the great plains review
DESCRIPTION
A literary journal published for and by the students of Sterling College. This is the 2011 version of the GPR.TRANSCRIPT
RELAUNCH
Great Plains ReviewIssue 14
2011
The Great Plains Review 2011 Editorial Staff
Mark Watney - AdvisorAmanda Xydis - Head EditorBrian AllenTim LuisiJackie WilkersonBritnie Jenkins - Layout
Front and Back Cover Photos by Tillie Wilbeck
The Great Plains Review
A literary journal of Sterling College 2011Brought to you by the English Blend
The writing process is like the process of making tea. Just as hot water pulls out what is already inside the teabag, so too, does the process of
writing pull out what is already within the writer.
-Joshua Mathews
Copyright © 2011 The Great Plains Review
First off, I would like to dedicate this issue to all those who have come before us and left
behind the GPR and its legacy. Everyone of you, whether your contributions to the GPR were big or
small, have played a crucial part in building the foundation and framework of the literary movement
in Sterling for the last thirty-three years. We would like to share our gratitude for your work and for
giving us inspiration and the foundation to move this vision forward. May this issue be, just like all
those before it, a stone laid for others to be lain on afterwards, and may it also be something that,
years later, when we all step back and see what has been built, is larger than ourselves.
Secondly,IwouldliketothanktheEnglishBlend’sfirstpresidentandvice-presidentJoseph
Ewert and Andrew Gray, who, together with myself, formed a trio of visionaries. Without their early
work in this club, this may have never been possible. Thank you for lighting the torch and then pass-
ing it on.
Finally, I’d like to dedicate this issue to Dr. William Best. Thank you for being that “one guy”
to bring up the idea. May your six years of service here in the Sterling Literature Department be re-
membered and forgotten not as you forgot not the GPR.
Sincerely, Joshua David Mathews President of the English Blend
Dedications:
Table of ContentsHistory, by Joshua Mathews.............................................................................................. 2
Epic, poem, by Nathan Lusk............................................................................................... 3
Familiar, poem, by Craig Smith.......................................................................................... 4
When You’re a Kid, poem, by Erik Dahl............................................................................ 4
Diatribe on Mondays, prose, by Brian Allen...................................................................... 5
Untitled, photography, Krisi Metzen.................................................................................. 6
Foretelling of the Soul War, prose, by Lucas McKenna..................................................... 7
Remembering, poem, by Emily Zerger................................................................................ 8
Flaw Within the Stone, poem, by Taylor Stucky ............................................................. 10
Face Hidden, poem, by Taylor Stucky................................................................................ 10
Essence, poem, by Taylor Stucky ................................................................................... 10
My Dad, poem, by Mark Watney...................................................................................... 11
To Whom It May Concern, prose, by Andy Curtiss.......................................................... 12
Untitled, photography, by Krisi Metzen............................................................................ 15
Daisies, poem, by Paul Brecht ......................................................................................... 16
Egocentrism, poem, by Daniel Callahan.......................................................................... 18
90 Feet to Freedom, poem, by Erik Dahl.......................................................................... 19
Insomnia! Take Your Hands Off Me, poem, by Jesse Kagarise........................................ 19
No Empathy, prose, by Anonymous.................................................................................. 20
Love, poem, by Nathan Sullivan...................................................................................... 21
The Soul is Not Data-Driven, prose, by Don M. Frick...................................................... 22
Untitled, photography, by Joni Williams.......................................................................... 24
Charilie’s Hands, poem, by William Best.......................................................................... 25
Time, lyrics, by Cameron Bartlett...................................................................................... 26
Table of Contents (cont.)Alleyway of My Dreams, prose, by Britnie Jenkins............................................................. 27
Then She Opened the Book, poem, by Anonymous........................................................ 29
Sincerity, poem, by Kelly Wolfer..................................................................................... 30
The Pearl is Beautiful, poem, by Amanda Xydis............................................................... 31
