................... Terrance Howell, Associate in Arts
Mother’s Day ......................................................................... 52.................................................... Jami Roberts, Associate in Arts
Passing the Torch .................................................................. 53........................................... Derek Crumpler, Associate in Science
The Garden Lullaby .............................................................. 54.............................. TJ Garrou, Educational Support Technician*
Rose Bouquet ......................................................................... 55................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Soul-Seeking .......................................................................... 56......................................................... Tara Bass, English Instructor
Current Wave ........................................................................ 56............................................... Daniel Whitmire, Associate in Arts
Hollow Eyes .......................................................................... 57.................................................. Tessa Brannon, Associate in Arts
I Lie ........................................................................................ 57............................................. Damina D. Young, Associate in Arts
Love at First Sight ................................................................. 57............................................... Daniel Whitmire, Associate in Arts
Leah: Love is ......................................................................... 58........................................................ N. T. Raye, Associate in Arts
In Check ................................................................................ 59................................ Tara Humphries, Public Information Officer
Celtic Ring ............................................................................. 59...................................................... Heather Rawleigh, JumpStart*
Turning Inside Out ................................................................ 59............................................ Rebecca Thomson, Associate in Arts
Thoughts ............................................................................... 60.................................... Michael Gurley, Business Administration
Growing Up Too Much ......................................................... 60............................................ Zachary S. Howell, Associate in Arts
Dreams ................................................................................... 61................................. Robert Whitmore, Network Administration
You’re the One ...................................................................... 61......................................... Elizabeth Gustafson, Associate in Arts
Come Away ........................................................................... 61................................................ Steven Crowder, Associate in Arts
In Times Past ........................................................................ 62................................................... Camilia Evans, Associate in Arts
A Letter by a Man on the Brink ........................................... 63......................................... Benjamin Strickland, Associate in Arts
June ........................................................................................ 63............................................................ Grace Lutz, Graphic Artist
The Atlantic ............................................................................ 63................................................... Po Wah Yeung, Associate in Arts
Child Sitting on a Fallen Log ................................................. 64.............................................. Julie A. Aycock, Associate in Arts*
Brief Pelican Faction ............................................................. 64................................................................. Brent Hood, Webmaster
*Creative Writing, English 125, Instructor Margaret Boothe Baddour
+Math 060 Assignment, Instructor Kim Clark
1
Fragile Po Wah Yeung
Paper Cup
I am a paper cup, thinly coated in wax.
What I am and what I am for is obvious.
What is inside me isn’t always so apparent.
Sometimes my content is icy cold,
and the world around me is warm.
Tears stream down my chilly face.
Sometimes my content is hot,
angry hot, frustrated hot.
The wax begins to melt. I lose my shape.
I am a paper cup covered in wax.
I am fragile and disposable.
Thousands are born every day.
Someday the world will slurp out all that I have,
shake my icy remains and toss me away.
Julie A. Aycock
2
Sand Castle
Hot summer day at the shore.
Sun-kissed kids in neon suits
create and sculpt with shells and sand
a castle to defy the tide’s surge.
The surf advances, its target set.
We surround our fortress to make our stand,
small, stern, pink-skinned soldiers,
silly to try to defeat the sea.
“Save our castle!” comes the shout.
“Reinforce the wall, make it strong!”
For hours we fight, our fort to salvage.
The waves attack, bombard and slap.
Then the enemy subsides, slips, and away it slides.
We stand, sore and sweat soaked,
our castle safe within our sight,
squealing, laughing triumph’s song.
Julie A. Aycock
Summer Day Po Wah Yeung
3
Hawk and Spin
The clues were always like a murder,
The chalkmarks showing
What she used to be.
Then the knife, the stone,
The scattered shell,
A feather in the street—
A dove or a raven?
The color was the key!
So I’d search in the ruins
Of old antique stores,
And look to the sky
Watching for her trace;
Slow burning through the park
And the swings
And the monkey bars
Where we’d sit the night away;
Lighting through the mall,
The bookstores and coffee shops,
The arcade
Where we once played.
In the end
I’d find her where I started.
She’d hawk and spin,
The same smile, the same charms,
A different set of wings.
Jeff Williams
A Day With Friends Po Wah Yeung
4
Twenty Years of Chaos Marked with Thin Red Lines of Candle Wax
A thousand stars hide behind a mass of clouds tonight
And I am left to wonder
At what point did we lose our grip
Tumble head first into two decades
Wasted blood, bitter to the touch
Yet behind these clouds
The stars have never shown so bright
Yet all that’s left of silent songs
And afterglow mid-day dreams
Is this feeling
That we may have left something behind
As I shuffle through the tarnished pages
Of an unauthorized autobiography
I wait on stars to be the ones
To bring me back to morning
Where the sunlight blinds the boy
Nocturnal by nature
And slowly disconnected with the innocence
The bliss of childish ignorance
Close my eyes for just a moment
To catch fast the feeling moments
The ones I long for in my dreams
I wait for stars to take me there.
Benjamin Strickland
Jagged Edge Hannah Yarbrough
From Here to There
Cold, hungry, shivering
Wet, lonely, and in pain
An empty field of snow and ice
A smile, a kiss, a gentle touch
And then,
Warm, happy, beautiful
Spring breezes, flowers and satisfaction
A pasture of love and light
Rachele Woodham Bartlett
Dream of Escape
Winter settles on a scent in the air
As ash of a memory settles on the morning ground
Sweet imitation snow to remind us of when we were young
And the fragrance on the breeze steals us away
To a time before we knew the meaning in the starlight
And December at mid-day when I’m alone
I suppose I’ve never felt this alone before
To have everything and still feel winter crashing in on me
Just goes to prove the human side of everything
I guess that everything is better these days
Can’t remember where the tears on my window pane came from
Nor can I recall the reasons why
And we’ve been here for far too many winters
And it seems we both have dreams
Of city lights and fairy tales
We both dream of our escape
Days like today, where winter settles in
All the summer storms are gone for another year
And we just can’t stop dreaming
We just can’t stop thinking of the outside
Beyond the place where I was born
And we’re longing, waiting, dreaming
Of places beyond this burning city
Wipe the tears away, my dear
Summer storms are gone for another year
And tomorrow may be brighter
As we find ourselves back here again
Back down to the edge where you first told me
That I was everything you think you’ll ever need
Back down to the water
Where the autumn air kissed your face
And you shared your dreams with me
December always stayed too long in the first place
For you and me to stay here
Clinging to this city
And dream of our escape
Benjamin Strickland
Charlotte’s Subdivision
Gabrielle Sara Turnage
5
6
Loneliness
The moon has only so many phases
before the inevitable darkness follows,
the solitary march of a satellite,
lonesome with a vain planet
puffed up on the ego of its status
in the rigid order of the celestial,
for company. It never knows the glory
of names while other moons revel
in their lettered feathers, their allusions,
their references to Shakespeare, to Dante,
or to myth. No, the moon is not Oberon
or Titania, nor is it Larrisa or Calypso
or any other, no signal reference,
no acknowledgement of its sex.
Only if it’s lucky, in the fullness
of a luminescent night, does a measure,
a minor cup of respect come its way.
A small child on a screened porch,
watching a green moth trail airy wings,
asks his mother for its name. “Luna moth,”
she says; Luna, the moon’s only name.
Jeff Williams
Daisy
Loves me
Loves me not
I hate me
I have one shot
Slide through
Float away
No tomorrow
No more today
Bliss in torrents
Pain in floods
The balance is paid
In tubs of blood
I make no one happy
I can’t find my place
So no one will miss me
If I don’t leave a trace
All that I worked for
Fades to mist
Destroyed the trust
Clenched the fist
Tara Humphries
Light Gabrielle Sara Turnage
7
Self-Portrait Po Wah Yeung
8
Which Way Hannah Yarbrough
Where My Feet Have Just Been
first line by Roethyll Lunn
I like the feel of a cool place on the sheet
where my feet have just been.
I like the warmth of my pillow
where I nestle my busy mind.
I like the misty dream world
that I visit every night.
I like being the stranger, the lover,
the hero, the dreamer, but mostly,
I like the feel of a cool place on the sheet
where my feet have just been.
TJ Garrou
Crimson Blue in E minor
Lights flickering from keys of crimson blue.
Dancing fingers
Move across the hearts of a few.
The crimson blue keys
alleviate a darkened dance place.
Blue kisses roll forth from dark eyes of brown
Singing love songs in the sea of crimson blue.
Notes of yellow, green, shades of blue, brown
turn to green in the seas of crimson blue.
All the dancers dance,
grasping a life boat in the sea of crimson blue.
Terre Terrell
Thesaurus
He is a very good friend of mine.
We chat most often as I try to create.
We chat and talk, expressions of thoughts.
We debate a word. “Perhaps,” I say.
He comes back with quite a few:
“Maybe, I don’t know, definitely.”
I ask about “improvement.”
He will say, “Reform?”
“Modification?” I reply.
Back and forth we toss a word
Like tennis players on a court.
Yet, in the end, every time
We speak, he wins.
I say, “Goodbye.”
He says, “Farewell.”
Terre Terrell
9
Gabriel in Darkness
Sound of the horn like cool wind over soft boiling water,
like a tornado that spins in the heart of a night club and
sets it down gently by the side.
Sure, some critic sharpened
his dagger as he scratched, scratched, scratched poison
epithets. I guess some people just can’t be pleased ‘til sun
sets down and spills out in golden threads, filaments of fire
that ebb and flow, tides that creep and wash you out.
Can’t blame anybody.
Nothing really to moan about.
Just listen to the sultry swing, lips move as taut rubber
bands, valves open and close with lightning
in his hands.
And somewhere in the night, at the call of a famous man,
your soul takes flight
on the wings of a high C.
Jeff Williams
Repetition Po Wah Yeung
10
Recurring Dream of Battle
Running through the blue haze of falling night,
heavy boots pound a hollow, jarring rhythm in my head.