Antiqued Luster, photography, by Kelly Valentine.......................................................... 32
Purple Irises, prose, by Emily Zerger................................................................................ 33
The Tree in the Middle of My Living Room, poem, by Mark Watney............................... 35
Guitars Should Be Loved, poem, by Brian Allen................................................................ 36
Noise, poem, by Craig Smith............................................................................................ 37
Man on a Tank, poem, by William Best.............................................................................. 38
Alien, poem, by Seth Svaty................................................................................................ 39
Untitled, photography, by Britnie Jenkins.......................................................................... 40
Forever Granted Pt. 1, poem, by Jesse Kagarise............................................................... 41
Fight for Consciousness, poem, by Joseph Powell........................................................... 43
Make It Well, poem, by Gentry Sutton............................................................................. 44
Game Over, poem, by Paul Brecht................................................................................... 45
All Seeing Eye, photography, by Kelly Valentine............................................................ 46
A Parable About Power, prose, by Anne Smith................................................................. 47
Why Me, poem, by Lydia McKinley................................................................................. 48
Kings Get Up, poem, by Adedrea Chaney......................................................................... 50
A Muse Bemused, poem, by William Best...................................................................... 52
A Metamorphosis, poem, by Brian Allen........................................................................... 52
Untitled, photography, by Krisi Metzen............................................................................ 53
One Last Look, poem, by Katherine Glynn....................................................................... 54
by Joshua Mathews
2
History:TheGreatPlainsReviewwasfirstpublishedin1978bytheSigmaThetaChapterofSigmaTau
Delta, the Sterling College chapter of a national English honor society. Further publications fol-
lowed in 1979 and 1980, but after that, publication apparently ceased.
Recognizing the untapped creative potential in the Sterling College community of students, alumni,
faculty, and staff, a group of students advised by Dr. Craig Gannon revived the journal in the fall
of 1996. This 2nd charter of the GPR went strong and published 10 issues of the GPR from 1997-
2007, with 2006 being the only year to not publish a GPR.
Sadly, after 2007, the majority of the Editors of the GPR graduated and three years went by where
the GPR was a faint memory, remembered only by few, and a whole new generation of Sterling
students ignorant of its existence.
In late Spring of 2010 three students, Joeseph Ewert, Andrew Gray, and Joshua Mathews, with help
ofDr.WilliamBestactingasanunofficialadvisor,begantheworktoexpandtheGPR’soriginal
vision, and create an actual English club on Sterling’s Campus.
InFallof2010theEnglishBlendofficiallybecametheEnglishcluborganizationforSterling
College under the advisement of Dr. Mark Watney. The vision of the English Blend was to bring
back the legacy of the GPR and establish a new legacy as the voice that promotes, encourages, and
inspires the arts and writers in the Sterling Community.
by Joshua Mathews
3
Looking past eternityThe human-constructed symphonyThe intricate web of catastropheOf lies and truth and time
I sought to forge a destinyAnd reject a mundane majestyTo crush the self that binds the freeAndfindafuturethatwasgone
So I took it upon myselfTo gain Humanity and all his wealthBut found him to be in such poor healthI didn’t know what to do
I searched amongst the concrete hillsOf apathy and sewage spillsI found greedy kings and busted willsSo I turned and wandered on
IfoundanuclearmanwhosoughtfinerthingsLike molecules and children’s dreamsFrom broad brushstrokes to tiny seamsYet he ignored the chaos he had caused
He led me to a modern caveAn idol land a pagan naveI asked for answers but none he gaveHe just wagged his silver tongue
It was there arrogance invaded meI worshiped bulls and bears and currencyAnd in a gilded throne of povertyI saw all of the atrocity I had doneA holy saint of sacrilege
An empty head of dead knowledgeA golden gun of high privilege Was what I had become
SoIflewintothecountrysideWhere broken men broke my strideI asked them what ideals had diedThey spoke of harvests, hate and horror
A group of children met me thereWith darken eyes and thin white hairThey asked for stories and traveler’s wareAnd then showed me their wise innocence
They led me to a crimson springWhere a man had died yet angels singA pilgrim’s pass of desperate beingWhereadefiledmanwelcomedall
Truth is in realityIn perfect pain and tragedyIn hollow hearts that hope to see What happens in the end
Epic
by Nathan Lusk
4
Innocent eyes catch mine.
Caught in a gaze,
A quizzical look.
Am I familiar?
He takes another look.
Straining his ears and neck,
Listening for that familiar sound.
His mother bleats.
With a start he bounds
to that which he knows is familiar.
Familiar
by Craig Smith
When you’re a kid, you’re taught that God is bowling every time the sky rumbles.
Later in life you learn that thunder is a result of the vibrations caused by lighting, which is the result of electrical storms and air ionization.
I wish I still believed that God liked to bowl.
When You’re a Kid
by Erik Dahl
5
The day of the week happened to be Monday, and though I know that my feelings will never change the matter or receive acknowledge from their object, I have always hated Mondays. It’s not even that I was particularly busy on the weekends. I didn’t work any weekend hours, and I didn’t party, or at least I didn’t most of the time. On the occasions that I did, it was completely spontaneous, always with people who were just acquaintances, never with friends, not that I had many friends anyway. The reasons that I hated Mondays were, by and large, philosophical. It was amazing how soul crushing it could be just to know what day of the week it is. On returning from holidays to college, I would always feel like I needed another break in order to get reacclimated with the environment of a student. Somehow, it is little better getting back into the grind of a regular working week. I typically handled the breaking of the day no better on the subsequent Mondays than I did onthatwretchedfirstmorning.There’sanoldrhymethatsaid“Monday’schildisfairofface,”but I have to wonder if the writer of those lyrics ever actually looked at people on a Monday morning. I’ve seen some pretty beautiful women look like utter dogs under that circumstance. A Monday is symbolic of much of what I do not enjoy about modern society. There is so much emphasis on going and doing and keeping up with the pack, and I am consistently roped into that game, because if you do not keep pace, you will be left behind or trampled underfoot. Mondayssaytous,“Timetoputawaytherealyouandgetintoprofessionalmode,”andIfinditsickening that there even needs to be a professional mode. If only we could live life as we are and not as we think others want us to be... Perhaps we allowed Monday to get this way. We are its creators, so it’s unfair to blame it for the havoc that it wreaks. After all, there is no inherent meaning to the word. “The day of the moon.” The moon appears every night except one each month, so Monday is no more the day of the moon than any other day, and the moon exists whether we can see it in the sky or not. There really is no Monday anyway. The universe doesn’t care if we assigned the word ‘Monday’ to every seventh day of the Earth’s cycle around the sun. Even the very concept of an earthdayisinsignificantinthegreaterschemeofthings.Similarly,ifMondayisametaphorforthe acceleration and glacialization of society, then someone must have created that metaphor. We should take it back. I digress, though, and I’m afraid I’m going over your head.
Diatribe on Mondays(from Tale of the New Jazz Age)
by Brian Allen
6
by Krisi Metzen
7
Deepinthesoul,thereshallbeamagnificentwar
Between the vile darkness and the glorious light
Though this shall not be a battle of blood and gore
It shall be fought without the use of a sword
Yet there shall be an exchange of power and fright
Within one weary man’s soul, his innermost core
The shadow inside shall be something all shall abhor
An evil creature that lurks like an assassin in the night
A prince of wicked deeds everyone shall deplore
The light shall be a soul with wings that can soar
And serves the highest chivalric code of any knight
Above all, it shall embody hope, a known savior
One will want power of the highest caliber, therefore
The other must use up all the strength it has to smite
It’s enemy. Then it will have freedom to outpour
The Soul War shall be fought in a single man, worn
Inside, it shall tire and crumble his spirit with no respite
Yet in the end, the righteousness shall come forth with a cure
The shadow will fade, the light will rise, and he shall be restored
Foretelling of the Soul War
by Lucas McKenna
8
Salty tears roll down my cheeksBut I don’t wipe them away.