Everything’s blurry, have to squint to see
enemy muzzle flash exploding in the distance.
I crouch behind a wet, snow-covered pine tree
as automatic weapon convulses in my frozen hands.
Loud, deafening gunfire roars in my ears.
Confused and afraid, I’m not sure who or why I’m fighting.
Getting so tired now, mouth is so dry,
breathing in smoky waves of gunpowder and burning flesh.
Another soldier, a man, breaks cover,
screaming soundlessly, looks to me and signals retreat.
Behind the tree, getting colder, I lean,
not feeling the wound, life draining out into the wet snow.
Julie A. Aycock
Shards Rebecca Thomson
Shadow of a Soldier Past Brent Hood
In Retreat-Pickett’s Charge
Like those Southern boys
who charged, I should say
limped, out of the woods
amid the smoke and din
of mid July across
the field, almost a mile,
up to the road…like those
boys and grizzled men
who made it to one fence
and, feeling their friends fall,
leapt yet another fence
only to find Yankees
bearing down around them–
nowhere to move but
back…like those lost boys
who walked backwards
across that field so as
not to turn and run…I
am in retreat.
Margaret Boothe Baddour
11
12
Lost
I know where I’ve come from,
And where I want to be.
But I can’t find the straight line
Between you and me.
You say you love our friendship,
But I can see it in your eyes.
You’re still in love with her ghost,
And my love will be denied.
Rachele Woodham Bartlett
Hug-a-bear
whisper “good night”
a kiss to last ‘til light
crawl into bed
pull covers over my head
curl around Pooh
a worn, sullen substitute you
Tara Humphries
Widowed Lover
Someone reaches for her hand
As she tries to reach back
Something grabs her from behind
Pulls her forward
His hair as black as the distance of the night
His suit the color of the bottom of the spectrum
Shoes as shiny as the day they were bought
Debonair and suave
Don Juan
Bought everything she wanted
But is she happy?
Is what she really wants beyond what she can’t cross?
Is what she really wants that hand
That was reaching for her?
She wants one more visit
One more yesterday
One more kiss
Returning to the ocean
Every night
She looks upon it with great sorrow and grief
The waves gliding, hitting the banks of the shore
Covering her feet, reminding her of her husband
Memory starts to fade
Her heart breaks with each visit
Each day comes closer to their deaths
One already passed from the natural
And one wanting and waiting to pass from the natural
Crystal Lewton
13
Forever Green
You could search throughout all age and time
but never would you find a more beautiful tree.
It took thirty strikes to bring Him down;
the sound of that fall still sets men free.
My Evergreen.
We walked a long hard way that brutal day
to reach the place He was born to meet.
His trunk I fit securely into the base,
the iron bits sank deeply,
past the coarse brown husk like teeth
into an apple’s new white flesh.
My Evergreen.
I filled for Him a cup both bitter and sweet,
then erected Him before Me.
Soon He’d thirst.
My Evergreen.
There I strung Him with lights very bright
that all would witness, turn, and see
for this purpose He came.
My Evergreen.
In His able boughs each polished ornament I placed.
There within their fragile finish
a reflection of His perfect light could be seen.
Then I crowned Him with a shiny red ribbon,
the length of it falling to His feet,
like a river of blood, to the ground it streamed.
Beneath, in His shadow, I placed my gifts freely
that whosoever would come
would then also receive
life abundant, becoming just as He,
Forever Green.
Keri Worrell
14
Prologue to an Unfinished Novel
Attempt to find an ending
In the midst of something different
From the mediocrity of Tuesdays
Learn to lie in silence over ancient songs
I wrote humming to myself
And perhaps we’ll wake up screaming
To the Armageddon waiting at the window
Tonight perhaps we’ll miss the story
Skip straight to the punch line
If I were to write a letter
To the past few years of solitude
Then perhaps you’ll glitch the ending
Perhaps you’ll miss the point completely
Spell out each detail
For all the world to see it
And Adam sleeps in silence
And Adam forgot the world outside
The snow globes closing in
And the final page speaks volumes
If the graves lie empty in the feeling
Then you know the past has come
And Adam wakes up screaming
To a tune inside your head
If we skipped the page on existence
Then we reach the end tonight.
Benjamin Strickland
Ode to Thee, Bright Star
Ode to thee, bright morning star
Whose words a flame shall ever be
As written in the sky above
To be esteemed eternally.
Upon a Grecian Urn, wrote you
Of beauty, truth, and happy love.
Apollo blessed you with a muse,
A gentle spirit like a dove.
Ode to thee, to thy quill and hand
That etched such words so lovingly.
Then came the scoffers’ words so dark
That did their worst and blinded thee.
Who now to draw upon the skies
Such vivid scenes with words alone
Gone from this odyssey called life
Too early, leaving thoughts unknown.
Ode to thee, my fellow Bard,
Whose name is writ upon the sea.
May Cupid wing thee to thy rest
And Psyche utter Ode to thee.
TJ Garrou
Hyperspeed Rebecca Thomson
15
This is just to say
I love the way
that You cradle the newborn sky,
wrapping it in blankets of soft pink.
I watch You from the quiet calm
of my bedroom window
as my hands I warm against the heat of my favorite coffee mug.
Its fragrance, warm with hazelnut, laces its way through the groggy air.
Its steam spirals slowly up, stroking my face
Like the warmth of Your breath, it carries away with it all my present cares.
These stolen moments with You are my exotic wine,
In them I celebrate the abundance of my life.
Setting the mug, still half full, on the sandstone coaster
that helps to clutter the polished finish of the nightstand,
I rub my daughter’s slender back,
the pink flannel of her nightgown moving easily with my hand
over the smoothness of her skin.
Soon she begins to stir, finally turning over
and blinking her hazel eyes as she rubs from them the sleep.
I find You again, there within the golden flecks
that line her gentle eyes.
I see You in them speaking forth their life
before the commencement of time.
Keri Worrell
Bouquet of Flowers Po Wah Yeung
16
Hmmmm
I saw a little sparrow
Perched outside my window,
And it made me sit and wonder.
How does he deal
With the winter chill,
And does he fear the crash of thunder?
And does he get a fright
On a moonless night,
Or when the wind blows him asunder?
And when he sees me there
In my easy chair,
Does it make him sit and wonder?
If I have time to kill,
And how do I deal
With all the stress I’m under?
And do I sing
And flap my wings
When I wake up from a slumber?
And with all the strife
Each day in life,
Why do I want another?
And if I see him there
Without a care,
Does it make me sit and wonder?
Derek Hubbard
Colors
If I could paint the world,
What colors would I use?
Not coral pink, nor hunter green,
Not even baby blue.
Not frosty white like fluffy clouds,
Not lavender nor maroon.
Not orange like the evening sky,
Nor red like a flower bloom.
If I could paint the world
I know what I would choose.
I’d wave my brush atwitter
And paint the world with you.
Derek Hubbard
Foliage
How happy I would be
Living like a leaf,
Arriving green in early spring
Lacking woes and grief.
I’d sashay in the sunshine,
Winnow in the wind,
And bask among the branches
Until the summer’s end.
When nippy nights are nigh
And the harvest moon does glow
And my denizen of leafy friends
Puts on a brilliant show,
Till the world is winter white
And I’m deep in reverie,
Then I’ll shed my skin until again
I can live the life of a leaf.
Derek Hubbard
17
Spiralgraph Po Wah Yeng
The Dolphin’s Song
Moonbeams sparkle
On ocean blue.
Time runs on
For the Captain’s crew.
Through days of rain
And endless swells,
The Dolphins sing,
The sailors sail.
And while the while,
Alone ashore,
A lady waits
A ship to moor
And bring her back
Her mister safe,
With blistered hands
And haggard face
To stroke her locks
And hold her long
And sing her soft
The Dolphin’s song.
Derek Hubbard
Morning Glories
The soft green vines on the outside wall
Climb so quickly they seem to crawl
They cover the windows, and darken the room
But I cannot cut them; they’re so pretty in bloom
Rachele Woodham Bartlett
18
The Story Has Ended
As I stand here watching the sunset
And try to take in its last bit of warmth
I think of you
A shadow over your face
A white blanket
Or a pale blue sheet
Why did you hide from me?
It is getting colder
And colder
You had your chance
We had our good times
But now you are becoming
a cold dusty statue on my shelf
The shadow grows thicker
The white blanket, an off-white
The pale blue sheet, a pale black
It is now over in my heart
I put away all the pictures, books, and papers
Crystal Lewton
The Wrong Ball
I found you.
You found me.
But there’s something wrong,
Something that doesn’t fit.
Why does there always have to be a flaw?
Something must be made new.
I want it to work—do I have to pay a fee?
Do I have to travel all the way to Hong Kong?
Maybe God hasn’t thrown us the right ball to hit.
Our worlds were so different.
It was just the wrong ball.
Crystal Lewton
Too Late
I’m convinced that we are meant to be
In some kind of natural fate
But I feel your heart
Pushing us apart
And I wonder if I’m too late
Rachele Woodham Bartlett
Alone in the World
A game of catch isn’t fun at all
Without someone there
To catch the ball.
Hide and seek is hard to do
Without someone
Looking for you.
It’s not easy to chat on the phone
When you’re in the world
All alone.