Remembering.Many nights I’ve lain awake
Remembering.I let music sweep me away
To another placeRemembering.
I still see your smileAnd long for your arms around me
Remembering.I watch a mother and daughter pair
Shopping togetherRemembering.
It used to be you and IInseparable.
Remembering.Your voice used to sing
In melody with mineRemembering.
Your hand, so gentleYetfilledwithstrength
RememberingCrying in your arms
Fear gripping my heartRemembering
Your smile so brilliantRemembering.
The concern on your faceWhen I would fall down as a child
Remembering.The sweet smell of your embrace.
Remembering.
Remembering
9
Clothed in wisdom and guidanceYou spoke.
Remembering.But then, lying there helpless
Thin and hairlessRemembering.
Courage shown throughIn your beautiful eyes
Remembering.Crying out to God
InthemiddleofafieldRemembering.
I wanted so desperately for him to save youRemembering.
Family game nights and movie nightsYou always made everything so fun.
Remembering.Our hearts almost felt as one.
Remembering.Saying goodbye to you
That sunny November dayRemembering.
I held my crying sisterAs they drove your earthly body away.
Remembering.The deepest sorrowGripped my heart
Remembering.But peace and hope
And a little glimmer of lightRemembering.
You are still goneSo I’m caught here
Remembering.
Remembering (cont.)
by Emily Zerger
10
My heart is a fortressBuilt against thoseI meet.It has stood well;Endured long, yet nowI see,What was never apparentTo me.A crack, a shadow, if one will.AflawwithinThe stone.
The mask without hides the mask within.Even I know not my true face.TheseeyesreflectallIsee,
Away, away.I smile,
Never knowing.Never knowing.
ThatIwillnotfind,Myself.
There is something inside me.It is a thing of beauty and art,
Of soul and spirit.Yet, it is a thing of dark, brooding secrets.
A thing of malice and hate,Of death and torment.
This thing scares me, and wounds me.Makes me, and breaks me,
It is the most important part of me.My essence.
by Taylor Stucky
Flaw Within The Stone
Face Hidden
Essence
11
The lamp sputtered,The lamp muttered in the dark.- T. S. Eliot
The moon which bathed the streetIs out nowAnd a lonely street lampSputters in the darkMutters in the dark:“Who is this lady getting into my bed?”The light in his eyesIs out nowAnd His hand grips shards of memoryAnd shakes them angrily about:MemoriesofawifehecannotfindAnd work which has to be doneAnd a house which isn’t thereIn the dark streetsUnder a moon which has lost its memory.HeshufflesfromlamptolampAnd stops to pee on the piano(its white porcelain keys offer relief)He eats a handful of tiny sea shells(the crunching sounds are comforting---like the memory of oats)And bites into an onion(it makes him weep---yet he keeps biting)HomelessmemoriesshufflefromstreettostreetInside his darkening brainWondering where to goNow that the moon is outAnd only the street lampSputters in the darkMutters in the dark:“I want to go homeOh please God!I want to go home.”
My Dad
by Mark Watney
12
The last time I saw my brother was in the winter of 2006, when the Devil came to our town. My God, has it really been that long? Back then I was making most of my money from making a few lucky investments in the stock market, and since the money was enough to keep my rent, feed me and still have enough left over togooutontheweekends,Idecidednottowork.IfiguredthatifIdidn’tneedtoIwouldn’t,soIdidn’t.Ireallycan’tseethatfarinthefutureit’sjustoneofthefaultsthatdefinesmeasaperson.AnywaysIhadalotof time to walk that year, so I did. I always feel drawn towards the woods more than to the street, so I would go meandering through the small patches of wood that were scattered through my town. The patches weren’t large,ifyouwalkedforlongenougheventuallyyouwereboundtofindahouseorastreetandmostofthetime,thesoundsofthecitywerestillaudible.SometimesthoughIcouldfindaspotfarenoughinthewoodsthatI couldn’t hear cars of the sounds of children at play, but not far enough so that the back end of a house was visible and I would just sit on a fallen tree, or on a boulder that had been covered by soft moss and just close my eyes.I’dalwaysbesurprisedtolookatmywatchandfindthatI’dspentmanyhoursinjustonespotwithoutmoving with my eyes closed. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel that passage of time, it was just it wasn’t relevant to me at the time. In fact it felt even longer than hours, if felt like lifetimes. You see the woods themselves hold a kind of wisdom that you can feel, if you listen very hard and let yourself sink into the ground beneath they can revel secrets, secrets that only trees that have lived for a very long time have any right to know. It was on one such occasion that I saw my brother in the woods. Like I said at the beginning of this, it was winter, not necessarily cold, just cool. There was a lot of snow on the ground, and the trees I was walking through were long dead and looked like so many skeletal arms raised as though in the thralls of a sudden religious experience. I remember that detail more than any other all these years later. It’s funny the way your mind works, how someone can remember the smell of a curiosity shop they visited once as a child and yet forget their own parent’s birthdays. Anyways I was walking to my favorite spot in this particular patch of small city forest, had been walking for at least ten minutes. I thought that I should have reached my spot by now, a large downed oak tree surrounded by a large circle of elm like they were closing in to help their fallen friend back up, but I had not yet reached my destination. I had an absurd thought then that I wouldkeepwalkingforeverandneverfinditandbeswallowedupbyawoodmuchlargerthanwhatatowncanpermit within its boundaries. This was preposterous of course, I had only minutes ago left behind the sounds of the city, but this sense of the forest being much larger than I had previously imagined never left me. Soon enough I found my spot and started towards it trudging through the foot deep snow. It was then that I saw my brother. He was standing on the other side of the fallen oak and was wearing a black trench coat. There was such a look of emptiness in his eyes that I was unable speak for a moment, then I called out to him. Instead of answering me, he turned silently into the woods behind him and walked away disappearing from view. I called to him again, moving towards the downed tree I hopped it without much grace and followed after him into the woods. I hadn’t traveled very far before I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched, instantly I whirled around and saw a man reclined against the side of a tree. I had no illusions as to the identity of this man, mostly it was his eyes that gave him away, the entirety of both of the orbs were pure black, if “pure” is the right adjective to use for such a thing. This and the fact that the man was wearing a white t-shirt and jean with his bare feet and yet seemed to be unaffected by the cold were the only outstanding things about thismanotherthanthosethingshelookedentirelynormal.Hesaidnothingatfirstheonlystaredatmewithagaze that seemed at both appraising and bemused. He pushed himself off the tree and approached me, his bare
To Whom It May Concern-
13