Rachele Woodham Bartlett
19
Scribble Ball Mike Elliott
20
Contradictions
Hollowed resonance
of whispered tomorrows
Constant inconsistence
Voices new and old
Untouched yet not intangible
Out of reach yet not unreachable
Haunting the chasm
of memory
Images recurring
but lacking imagery
Facing the sun
no warmth upon flesh
Facing the light
only darkness in mesh
Piercing the cavities
of the ultimate temple
Seeking the past
turns complexly simple
Fighting for the world
of skies on fire
Muddled transparency
minds begin to tire
Endless cessations
of indifferent affection
Skeptical credence
of a severed connection
All falling faster
as the sky moves past her
All raining down
in the silent sound
Curtain me with exposure
Help me feel the numb of closure
These are the contradictions
of my consistence
These are the empty things
of my existence
Tessa Brannon
Wicked Stairs Po Wah Yeung
21
Self-Portrait Gabrielle Sara Turnage
22
A cat has nine lives
my glass heart follows suit
my heart in my hand
I give it again
again
again
fragile blown glass
It shatters again
again
again
elements emotional
molten sand and breath of life
form it anew, ah, beautiful
innocent, rapeable, breakable
pull it from the cabinet of my chest
I give it again
and again
and again
the shards are swept away
lest someone bleed
like me
Tara Humphries
Tête-à-Tête
careful words
formal greetings
special projects
secret meetings
precious minutes
a stolen glance
knowing grins
forbidden romance
chances and misses
are half the fun
of a leveraged liaison
on the run
ardor we disguise
tracks we cover
if you’re called tomorrow
I ain’t your lover
Tara Humphries
Dream Station Daniel Whitmire
23
Draw Me a Picture of a Room
How do I find you?
Step through the picture
into the bar room
you’ve drawn with the thrust
of number two pencils
laid flat like charcoals
and scratched back and forth?
Oh the energy
the passion of that thrust
gives me shivers as I
see the round bar stools
the mirror, the bottles
the bar, the window
with its neon sign
take shape. You are there
and the beer is cold
but I cannot reach you
no matter how many
words I use.
Margaret Boothe Baddour
Honeysuckle Headache
Gardenias are pungent
magnolias smell strong
but the one that just gets me
stays sweet for too long.
I’ve got that honeysuckle headache–
my man has done me wrong.
I led him to ginger
to muscadine wine
the wisteria arbor –
we were feeling just fine.
Then he whiffed that honeysuckle
and he crossed over the line.
Some women wear lilac
or Queen Ann’s lace.
Some women just smell sweet
but wear a false face.
The one that took my man away
wore honeysuckle that day.
Oh, I got that honeysuckle headache.
My man has done me wrong.
Margaret Boothe Baddour
As the Wheels Turn Sade Baker
24
Variations on a Summer Theme
In this time of the butterfly’s dying
I long for Fall’s release. My head hurts
the mind inside askew. I ram into
every object under the hot moon.
Give me a sign, I say to the swan.
I ask the bees, the great horned one
And from the deep well the answer comes.
The same. Your fate. The same.
Margaret Boothe Baddour
Father’s Hat Aubrey Sarver
Until Death…
Angler fish mate for life,
But it isn’t love that binds.
No school of Angler families,
males swimming with females,
death’s head by death’s head.
The male, drawn by scent,
in the heat of instinct searches
for the soft spot in her back,
teeth sinking into scaly flesh,
bound, fused—blood to blood.
We wish ‘til death do us part,
to be subsumed. To vanish
at long last in shadow and body
in souls of the ones we love.
How true do we wish it to be?
Jeff Williams
The Big Fish Hebe Leung
25
Benevolence?
Blindness?
Sadness?
Hilarity
In vulgarity
A parity
Of irregularity.
A mass of education.
Knowledge without digestion.
Thanks for the suggestion
But I didn’t ask a question.
Let’s do things the easy way,
Let’s kill each other and then pray.
Let’s choose a path and from it then sway.
Let’s commit crimes and believe we will
never pay.
Let’s forget where we came from.
Let’s add the numbers and forget the sum.
Let’s know the truth and play dumb.
Let’s kick ourselves in the head until it
becomes numb.
There has developed in the world a passion
To use, spend, waste, indulge without ration.
The savage heart of man grows with wealth,
loses all passion,
Feeding on the poor’s ignorance and
desperation.
For the future they have no concern.
Only for themselves and what they can get
do they yearn.
Any way to rob and steal they will learn.
Tell them their grandchildren will pay a
price
More than they could ever earn,
And they will not fear,
For true wisdom they cannot hear.
They are too pleased with their self- built
prison,
Trapped with power, guided by greed,
unharnessed by reason.
Every decision is self-destruction.
They will have no resurrection.
No return to morality.
No return to humanity.
No return of compassion.
Never experiencing true satisfaction.
No return to the simplicity at birth.
Only a return to the earth.
Leaving nothing behind but the pride
That tangled their feet until they died.
William J. Howard
Ignorance
Fly Away Jami Roberts
26
On Nights like This
Debra Curl
It’s late, and it’s dark, the kind of dark they say comes before the dawn. I’m alone with my
thoughts. I don’t like being alone with my thoughts on nights like this. Mind you, I don’t fear my own
thoughts. I generally like them. But I do not on nights like this. I think about missed opportunities, the
faces and embraces that creep back from the recesses of my mind, where so very long ago they had
been exiled. It’s not so much the missed opportunities, for they present themselves time and again,
always within grasp to recapture. It’s the faces and the embraces. Those do not come around again. I
tuck those faces and embraces away. They hurt too much to remember on nights like this.
“She’s a modern kind o’ gal,” or “She’s a career woman,” or “She’s goal oriented,” or “She’s
focused,” or “She’s strong,” or “She’ll never marry,” they say.
I want to scream at them. Do I appear that cold or that focused that I do not have time for
such things? Do I present myself in such a manner that you believe I don’t need love like you?
I too want to come home to the haven that is shared with a special someone and into
waiting arms, arms that remind me the world is not as cold a place as it seems, on nights like this. I too
want to share again in the knowing glances, the loving looks, the gentle touches, the inside jokes that
two people in love share. It’s what makes the world a better place even if only for a moment, even on
nights like this.
On nights like this, however, I am prone to think that somewhere in the grand scheme of things,
it was decided long ago by some great power that I would have no use for such things and, therefore,
they would be of waste. Oh, but they wouldn’t. I cherish those memories. They are all I have left of a
time that I smile fondly on. I remember each smile, each giggle, each surprise, each quiet moment that
seemed insignificant at the time, but now fuels the fires that burn within me.
I don’t believe in wasting my todays on yesterdays, but on nights like this, for just a moment, I
would love to go back to say the “sorry” that might have made a difference, the “I love you” that maybe
was overlooked. Funny, they didn’t seem so important at the time.
But time, as forgiving as it is, is also quite vindictive especially on nights like this.
It affords me the opportunity to see events unfold, slowly, like the Ghost of Christmas Past allowing me
the time to see where I’d have done something differently.
I know these memories come to allow me the chance to learn from them, but on nights like this,
I’d rather stay ignorant. But only on nights like this.
Reflection of Life Travis Carlson
27
Streaking the Glass
Gabrielle Sara Turnage
Goodbye
It
has happened
again. He has broken
your heart. You know
what you must do. But you
don’t want to. You’ve tried
to make it work. But it’s
only now you see that it
wasn’t meant to be.
Your lives together
flash before
you.
A
teardrop
s
p
i
l
l
s
down your face
and with your eyes
you say goodbye…
Forever.
Damina D. Young
28
Ninth Grade and the Rubicon River
Heather Rawleigh
I walked to my locker, clutching my books as usual and still smiling–the last hour of lunch break
had been more wonderful than I could have dreamed. I didn’t sit with Robin and her crew of malicious,
backstabbing girls; I had been invited to spend time with other outcasts, people like me who didn’t fit in
with the “popular crowd.” It had been just wonderful, and I planned to spend all the time I could with
them in the future.
Before I could return my thoughts to the present, Robin was suddenly standing in front of me.
She had the perfect face: clear complexion, just enough makeup, and blue eyes—blue eyes that stared
into mine with all the warmth of an Alaskan winter.
“Why did you sit with them at lunch?” she asked me, her voice as cold as her eyes.
I knew that this was the breaking point. I didn’t like Robin and her ilk–I never had. With the
invitation from my new friend Amanda had come a warning: once I left Robin’s group, there was no
going back. Whatever hopes I had ever had of being accepted by the beautiful people would be
forever gone. But to be honest, I wanted nothing more.
“Because I wanted to,” I said, not dropping her icy gaze as I usually would.
“Oh.” I could almost feel the door between us slamming in my face. Robin turned and walked
away, the coldness replaced by an aura of impassivity. I had been the lowest of the low to her, but now
I was absolutely nothing.
I bent down to put my books into the locker. An offended silence had fallen over the girl-crowded
hallway as soon as I had made my declaration, and the Rubicon swirled behind me in a mad
rush of fury.
I smiled, though, as the gates of Rome opened before me, and I needed no cheering crowds to
tell me that I was where I belonged.
Aura Po Wah Yeung
29
The Masterpiece
She steps from the shower
One delicate foot
And then the next
Great care she takes in removing the water from her hair
Darkness still
But the pale blue/gray light of the morning
Peeks through the window
Listening
Glistening
She steps before the mirror
The robe that used to hug her body
Falls quietly open
Searching, she’s comfortable
There is no one there
Again, confident
There is no one there
Her revelation secure
She slips her arms from the terry cloth
Eagerly it falls to the floor
Shy expectation
Unveiling the sculpture
With calm hesitation she lifts her head
Her damp hair streaming boldly down her back
Beckons “Come with me”
As she gazes into the mirror
In the pale blue/gray light of the morning
She cries at what she sees
Her face, round
Her breast, tempting, full and reaching
Pulsing, Calling out
Waiting
Ready
Her skin, taut
Like leather, but different
Supple, soft, alive
Her hips, her thighs, even her breasts scarred
Her stomach, once sensual and inviting
Now, a sanctuary
Her heart swells in the pale blue/gray light of the morning
She gazes into the mirror – alone
Tears move silently down her body
As quietly she whispers
“More beautiful I have never been”
Tara Bass
Spirit Gabrielle Sara Turnage
30
Self-Portrait Jessica Latham
31
Self-Portrait Daniel Whitmire
32
A Mid-Autumn Night’s Dream
Debra Curl
It was November of 1989, a day unlike any other. That month I had just moved into a beautiful
contemporary brick townhouse in the heavily wooded Medford Lakes area of New Jersey. The
location was more than I had hoped for, peaceful two-lane roads winding forever through a canopy of
forest green oaks, elms, and the occasional pine tree. By day, the sun danced through the leaves
creating a kaleidoscope of shapes, and at night the moon made eerie images. Sporadic fields created a
patchwork of green and brown hues breaking up the walls of towering trees. My home, nestled in the
midst of all this, sat on a lake the size of a football field. Water entered dancing over the native granite
rocks at the lake’s mouth. Wildlife abounded, playing a symphony with their calls, Canadian geese
sounding an alarm with the start of the day, wild ducks telling on intruders, and frogs singing the praises
of nightfall. Quiet guests of Mother Nature were turtles sunning themselves by day, deer and red foxes
scurrying along the tree line at night, and beavers in humpbacked dens along the water’s edge. At night,
when the world grew still, I would hear the music of God’s creations, voices raised in unison with the
rhythm of the water trickling over the falls.