feetcrunchinginthesnow;hecamesoclosetomethatIcouldsmellthefinecolognehewore,underneaththecologneIsmeltdifferentlessidentifiablethings,lessappealingthings.HeputhisheadovermyshoulderandIfelt a cold slimy thing like a dead slug on the nape of my neck. He face came back into view and he licked his lips and smiled. It was then I noticed the third unusual thing about this not-man, he had not a tooth in his head insteadhissmilewasfilledfromeartoearwithimpossiblylargefangs.Thesmileitselfwaspreposterouslylarge rendering his face into something of a jack-o-lantern. A small red tongue poked out beneath the fangs andranallthewayacrossthetoplipofhissmilethenbackalonghisbottomlipuntilitfinallydisappeared.Itmade a disgustingly lascivious noise that made me shudder in horror. Had I any sense, I would have run in that moment, but somehow I had the distinct notion that if I ran he would catch me and… well I didn’t want to think about it, I was completely frozen by terror. He said one word in a horse whisper that he leaned forward, still smiling, to deliver, “tasty”. I closed my eyes, hoping, praying that when I opened them he would be gone. I felt a physically hot arm slung over my shoulder, I opened my eyes in surprise to see him beside me as if I were an old friend and he started to lead me farther into the forest. It seemed much darker outside although I knew it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds I had my eyes closed, but at that point I had started to doubt that I was awake. Surly suchhorrorswereconfinedtonightmare,butno,nowIknowtheworstwecanimaginestillfallsshortofwhatcan appear in the woods on a cool December afternoon. We walked together now through the progressively darker and denser wood, I stared down at the ground not wanting to look at the evil beside me. We eventually reached a point where we could walk no farther and we stopped. The brush and bramble in front of us was so complete that it seemed to for a perfect upright circle with a deep blackness in the center. It looked for all the world like a hole in the world. I heard movement to our right and turned my head to have a better look and saw to my surprise and utter dismay, my brother. He walked towards the circle of underbrush, working his waythroughthebramblewithdifficultly.Atlasthereachedthecenteroftheholeintheworldandheturnedto face us. His face and hands were scratched badly by the cruel branches. His eyes were now brimmed with the deepest terror I had and ever will see on another human face, not counting my countenance as I write these word, for I have no mirror to look at my face, but I know my eyes now hold the same terror my brother’s did all those years ago, because you see he came back for me, as I always knew he would. The not-man beside me lifted his left arm and pointed straight at my brother and said nothing. Instantly there was a change in the air, as if the all the oxygen in the area had been turned to molten lead. I gasped in pain and shock. The branches in the hole in the world looked remarkably like hands, hands grasping, grabbing, tugging, and pulling my brother into the darkness of the hole. My brother was now sobbing loudly, much like a lamb that bleats when it is being dragged to the cutting block. The hands forced him off the ground and turned him sideways as they pulled with increasing urgency and cruelty. Swiftly he was yanked almost out of sight, but just before he was pulled from view, he freed one of his arms with great effort and reached towards me then loosed the most terrifying scream this world has ever heard. To this day, I am convinced that that ground was poisoned by the intensity of that scream, for nothing grows there anymore, no evidence that there ever was a wood there. He was then yanked from my view but his scream continued for several seconds before abruptly cutting short as though someone had simply turned him off. I fell to my knees and vomited violently then fell intomyownfilthsobbingevenmoreviolently.Ilookedupatthenot-manandaskedaonewordquestion. He simply shrugged his shoulders, because evil, true, pure evil has no reason. He turned away, but not
To Whom It May Concern- (cont.)
14
before smiling his predatory smile again and giving me a look that has haunted my every waking moment, a lookthatsaid,“I’mnotfinished”. WhenIhadfinallystoppedconvulsingenoughtostand,IfoundthatnighthadfallenandthatIwasonlya few steps from the downed oak. I walked to my car and drove home. When I reached my apartment I found I hadmessagesontheansweringmachine.ThefirstwasfromMomandDadaskingifI’dcomebytomorrowandif I’d like to stay for dinner, the second was from my friend wondering where I was because I’d missed a great party that night, the third was from an unknown number and it was just the sound of my brother screaming- that same scream. I picked up the answering machine and threw it to the ground then smashed it underneath my boot. I did not sleep that not, and have never really slept