Adding to this euphoria was the anticipation of the approaching holidays. As is the custom of
many people, family and friends come home for the holidays. I was thrilled when friends called to
suggest a time-honored ritual of an all-night card game. Location for this ritual was being discussed at
great lengths. Wanting to invite my childhood pals to my new home but fearing they would get lost, we
decided to meet at the home of my parents, a familiar location. Mom and Dad welcomed the visit.
As the day approached, I was energized with anticipation of old stories told too many times, the
inside jokes whose origins are long forgotten, friends’ faces and embraces, even a tear or two. I left my
solitude with ample time allowed for preparation of the usual refreshments required. As I steered my
car onto the main road, I reminded myself of Nature’s nighttime visitors along this road and urged my
eyes to keep alert to their presence. Fifteen minutes into my travel, I approached a farmer’s field to the
left, and my attention was immediately drawn to the right. Airborne and coming over the tree line on an
intersecting course with the road was a rapidly descending, slow moving, unidentified flying object.
What in God’s creation was it? Simultaneously stopping my car, lowering my windows, and
turning my stereo off, I listened for sound, any sound at all, but to no avail. Why was there no sound? I
was mesmerized by this object passing before my eyes. It was strangely beautiful. The object billowed
a cloudy mist, like dry ice exposed to air. It glowed brightly, not blindingly, as if lit from within. The
color was indescribable, similar to an emerald atop a sapphire atop an amethyst atop an amber crystal
with a light strong enough to pass through all. And its size was that of the old Volkswagen Beetle.
Barely five feet above the ground, it passed over the road and headed for the tree line framing the
farmer’s field. I thought for sure it would crash into the trees. Quickly, I turned the stereo to a news
station for a report; someone else must have seen this. Think, Debbie, think…where is the nearest
telephone? Surely emergency vehicles will be needed. But as silently as it came and as rapidly as it
descended, it rose high above the trees and disappeared beyond them. I sat there for a while gathering
my thoughts and my nerve before continuing. The remainder of my drive I searched the radio stations
for news reports and compared every sign lit up in the night for an exact color match.
33
I arrived late to my parents’ home, visibly shaken and white as a ghost. As I recounted my
story to family and friends, having had a drink or two, they giggled, chuckled, and raised their
eyebrows. After calming down somewhat, we decided to order takeout instead of the planned
refreshments. Someone turned a radio on, searching for reports of strange nighttime objects in the sky,
in a half-hearted attempt to soothe me. The event started to fade, and the evening of cards began. A
dearly trusted friend beckoned me to the front porch of my parents’ home stating, “There’s someone out
there asking for you.”
“At this late hour, who could it be?” I asked.
His reply: “Your little green friends.” After the ensuing laughter died down, a radio report
stated there had been heavy meteor activity in the area, easily explaining my encounter.
Back in my solitude, my oasis, in the evenings when I would walk around the lake to take in
Nature’s chorus, I must admit casting my eyes to the heavens more than once and wondering if a falling
meteor can rise over an approaching tree line. I was never quite the same again.
Parallel Universe Jessica Latham
34
All I Need is a Little Time
All I need is a little time
So that I may catch up and stop falling behind
For some reason, so quickly it seems to pass by
As quick as lightning flashes through the sky
Time is here one second and the next it’s gone
Sometimes I wish it would just linger on
All I need is a little time
Just to get it together to relax my mind
My life seems to have been put on hold
I feel I’m carrying such a heavy load
At times it’s just too much to bear
A little more time is all I ask
A little more time so not to cram for tests
A little more time for some beauty rest
A little more time in the mornings when I rise
A little more time to lengthen each night
But if I had all the time in the world
I’d just be wishing for something more
Terri Coley Carraway
I Tried
I tried to have a good day,
I tried to make the pain go away.
I tried to forget the hurt and terror,
I tried to stop the questions and answers.
I tried to run and hide,
And I wished it would all go away.
Sometimes I cry, sometimes I rant and rave
But sometimes feel as if I could cry all day.
But this day is worse than some,
Now I just let the tears run.
I want it all to go away,
I really tried to have a good day.
Elizabeth Gustafson
35
Never Say Die Mike Elliott
36
A Father’s Love
Tommy Outland
“Daddy’s drink,” said Hunter, my nineteen-month-old son. He was holding my cup up to me
with his trademark grin. To me, it was not really a big feat; however, he was so proud of himself.
“That’s right, Buddy. That’s daddy’s drink,” I said chuckling to myself. As my eyes met his, I could not
help but wonder how I could possibly be the “daddy” he was speaking of. At 24, wasn’t I too young?
Well, maybe, but there are no set rules or minimum age requirements and unfortunately, there also are
no accompanying instruction manuals with the birth of the little ones. “I want more juice, Daddy!” I
was immediately flooded with feelings of uncertainly and alarm. Do I have more juice or the money to
buy more if I don’t? It suddenly became apparent that someone more powerful than I makes the
ultimate decision on who becomes a parent and who doesn’t. As I walked to the kitchen, I promised
myself never to take something as precious as this for granted because it could be taken from me as
quickly as it was awarded. Actually, it felt good to be needed, even if it was only for a sippy cup of
juice.
Awarded. How could someone as imperfect as I be awarded such an innocent and precious
gift as Hunter? Do I really deserve such a gift? Thank you, Lord, whatever your reason, thank you!
People often say their children do not come at the most convenient times. I can honestly say Hunter
came into my life at the best possible time. My relationship with his mother was unsettled; I was on a
crash course with disaster, dropping out of college, partying instead of studying. The lifestyle began
catching up with me. Now I have responsibility, an awesome experience. He is my first thought in the
early morning and the last thing that races through my mind as I fall asleep at night.
I remember spending my last birthday in the hospital with my son. He was treated for an
asthma attack and had to spend the weekend there for observation. He slept on my chest those two
nights, peacefully, unlike me. I was worried sick, and the uncomfortable chair I slept on only added to
my misery. It was the first time I felt like a father; I finally had to make a sacrifice. “Wow, this is how it
feels to be a father,” I thought. Thank you, Lord! After being a father for over a year, I finally had the
chance to experience true fatherhood.
My son is now two, and as I watch him play with his Bob the Builder set, he reminds me of
myself. I rush through the weeks so I can finally see him on “Daddy’s weekend” as he calls it. I often
wonder where the past two years have gone because he is growing up so fast. “OK, Buddy, time to go
night-night,” I say.
“No, I can’t go night-night, Daddy,” he responds as his head bobs tiredly back and forth.
Finally, reluctantly he climbs into his bed. “Give daddy a kiss,” I say. “Kiss…hug…,” he whispers.
“I love you, Hunter. Please do not forget that you’re very special to me!”
“I wuv you too, Daddy,” he whispers back. I cover him up and turn off the light. As I turn to
leave, I hear “Leave it open, Daddy.”
Not a day goes by that he does not consume my thoughts. I love him more than I thought was
ever possible. His mother and I keep our relationship civil, for his sake. My weekends with him are
special although they can be quite tiring. I am not ready to cross the bridge of explaining why things are
the way they are yet, but I sense it is rapidly approaching. Nothing can compare to the first time my
little one reached out and grabbed my finger or asked me to play “this little pig” with his toes “again”
and “again.” I need to take time to tell him I love him every chance I get; I’m not guaranteed another
chance.
37
Through the Boy’s Eyes
Tessa Brannon
I see the girl that left. The brown on her head matches the brown honey in her swirled eyes.
She smiles; I smile inside. My eyes wander about her face, and I chortle at her lopsided dimples. She
reaches out her hand to me. I stop short. I cannot remember our games as I sit next to her on those
fiery stones with the white lines running all about them, smooth tunnels for my fingers to stroke. With my
head to her back, I feel her laugh, a lullaby of elated vibrations at my attempt to remember more of our
games. I don’t. I follow the cracks in the fiery stones until I fall down and laugh when she asks
playfully, “What are you doing?” I do not know the answer to this lighthearted inquiry. White fuses with
blue over me, swirling like me as I twirl and think about my swing. With cool juice in my mouth, I feel
the prickle of the green spikes under my feet. I feel her calming hand run soothingly over my head. I
feel my untamed curls glide through her fingers. She tickles me, nudging her fingers under my arms and
making high shrills that hurt my ears. Nevertheless, I ignore my burning ears and laugh as her fingers
gyrate and jab my ribs. Was this our game? Memories of laughter, music, and magic—all puzzle pieces
that don’t fit together. It is too jumbled, mixed up beyond recognition in the recesses of my feeble mind.
Endless questions remain. “What were our games?” “Why did she leave me?” “Why is she here now?”
My pondering breaks with her voice. She calls to me, and though I hear, I do not raise my eyes to meet
hers, with their hues of mud and caramel. I move on to study the different colors of my tanned, naked
feet. Her voice fades like a melody swept away by the wind. It is only my toes and me in the crunchy
sand. I come back from my gritty world of contemplation, only to see that she is gone. I am home
now. I miss the girl that left. I fall into a world of visions and illusions intertwined and begin to
remember. I miss our games of mesmerizing fascination that filled my head with song, color, and light. I
miss the ring of laughter in the hallway and the wonderful tears that fell when my gut tightened with
elation as we danced and danced. I remember our games now. I remember the jolted laughter that
sprang from both of us as we made funny faces in the reflective glass. I remember her soothing touch
when I abruptly awakened from a dream of panicked trepidation. I remember how we ran together like
wild horses on a boundless plane, free with the wind in our hair and sun on our faces. I remember her
with all of her glorious vitality. And, though she is gone again, I shall hold this girl forever in my
recollections—not as the girl that left but as the girl that laughed, the girl that danced, and the girl that
loved.
Bubbling Memories Po Wah Yeung
38
Angels Among Us
Virginia Summers
As the alarm shrieked through the darkness, bringing me to reality, my mind began its journey
into the rituals of the day. Slowly and hesitantly, I arose. Stretching and shaking the cobwebs from my
mind, I glanced down at our new puppy and wondered if I were imitating her or if she were stretching
and imitating me. I showered, made coffee, and fed the puppy. Yes, it was a normal morning so far.
My husband Ray was busy getting ready to go to Don’s shop for the morning, and from there, I would
drive on out to the college. Another typical day so far.
Rounding a curve in the road, we met a car. Unconcerned, I reached down for my coffee
perched in the cup holder. Everything was about to go from normal to abnormal in a split second. I
heard Ray say, “Hold on.” His voice was full of an emotional undertone I did not understand and could
not describe. Quickly glancing up, I realized the trouble we were in. My eyes were glued to the road
ahead, and a clutching gripped my throat. A dark car was spinning in the dewy grass on the right of us.
A white station wagon moving slowly down the hill toward us also had control of the opposite lane. We
were being squeezed out somewhere in the middle, and another car seemed to be readying itself for
attack from the rear. Where are we? my mind screamed. Somewhere in the twilight zone. This can’t
be happening. Now I knew where Ray’s emotional voice was coming from. At least he has a voice.
I could not find mine to speak to him, let alone scream as my gut instinct was telling me to do. Let it
out and get it over, I thought, but fear would not release my voice. My body stiffened, readying itself
for the worst.
My husband violently jerked the wheel to the left and, to my horror, punched the accelerator.
Has he lost his mind? The car grabbed the damp asphalt and moaned yet responded as quickly and
gracefully as a gazelle. Just as suddenly, we were being brought back toward the right as Ray again
spun the wheel and accelerated even more. I saw the dark swirling car move past as we were thrown
back to the right side of the road.
Somehow, we had laced our way through the web of traffic. Miraculously, every vehicle had
escaped unscathed. The way the other vehicles haphazardly pointed in all directions was eerie. We all
looked at each other and simply shook our heads in awe. The silence between us was deafening.
Everything had suddenly slowed, and we were in limbo. Gingerly, one by one, the cars edged their way
back onto the pavement. We continued our trip to Don’s shop, where, upon arrival, I had my voice
again but still felt too numb to speak. I needed to be on my way also, but I was hesitant about driving at
that moment. Feeling like a child, I wanted to be chauffeured to school. I could not get the thoughts
and pictures out of my mind. No one had been injured. Each car had made it through, proving to me
that angels must certainly be among us at times.
Twilight Zone Rebecca Thomson
39
View from Above Rebecca Thomson
New York
I’ve never seen that city,
Only celluloid and TV,
Images like a soaring dream:
Visions of a stormy tower
Crashing to a sea of streets.
The city as a fog of war,
The city as a wooden chair
In the mouths of lions,
The madness of a sunset
Two hours too soon.
In its heart an urban beast.
Even the city as a dream
Is too real for me.
Jeff Williams
40
From Zero to Hero
On a steamy hot day
In the year of the Zero
There were associate factors
Affecting our Hero
He felt the inequality
Visited upon his life
He suffered repeated terminating
Of standard jobs mixed with strife
So he considered his place value
At these worthless places
He felt his identity slip away
Among the myriad faces
So he decided to move to a tropical place
Where he could invent himself again
And rest from the product of this tiring race
And become a Hero and his own best friend.
Cassandra R. Courter
Pick-Up Line Gone Wrong
Is like a bad song
The man thinks he’s a hero
When in fact he’s a zero
He’s borrowing her precious time
While he’s thinking, “Man, she’s fine!”
He needs to invent a new rhyme
Then maybe he’ll be prime
Samantha McClay-Couffer
Fact about Factors
Follow the system
In the math teacher’s mind.
This means putting numbers in line.
Seven is prime
As I’ll show in this rhyme.
One and seven are its only factors.
In this problem you won’t need a protractor.
I tried it myself. I tried, I tried.
I added. I subtracted.
I divided. I multiplied.
After all the work
the factors remained one and seven.
Now I tell you another prime number
The number eleven
Machell Moore
Identity Crisis
I once knew a denominator
Who always wanted to be a numerator
But he didn’t understand that as part of a fraction
His job requires a very specific action
He wrestled with this thing for about a year
While telling me about it and chewing on my ear
He kept telling me about his inequality
Because he struggled with his identity
Verna Meachum
41
Test Time Po Wah Yeung
My Improper Equation
Sitting, pondering the value of the past.
Zero is the sum of my equation,
for I have failed to reach my place value.
I have forked from my original path.
Factors unknown to me have led me in circles.
Repeating past mistakes could be the base of my problem.
Though my system of travel is somewhat improper.
Maybe it’s not the path that’s important but the destination.
Alvin Randall Ingram
42
Self-Portrait Hebe Leung
43
Lilacs in the Snow
Christie Mayo
There was a time not so long ago when the world was a few feet taller and mythical creatures
roamed the lands. The trees and hills were free to climb as one never knew the treasure there was to
find. Every rainbow meant an overflowing pot of gold waited to be claimed, and the sweet smell of
lilacs meant springtime at my grandparents’ house.
The farm house on the edge of a small town in Illinois holds my fondest childhood memories.
My grandparents’ house was the only place that always stayed the same. Spending the night was
exciting as there were several beds up the spiraling stairs, and my brother and I were allowed to choose
any one we wanted. I always chose the bed in the back because the pipes creaked around it. I was
sure there were little people who lived in those pipes, and I wanted to be right there to see one if I were
to wake up in the night and catch them coming out.
Halfway up the spiraling stair, which is hidden by a door in the center of the house, was a small
triangular awning just big enough for a vase of flowers or two tiny feet awaiting rescue from an older
cousin or brother. Half the fun was not getting caught, for it was a rule to stay off it, I’m sure. But, oh,
how I loved portraying the Damsel in Distress, and we never got caught!
The house always had an aroma of good sweet treats to eat around the holidays. Cookies and
cakes and desserts covered the counters and table tops in the kitchen where the family gathered. In the
bottom cupboard drawer were toys, antique toys, the very best toys in the world! There was a cellar
that I’ve only heard stories about. I never made it down there, but older cousins who loved to try and
scare me but never quite could said it was spooky, haunted. I couldn’t imagine anything bad in that
house. As far as I was concerned, the only things living in there were Grandpa, Grandma, and the little
people in the pipes.
As wonderful as the house was, the outside was even more magnificent. Acres of the greenest
grass outskirted even more acres of woods that we considered the magical forest. Once we entered the
forest, time stood still, and we were free to just be children. My cousins and I swung across creeks
from vines and climbed the tallest trees and hills. We played hide-and-seek and a time or two traveled
through miles of thick brush to a nearby uncle’s house. This felt like a huge accomplishment. We were
cowboys and Indians, early explorers, Biblical figures like Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. The woods were
my Paradise!
Though my cousins, brother, and I have changed, now have children of our own, there remains
a place on the outskirts of a small town in Illinois that has never changed. The home still takes me back
to more innocent days, and my heart still races through the woods with my children at my grandparents’
house.
White Christmas Hebe Leung
44
The Brothers of Catville
Debra Curl
Charlie, my impish feline baby boy of ten months old, sits atop the refrigerator, a new trick, I
might add. Not that anyone would tell from a glance his age, but surely he is destined to outweigh at
twelve pounds any cat I have ever owned. He is every inch the paragon of kittenhood. Occasionally,
he takes time to smooth his white fur speckled with orange cowlicks into a pretense of order. Quietly
grooming himself nearby is Buddy, lazily licking his sleek coal-black coat, occasionally stopping to
ponder. Buddy’s long sinewy body barely reveals his sixteen pounds of muscle and grace nor his eight
years of maturity.
Charlie doesn’t appreciate the morning activities that take place outside our sliding glass door as
Buddy and their sisters do. The world is waking up–birds feed intently, squirrels romp and gather
buried treasure, and the wind blows a leaf dangerously close to the group gathered on the inside of this
great divide, intently watching, safe from the wild outdoors.
Charlie tries to entice Buddy and the girls into a game of tag. They know his antics and decline
forcefully. All Buddy has to do is ask, and the game is on–Marquise of Queensbury rules, you know.
Chivalry is not dead. It thrives in Buddy, the Maurice Chevalier of my feline kingdom. He is adored by
his sisters and obeyed by Charlie. Buddy is the strong silent type, leading with a glance. This is my
Buddy.
Charlie tries to enjoy the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows as Buddy and his
sisters are doing. Charlie’s tail twitches uncontrollably, his eyes wide in wonderment, perhaps
anticipating his next action and most likely surprising even himself. No more can he sit statue-like; he
bolts upright like a rocket off a launching pad. Running by his sisters now gathered for a grooming
session, his razor claw reaches out and gathers another trophy of multicolored fur. He screeches by me,
sliding around a corner, leaving blood-red skid marks across my instep. He is off on another mysterious
journey through the house at lightning speed, throwing caution to the wind, saving care for another day.