since. The next day I went to dinner with my folks and talked about my brother. They asked what had remindedmeofhim,IliedandsaidthatIhadbroughthimflowerstheotherdayandhehadbeenonmymindrecently.Theyspokeofhowtheyknewhewasinabetterplacenow,Ihaddifficultyswallowingmyhomecooked meal much less not outright vomiting on the plaid tablecloth. It goes without saying that I never walking in the woods again, neither did I visit the cemetery where my brother was buried every again. This upset my family and friends understandably, they thought that I was afraid of memories of him, I didn’t argue. Eventually my money dried up and I had to move out of my apartment. My parents offered to let me stay with them, but I knew I could not live where my brother and I grew up so I wandered the streets. ThefirsttimeItriedtokillmyself,agoodSamaritanfoundmeunshowered,unshavenandsmellingstrongly of alcohol underneath a city bridge with a large pool of blood gathered around me from my slit wrists. IawokeinahospitaltofindI’dmadetheclassicmistakeofslittingacrossthewristinsteadofupanddown.Iactually chuckled darkly to myself when the attending physician explained it to me. That night I got out of my restraints,filledthetubinthebathroom,brokemywindowandtriedforasecondtimetoendmylifethe“right”way. This time I woke in a “sanctuary for the mentally unstable” in a small “safe” room with no sharp objects and two double reinforced windows, one above the locked door, the second overlooking a beautiful woodland. I screamed to be moved from the room, for a sheet to cover the window, anything, but nothing happened and I remained in the room with a full view of the surrounding forest. That room is where I’m writing from right now. Every day I had 3 sessions with 3 different shrinks. All of them full of speculation and hypothesis. Maybe it was the loss of my parents; maybe it had something to do with my alcoholism (for by that time I was drinking heavily when my parents died I sold the house and drank to their honor) maybe because I was homeless, jobless, and friendless( all of my friends had long given up on me). My brother was also thrown into the equation, but I gave them nothing of that day, that awful day so long ago. Eventually they trusted me enough to use a laptop to writedailyjournalsthatgavereflectionsofmy“feelings”,it’sfromthatlaptopthatIwritethisletter.Yesterday,Isawhiminthewoods,smilingandwaving,he’llcome,it’sverysoonnow.Theywon’tfindmybody;Iknowthatforafact,he’snotfinished.Evildoesn’tneedareasondearreader,atrocitieshappenwithoutcause.Moreimportantly it’s meaningless, there is no greater meaning behind evil, it’s evil for evil’s sake alone. He’s at my window now, gently rapping as if to remind me of an important appointment. I’m not the only one, I won’t be the last either. My brother is there too, his face is… his eyes… my God his eyes…
by Andy Curtiss
To Whom It May Concern- (cont.)
15
by Krisi Metzen
16
Bustling to work one day With a briefcase full of stress
I bustled into someone Spreading peace and happiness. He said, “Hey man, slow down!
Take your shoes off. Stay a while. But my burdens and appointments
Made me frown upon his smile.
He said “Don’t take life too serious You’ll never live it out.” I told him to go get a job.
He said “No need to shout. “I may not look like much to you But I’ve had my share of blows.
Though I play in the rain while barefoot I have blisters on my toes.”
I said I didn’t undertsand He said “Listen to the hippie man.”
There’s gonna be daisies. There’s gonna be rainbows and smiles. There’re gonna be sunshine There’s gonna be blue skies for miles.
The ground is so dry. The sky is so dark. But there aren’t any maybes. ‘Cuz life might be hard now But soon enough there’s gonna be daisises.
Daisies
17
I bustled my way into church one day With a hymnal full of the blues.
The preacher said “You’re on holy ground, So you better take off your shoes.”
So I said “Don’t give me that sugary and spice This earth isn’t anything nice.”
He said “Maybe not, but God still gave it Hisgreatestsacrifice.”
And I said I don’t understand He said “Listen to Jesus, man.”
There’s gonna be daisies. There’s gonna be rainbows and smiles. There’re gonna be sunshine There’s gonna be blue skies for miles.
And I still don’t understand. I gotta listen to my fellow man.
There’s gonna be daises. There’s gonna be smiles There’s gonna be blue skies for miles and miles. There’s gonna be daisies. Forget all your trials.
You can’t see it now. It might take a while.
There’s gonna be daisies. There’s gonna be rainbows and smiles. There’re gonna be sunshine There’s gonna be blue skies for miles.