This is my Charlie.
At dinner time, a clamor ensues. Buddy stands a silent vigil, watching the others dance and sing
their mealtime chorus. As they settle to eat, Buddy watches, keeping a safe distance between himself,
the girls, and Charlie. Oh, Charlie, inhaling his food, searches for leftover tidbits, and Buddy, standing
regally, guards his food and the girls should Charlie charge quickly. Charlie has lost interest. Buddy
now turns his interest to an uneventful and proper supper.
Ah! There is the tie that binds. Caught unawares, Buddy and Charlie frolic. They race up the
“Kitty-Condo” and down, around the base of it, under the piano stool, down the hall, into the bedroom,
over the bed, under the bed, out of the bedroom, into the bathroom, into the tub, out of the tub, out of
the bathroom, back down the hall, and to their imaginary finish line–the foyer. They lie there, near but
not touching, breathing strongly, tails whipping out Morse code, ears searching the airwaves for
intruders, and now they see me. “Our human is watching,” they seem to say with sweetness in every
expression, coy little meows and purrs vibrating down the hall. I reach down and stroke Buddy, who
returns the gesture appreciatively with a trilling meow and salute of his tail. I look at Charlie, like a
sprinter on his mark, and as I reach to greet him, off he goes. I am an intruder at this moment; Charlie
will love me later.
45
Self-Portrait Hannah Yarbrough
46
In Remembrance Diane DeBruine
47
Down the Trail Towards the River
Lance Milks
Twilight had descended on the jungle. The recon team had set in down the trail towards the
river. All was quiet as dusk gave way to darkness. The recon team’s silhouettes faded into the
shadows of the trees in the moonlight. Then it happened; the snap of a twig caught the attention of the
team. Slowly, they watched the shadows moving closer toward their position. Suddenly, they felt a
sharp tug on the small rope that served as communication between them. The tugs let everyone know
this was for real, not some former-but-NVA regulars. The team let the first one pass and then another,
letting them walk into the inescapable kill zone of their ambush. Then the time came; the radio men and
officer walked into sight. An ear-shattering bang signaled the start of the hail of gun fire. Grenades
were like bass drums of the small arms symphony. It all fell silent again. The Vietnamese patrol
decimated as the final echoes faded. After gathering the weapons, the recon team moved quickly out of
the area. In the jungle, the bodies were still warm from the killing. All was quiet again, the shadows
motionless, and night continued on down the trail towards the river.
Vietnam
You were taken a boy
to a far away country
you fought hard for the country you love
You finished the fight
A man you are
home to a country where
you are no longer the boy
shunned for doing your job
shunned for doing your duty
no thanks received
no homecoming for the boy
who came home the man
Anna Gurganus
Soldier Boy
A soldier is what you want to be
leaving home a boy
going to another country
A soldier boy with a gun
you fight a war
you’re not the same as before
A soldier boy went away
A soldier man you are today
Anna Gurganus
48
Duty and Responsibility
Mary Jo Loftin
In 1996, Amy Grossberg was 19; Brian Petersen was 20. These two New Jersey young
people had a baby together, killed it, and then disposed of it in a Delaware motel dumpster. At the time
I remember thinking: what a sad commentary on today’s values.
In 1999, the Beverly LaHaye Institute reported that “the murder rate for infants more than
doubled from 1970 through 2000, with the rate currently hovering at 9.1 per 100,000 children under
age one. The rate was horrible enough at 4.3 per 100,000 in 1970. In fact, the Centers for Disease
Control reported that in the United States you are 10 times more likely to die by homicide on the day
that you are born than at any other time in your life. Further, you are more likely to be murdered during
your first year than in any other year of childhood before age 17.” This data means that about one infant
a day is a reported homicide victim.
In 1996, I saw the case of Amy Grossberg and Brian Petersen as a reflection of today’s lack of
understanding duty and responsibility.
Thirty-three years ago I was expecting my third child. I signed up as a homebound teacher and
was assigned a 17-year-old student who was pregnant. In 1969 a girl who was expecting a baby
couldn’t go to public school, so I became this young girl’s personal teacher.
She and the boy married. He loved her, you see, and she loved him, too. This was 1969.
I knew her about three months before I met him. He had joined the Army just before they were
married. He was home now only because he was being shipped out to Vietnam. The army was letting
him stay with her until the baby was born since the time was so close.
We worked at my house most of the time; she said she really liked getting out. I was teaching
her English and history so she could graduate with her class in the spring. One day we had finished our
work and were talking about our plans for our babies, soon to be born. Then, there he was at my door.
His short hair barely covered his head. He had a smile so big that it made his eyes almost close,
but, even so, you could see the sparkles in them. He had an athletic build consistent with his talent as a
baseball player. She told me that the pros had talked to him and, when he got out of service, he would
get an offer from them. But, mainly, they were so happy to be with each other and so excited about the
coming of their first baby.
In February the baby was born, and she was beautiful. Pictures were made of Mama, Daddy,
and newborn daughter, and then he was gone–off to Vietnam.
By March she and the baby were coming back to my house so that she could finish her high
school courses. The baby used my nursery since I had it ready for my baby, who would be born in
May.
We talked as she nursed her baby, and during breaks and while we ate lunch, she kept me up
with news about her young husband in Vietnam.
We finished all her work before the end of May, and I was so proud of her when she graduated
from high school. We called each other in June and saw each other briefly, but we were both busy with
our new babies.
July came; things were heating up in Vietnam. There was a bloody raid that month; I heard
about it on the news one day as I rocked my baby.
On a July Sunday, I was changing a diaper when the phone rang.
“Take over,” I said to my husband, “and I’ll catch the phone.”
She was on the other end, crying.
49
“Please come, please. They’ve just left–the two officers who came to tell me. He’s dead. He’s
dead. They’ve killed him–My baby has no daddy now.”
I told her I would be right there. I turned to look at my baby, his daddy holding him, and I cried
too. Her eighteenth birthday was still a month away, and, in one year, she had become a wife, a mother,
and now a widow.
Five years later she graduated from college, and again I was so proud of her. When she called
me several months later, she asked me to come to her wedding. She told me she had met a wonderful
man who loved her little girl so much.
She said, “We’ll be married in August, and we want you to be there.”
“You know I’ll be there,” I told her.
I haven’t seen her now in many years, but the last time I heard from her, she had had another
little girl, and she was happy. Even so, I know she never forgot the young husband she lost while they
were both teenagers.
Not long ago my son went to Washington and saw the Vietnam War Memorial. When he
returned, he brought me a paper he had used to trace out the name of the young husband and father
who had lost his life on a hill in Vietnam back in 1970. I cried again as I watched my son hug his daddy.
I cried for the young man who married the girl, loved the daughter, went to fight in a war thirty-three
years ago, and never came back.
But what a legacy he had left.
Reaching for Reprieve Brent Hood
50
Life in Marine Corps Bootcamp
Jacob Derrig
On October 28, 1998, we were all sitting at the Los Angeles Airport USO. When a
long, white bus picked us up to take us somewhere, we did not know what life was going to be like. As
I got on that bus, I wondered how I would make it all alone and how I would survive. I missed my
wife, knowing she was warm as a fire, cuddled in a feather soft bed, and I was sitting on this cold and
lonely bus. As the bus pulled up to the building where we were headed, I could see those blood red
doors. As the doors burst open, the men rushed out, the commotion was like a midwestern plains
thunderstorm, and all hell broke loose. Those men boarded the bus, raced up and down the aisles, and
with voices like thunder said, “Get off my bus, you filthy maggots! Get your trash and get on my yellow
footprints!” We were all terrified! How was I going to survive the next thirteen weeks?
When Thanksgiving finally arrived, I was halfway through boot camp, and normally, I would be
sitting at my mom’s. The house would be filled with all those delicious, sweet smells of dinner and
dessert. As the house was filling with laughter and love, our friends were coming over for dinner and
football. Instead of the smells and sounds of Thanksgiving at home, there was nothing but waking up at
5:00 a.m. for a good three-mile run. Then, when the drill instructors were done trying to kill us, it was
time for church, so I could get away from them for a little while. Later on that night, I had to put my
hand on a piece of paper and draw a turkey the way we did as kindergartners. This is just one more
method of intimidation used by the drill instructors.
At Christmas, I was almost finished with boot camp. This holiday did not begin any better than
Thanksgiving. When we woke up, there were no presents or even a nice Christmas tree. Instead we
had to hurry up and get dressed and get in formation outside. We started marching down a road that
never ended. The drill instructors marched us to a building the size of a small storage room covered
with camouflage. We all piled inside and sat down on the floor to watch a movie, but my senior drill
instructor called me out into the hallway. When I got out there, he asked me when I had last talked to
my wife, so I told him, “When this recruit got here, Sir.” We had to talk in third person in boot camp.
Then he took me to a phone and told me to call her.
On December 26, 1998, we packed our stuff to head out into the woods and live with the
animals. We were given two and a half meals for the week. The nights had a lonely chill, with an
occasional howl from a pack of wolves. We had to bond and work together to make it through this
part of our journey. Then, before we knew it, we had an hour before the last leg of our journey.
January 1, 1999, at 2:00 a.m., was the start of a new year and a new life. Looming ahead of us
was The Reaper, the steepest hill I had ever seen. We packed our equipment up and headed out on the
last hike of boot camp. About halfway up we all wanted to quit, but we knew if we did, boot camp
would start all over again. My legs burned like fire. Just when I was about ready to quit, I heard a
thunderous sound rolling through the hills. The closer we got, the less it sounded like thunder; it
sounded more like a band. Therefore, we all hiked like a bunch of mice behind the Pied Piper to
investigate the noise. As we got closer, we started to recognize the noise and began chanting, “From
the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli.” Before we knew it, we were at the top of The
Reaper. As soon as we got to the top, we had to get in formation, and “I’m Proud to Be an American”
by Lee Greenwood started playing. We all started getting goose bumps, and the drill instructors called
51
us to attention. As they came down the line, I could hear people, one by one, starting to cry. I
wondered what was going on. Soon they got down to me and said, “Here you go, Devil Dog!
Congratulations, you made it!” and handed me my Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. I thought to myself, “You
made it through boot camp. You can do anything else you put your mind to.”
Gun Shot Po Wah Yeung
52
Family Circle
Terrance Howell
My family circle is not really a circle. My parents separated when I was in the sixth grade and
threw my circle off, but I have two loving parents that will do anything for me. I get my drive from my
mom. She showed me by example that if there is anything that I want, then I have to go out and get it.
My mom always wanted to drive long-distance trucks. Three years ago she got her degree at a truck
driving school in South Carolina. Then she started driving for a company called Swift. So that is how
she taught me never to give up no matter what the odds are. My dad always wanted a lawn service
business, so he worked very hard for a long period of time as a custodian until he got the money to start
his business. I have positive energy from both my mom and my dad; therefore, my circle is close to a
full circle.
Mother’s Day Jami Roberts
53
Passing the Torch
Derek Crumpler
Sitting back, I recall the days when I was young, and growing old never was a concern of mine.
The word “responsibility” had no meaning and wasn’t even a part of my daily vocabulary. The only job
I had to worry about was getting my homework done, and even that to me wasn’t a job: ten math
problems, a crossword puzzle, and my spelling words. All in all, it took about twenty minutes or so, and
I was back out the door practicing some sort of sport. Many Sundays, I spent kicking around a soccer
ball or playing catch and working on my curve ball with my dad. Everything I learned about soccer I
taught myself, and maybe that was why growing up I took more pride and interest in the sport.
Nonetheless, if I ever needed to know anything about baseball, I went to my dad. If it were up to him,
he would have been in the majors. You know how dads like to exaggerate their sports stories a little bit.
When it came to basketball, all the knowledge I ever needed was a hop, skip, and a jump
across the yard to my grandpa. He came from a family that thrived in basketball. Out of a family of
four boys and one girl, my grandpa, along with two of his other brothers, ended up playing basketball at
a college level. My grandpa was old school though. Every one-on-one game we had he never resorted
to flashy dribbling skills that I tried to use and often ended the game with one of his patented Dr.J-type
hookshots. That was his move, dribble a little to the left, back you up under the goal, take a step back
to the right, and throw the arm over his head with a fascinating hook. I feared that shot playing against
him because I never could block it. There was no defense for it; he would place his body perfectly in-between
the ball and me, and there was no possible way to block it. I just hoped and prayed that it
didn’t go in, which usually didn’t help.
When I was about eleven years old, my grandparents moved to Durham for two years. In the
summer I would go stay with them for weeks at the time and once again found myself head-to-head
with my grandpa on the court. Instead of the yard, though, this time it was a nice neighborhood
blacktop. Growing up, I knew I was born to love the Carolina Tarheels. Any other shade of blue
besides that sweet Carolina blue, I was taught to hate, and the color red, well, that’s another story in
itself. Nonetheless, my grandpa, who was born and raised in Durham, was a Duke Blue Devils fan to
the heart. After moving back to Durham, he found himself getting back into Duke athletics, especially
watching more basketball. This is why the pickup games on the blacktop in Durham had much more
meaning. Duke vs. Carolina, the best rivalry in the nation, is what it all came down to. Until the last
game we played, Duke seemed like 300-0 against Carolina because I had yet to beat my grandpa.
That last game, though, that hookshot that seemed to be a constant didn’t fall for my grandpa. I
grabbed the rebound and dribbled to behind the 3-point line. In my mind, I was Ed Cota, the star point
guard for the Tarheels at that time. I dribbled towards my grandpa and, like magic, dribbled the ball
between my legs, crossing up my grandpa. I blew by him and kissed a soft lay-up off the backboard
into the net to give me my first ever victory against him. That day the game seemed more than just a
game. That day was the day the torch was handed down to the next generation.
54
The Garden Lullaby
TJ Garrou
Since the spring of last year, I took to walking around my neighborhood. The route I chose
always guided me past this particular house, a humble cottage surrounded by tall Southern pines. What
was most striking about this home was the landscape. No one could pass by it without thinking about
how someone had turned man’s curse into an inspiring form of art. The smell of fresh-cut grass filled the
air, and I always slowed my pace to admire the rich colorful flowers: the fiery red tulips, brilliant white
rhododendrons, and soft lavender lilacs. The trickle of water that flowed from the garden fountain
always sang a soothing song to my ears.
An old man and woman lived here and worked very hard together to display this splendor. The
old man, intently pulling weeds, would stop frequently to look over his shoulder at the old woman on the
porch. She was just as fixed on her task of watering the potted plants as he was at tending to the
welfare of their flowers. Sometimes when I walked by, I would see her in a white wicker rocking chair
looking at the birds as they pecked away at the feeder in front of the porch.
I looked forward to passing by this house every day, not just for the breathtaking display of
gardening but to see the old couple who mastered the ground to bring forth such splendor.
Dressed in cut-off jeans, T-shirt, and straw hat, the man would kneel before a patch of dirt.
With a spade in his hand, he would dig up a portion of ground and knead it with his fingers to sift out
rocks and rubble. Before he gently placed the seeds in the ground, he would softly whisper a rhyme —
no, more like a lullaby. I could barely make out the words:
In the ground you go, my little love,
I’ll tend to you with help from above,
No matter what he was doing in this Eden he tends, the old man took great pride in his work.
Whether he was pruning hedges, trimming weeds, raking leaves, or spraying pests, he whispered this
little song to his children:
Now, my dear ones, you again must rest.
Listen to my voice; I know what’s best.
Winter’s coming soon and you must go.
I’ll see you in the spring, I hope you know.
Spring would pass, and I would see the man edging the lawn and watering the grounds to keep
the grass and bushes from dying in the scorching summer sun. He would visit each azalea and treat it
with fertilized water. He was so careful not to overfeed these young ones as he whispered his lullaby.
The autumn created plenty of work: branches to prune, leaves to rake, and bulbs to plant. Still
the old man kept up with the job at hand. In fact, the man seemed to work at a quickened pace. Like
a machine he would rake the yard, keeping time with the pattern of his songs.
Wearing a cozy sweater, the old woman would rock in the chair on the porch. She watched the
old man as he beat the rake down on the ground and struggled to pull it across a gathering of leaves.
His work was erratic; he missed some places that needed attention, and his pace slowed considerably.
Still, he would look up at his wife’s beaming smile, and invigorated, he would stroke the ground with the
rake, keeping time with the words to his lullaby.
55
The winter came quickly upon the garden children. I walked by the old folks’ house one
afternoon and saw a pile of leaves covered by snow still lying in the yard. I saw smoke rise from the
chimney like a spire and icicles like crooked fingers reaching for the ground. Through the porch
window as I walked by, I saw the old woman with a picture frame in her feeble hands, mouthing the
words to the lullaby, as she kept time, rocking to the pattern of the words:
In the ground you go, my little love.
I’ll tend to you with help from above.
When the dreaded storm is in sight,
I will see you when the time is right.
Now, my dear one, you again must rest.
Listen to my voice; I know what’s best.
Winter’s here now and you must go.
I’ll see you in the spring, I hope you know.
Rose Bouquet Po Wah Yeung
56
Soul-Seeking
Mysteriously gray Eyes lift slowly
Blacks and whites intermingled I hear your voice
Soft when the shadows fall Patience, my love
Bold in the light Follow the cadence
You call, and I come to you In crescendo, I glide
Slip beneath the swirling hues Weightless along the narrowed way
Edges undefined Searching still beyond the gray
There is time, you say The blazing reds have surrendered
To a softer shade of pink
The way is long The sky, the sea
Reaching, grasping, Serene
There is light
A break in the gray A dream beyond dreams
White makes way A hand, a kiss
Ahh, there they are A pastel embrace
The reds, majestic They are many and vast
A fire ensues Encircling your soul
And I cling to its heat Spectacular
And walk wildly through Old and new
Consumed The blacks, the whites
Until I fall panting to the ground The grays
The shades of you
Come, you whisper
Cooling comfort drowns the heat Tara Bass
And I am wrapped in blues
Brilliantly swaddling
A salve to my soul
I am safe and I linger
Regaining my strength
In the sky, in the sea
Placid reverie
I sleep
Current Wave Daniel Whitmire
57
Hollow Eyes
Hollow eyes
staring back at me
Once seeing
the love there used to be
Locks of curls
Eyes of ocean
Do you remember why
my arms are now open?
Face of innocence
Voice of child
Unserved Justice
in a life of trial
Remembering how you ran to me
wanting my comfort
Remembering how you sang to me
with dancing words of some sort
Remembering your life
with all of my being
Your eyes don’t see me
leaving me dying
You are the boy I used to know
Holding you there now
in our own time and space
Recalling just how
you loved me and saw me
as I saw you
Life has moved on
Now my eyes are hollow too
Tessa Brannon
I Lie
You come up to me,
shake my hand
and ask me how I’m doing.
I say fine.
But I lie.
You hug me
and ask me if everything is all right.
I say yes.
But I lie.
You look deep within my eyes
and tell me you love me.
I say I love you, too.
But I lie.
You take me in your arms
and tell me you remember the time
when I used to tell you everything.
You ask if there is anything
I have to tell you now.
I say no.
But I lie.
Damina D. Young
Love at First Sight Daniel Whitmire
58
Leah: Love Is
Love, both conditional and unconditional is an
Emotion shared by many—including myself.
Parenthood, the ark of selflessness caused by
Loving someone greater than loving oneself.
It is the constant compromise of one or both parents
Consistently pushing their needs and wants aside
Always for the sake of their child and each other.
My child, my love, my heart
Conceived by an enormous act of violence
And as if punishment for my brave decision, labored
Tumultuously, yet upon glancing at her first breath
Was moved to tears as I gazed into those beautiful,
Innocent eyes—I wept at the thought of life without her.
Emotions, once foreign to me, overwhelmed my sense
Of being, as I loved her instantly—strong emotions felt
For this tiny stranger who was more a part of me than ever,
The part that I wish I were again—innocent and carefree.
Unconditional love, I prove every day, ironically is conditional,
Conditions met daily as she tries to “honor and obey”
My commands, tries to make me proud with new
Accomplishments and struggles to earn my approval and
All the while I think, despite how this turns out,
I’ll love her still and she will always be my baby.
Marriage is certainly based on conditional feelings,
Based on the fact that he will love me tenderly and
Passionately as long as I retain my youth,
Curvaceous body, slight naivity, occasional obedience or
Bending to his will, and adoring eyes for him only,
Which unknown to him, is not always the case.
My conditions somewhat similar to his,
I ask that he remain true and blatantly honest,
Man enough to cook, clean, and comfort when needed.
To father a child he fathered not,
Sensually and passionately inclined to read between
the lines and have his way with me.
N. T. Raye
59
In Check
In check
waiting for your move
capture me
or call the game
I just want release
permission to go
let me grieve
let me start again
tired of the careful moves
Tara Humphries
Celtic Ring
Smooth warm silver
two strands moving together
in and out
over and under
timeless pattern
endless circle
yet not without scars
from a life in constant motion
simple to the eye,
heavy with worth.
Heather Rawleigh
Turning Inside Out Rebecca Thomson
60
Thoughts
Thoughts jump around my head like children on trampolines.
Thoughts of friends, gone like leaves through the changing of seasons.
Thoughts of the generations of family members passing on
and of those being born.
I recall memories of my childhood as if they happened just yesterday.
Memories of broken bones, loves lost, friends gained, lessons learned,
moving from place to place.
“The past is the past, and the future is now,”
but without the past there is no future.
Thoughts of what if’s and maybe’s
Thoughts of wars and their what if’s:
What if the Allies had lost World War II,
and what if more planes had hit on September 11?
Thoughts of lost loves and their what if’s.
Thoughts of what if Adam and Eve had never eaten the apple.
Thoughts of regrets from past times, wishes we kept to ourselves,
promises that were kept or broken, and secrets from friends or family.
I stare out into space. Are there truly other forms of life out there
on distant planets, in other solar systems and other galaxies?
Thoughts of years going by and the changing of our environments.
Thoughts of past and present and fantasies of the future mingle as we sleep,
creating an alternate reality to explore in our dreamscapes.
Thoughts of friends, family, teachers, fellow students
lost to us over the years.
Thoughts of mistakes, missed opportunities, wrong decisions
and of what life would be like if they had never been.
Thoughts can lead to temptations and wrongdoing,
but they can also lead to salvation and right decisions.
Again, I think of what life has left for me
and of eternal sleep that comes to all.
Michael Gurley
Growing Up Too Much Zachary S. Howell
61
Dreams
She dreams of great things that I know will come true.
Joy and love flow out of her like a river.
She brightens the day with her eyes
and brightens hearts with her smile.
She is as untamable as the sea
and in a moment calm as a breeze.
When she leaves, my day is darkened,
but when she returns, my spirit will rejoice.
She is a dream, yet she is real.
In every way she is lovely,
and I can only hope one day
to be worthy of her love.
Robert Whitmore
You’re the One
You’re the one I met one day
At a place where I could stay.
The one who talked,
and ran and played,
You’re the one I met one day.
We ate out on long hot days,
And never wanted to separate.
Under the stars and in the rain,
You sat and stared
Into my eyes without a care.
Now I remember why so long ago
I vowed to never let you go.
You’re the one I met that day
Who I will love until my dying day.
Elizabeth Gustafson
Come Away
Come away with me, my love,
And we will spend eternity
Sailing on an ocean of
The deepest emerald green
And after we have sailed the seas
We’ll climb mountains of gold
To see the world, as it will be
In perfect harmony
Then to the valleys we shall go
And nature, we will see,
More beautiful than all the things
That all the earth doth hold
Then the heavens’ stars we’ll gaze,
Like diamonds far above
And I will then profess to you
My true unceasing love
Come away with me, my love,
And we will spend eternity
Together, on this earth of ours
Forever, you and me.
Steven Crowder
62
In Times Past
Camilia Evans
Her name was Cecil Exum and she was my great-grandmother, but more than that, she was my
Granny. One cool summer day, while preparing to make sweet pickles, I asked Momma to tell me
more about Granny. Cecil was born just as the slaves were declared free. Momma says Granny was
around when the Hoover carts were invented. That is, when old automobiles were being pulled by
mules because their owners couldn’t afford to buy a new car or gas during President Hoover’s
administration.
In times past, Momma had discussed how wonderful Granny was and oftentimes taught me
some of the down home recipes Granny passed on to her. Momma said Granny would never buy
canned goods from the corner market. “She just didn’t believe in buying food when you could grow
and can your own.”
As we sat there peeling cucumbers, I watched and imagined how the good old days were while
Momma spoke more about Granny. Momma says Granny could make the best applejacks, nowadays
called apple turnovers. Momma said the apples were so sweet and seasoned. I asked Momma to start
from the beginning. I told her, “I wanna write this down.” Momma said Granny would sit out on the
back stoop to listen to the wind blow. “What does that have to do with the price of apples?” I asked
Momma.
Momma shushed me and continued saying, “Granny waited for the wind to blow the apples that
were ripe to the ground.” Granny would watch and listen for the apples to fall upon the leaves that
made a crackling sound like an old log in her fireplace. Granny rarely picked from the tree. She said
the apples that are so heavy with sweet juices always fall first, naturally. “Only at the end of harvest do
you shake the tree of what it does not want to give.”
Momma said Granny would wash the apples a few times removing rotten places where the
worms had eaten. Granny would roll out an old potato sack on the cutting table by the shed to place
the apples. She would let the sun dry the apples, and then she would gather them back up until the next
morning. Cecil would pull the apples back out to dry and gather them up again each day for about a
week before storing them. Granny said, “The sun will dry them out and keep them till I’m ready for
them.” Granny would get those apples and cook them in a pot with her seasonings and make the best
preserves, jams, jellies, and jacks ever tasted, according to Momma, that is. She says it’s as if the
apples never lost their juice. They tasted like she just picked them. Granny would stand over the pot
and could know when the apples were ready by the smell and the way they bubbled. She didn’t even
have to taste them, but she sometimes did.
Granny would make biscuits every morning for breakfast and serve a spoonful of preserves of
whatever was in season. “Granny loved to cook?” I asked. Momma said one time she asked Granny
why she cooked all the time now that just about all her children and grandchildren were grown. Granny
would say, “I cook cause somebody’s coming to eat.” Sure enough, somebody, whether relative or
neighbor, would visit while feeding his face with some of Granny’s cooking.
63
A Letter by a Man on the Brink of Losing All Sanity
Time seems almost vacant
In the sense that I’m all that’s left
And it seems to me in desperate moments
That even this too shall pass
A white-washed cell stands empty
Surrounded by this great abyss
In this agony of echoed voices
This place I too shall miss
A holy hand holds tight the hourglass
Though we’ve lost all sense of time
At some point we just stopped counting
At some point I lost my mind
Now into white-washed walls I stare
I know not, sun nor moon
At some point my friends all left me
We all grew old too soon
In these saddest songs I’ve left
The secret to the past
Staring deep in these white-washed walls
I know this too shall pass
Benjamin Strickland
Entrapped on Adam’s Place of Rest
Gray skies settle over silent graves
Memories and nostalgia hand in hand
And haunt me in the moments
When these two worlds collide
Standing still at cemetery gates
Waiting for answers that may never come
Not now, not before nightfall
Angels and closet ghosts
Whisper simple silent symphonies to me
In this my dissolution
Pictures of my loved ones
Gone on years before me
And simple words still echo
Remind me of the past five years
A somber breeze moves evening shadows
Across nostalgia’s weakened eye
Benjamin Strickland
June
Longer days, still, cool nights
Lightning bugs and mosquito bites
Rainbow arches after afternoon showers
Sun rays shining on fresh spring flowers
Days of hope, renewed each dawn
As dew drops dry on a fresh-cut lawn
Days of love as a bride walks the aisle
Tear-filled eyes with her mother’s smile
Days of faith, a time to renew
A vow to God of service true
June – a year half gone
Waste not one second as time moves on
To serve our Lord in every way
Afresh, renewed like a sweet June day
The Atlantic Po Wah Yeung Grace Lutz
64
Child Sitting on a Fallen Log Watching Beef Cows Graze
Your serene demeanor is just a front.
I’ve seen you standing close to the electric fence
wet nose at the wire, timing the pulses.
Then you graze discreetly around the perimeter
looking for the best place to make your break.
It’s usually in the night that you make your move.
We are awakened from our dreams
to round you up and out of the neighbor’s cornfield.
Why don’t you run fast and far while we sleep
instead of waiting patiently to be captured?
Don’t you tire of fences and grazing?
Don’t you dread the days in fall when your young ones are taken?
I guess you don’t smell death from here.
You don’t know where they are taken.
You only know the safety of this pasture.
If I were you, I’d burst through that fence tonight
and run as far as I could.
The leaves are falling, there’s a chill in the air
I’d take my pretty rust-colored calf and hide him.
I wouldn’t let another one go.
Julie A. Aycock
Brief Pelican Faction Brent Hood