Daisies (cont.)
by Paul Brecht
18
Egocentrism
by Daniel Callahan
I
19
90 feet to freedom. 180 feet to glory.But a ball hit 300 feet in the air is considered a failure.
Don’t step on the lines and don’t talk about a no-hitter.You can’t play catch in front of the dugoutand you don’t mess with a streak.
Dying quails and punching Judy’s are good things,but cans of corn and candy hops are not.At least when you’re hitting.
The game is fast and the game is slow.The game is rewarding and the game is unforgiving.Sometimes you pour your heart out for the game.
But the best thing about baseball, is thatfreedom is only 90 feet away.
90 Feet to Freedom
by Erik Dahl
It's a conundrum to wonder why bummed out I always am.It sure must be fun to watch me struggle with a lit matchIn a dark corridor. I don't want to step on the rats,But hey! I think I see a light at the... wait, that's just a glowing piece of trashReflectingthisflickeringlightlikeit'sasputteringknifeTrying to cut open a path to any sign of life.But don't look too hard you might go blindFrom the gaping dark abyss blacker than shut eyes.Hey, is that your attention leaving, or have I lost another one of my best rat friends?Down here, this is what it takes to fall asleep before I turn into rat man!I've got to play with little toys like a small child would.Taking a plastic helicopter, and throwing it at the wall isn't going to make you feel better,Who are you kidding?Little kiddies don't have worries, so grow down, and maybe you wouldn't be so pathetic.Whoa, would you slow down a minute, and look at what you just said.You couldn't see the implications if they turned upside and died in your living roomBecause they'd be microscopic.
Insomnia! Take Your Hand Off Me
by Jesse Kagarise
20
As I walk into this darkened theatre, merely trusting memory to guide my footsteps, I realize that
only those who have worked in a theatre; lived in a theatre, can understand the addiction. The
feeling of freedom that can only come from entering this sacred space. The feeling of the vast
emptiness of this vacant auditorium... It is both my pleasure and pain. The void of space between
these four walls only scarcely represent the void in my heart. They lend me but a shred of comfort,
compared to my wretched shapeless heart. As I pass between the curtains, I feel like I am escaping
intoadeepcavern,wereonlyblissandcreativitycanfindme.InthissecretrealmIfeelnumb…
senseless…. It enables me to ignore the pain… at least for a while. But What if this band aid; this
drug; this cure did not exist? What if there was no time for play? What if an actor could only play
what was truly in there heart? What if there were no stage lights to blind me from seeing the crowds
of people waiting to judge me? What if there were no costumes; no makeup for me to disguise my
sadness and insecurity?
What If life was no longer tolerable? If the characters that once helped me run away were no longer
my friends? If they began to haunt me? Like my skeletons… my demons.
Damn it.
Why? Why can’t this simple space last forever? Why can’t I forever evade my pain?
How does it always seek me out? `
How can I purge myself of this void?
Or is it mere madness?
No Empathy
by Anonymous
21
Love is a humble beast
A creature that men only
Dreams of taming; time in and
Time out men try. Yet the tries are all in vain.
The beast conquers them ever so easily
Though, for love is a humble beast
How lovely a creature might it
Be, a creature of never ending beauty.
It moves with a grace that many
Have never seen. So dainty fully it moves.
As it does you are entranced. So you cry,
For love is yet a humble beast.
You think one creature might never
be hurt. Yet the smallest and most inconvenient thing,
a lie is the only thing that can kill such a wondrous
creature. The lie can pierce love right through the heart. For love is yet a humble creature.
As one watches the beast die,
They are full of agony. They wonder
Why someone would kill such a
Luxurious creature. As it cries out in pain,
Everyone hears its name. “I am love, the one that conquers all except for a lie; So now you must
Watch me die. For I am a humble beast.”
Love
by Nathan Sullivan
22
The soul is not data-driven. Its satisfaction is neither the result of best practices nor statistical andlogicalanalyses.ItrefusestobedefinedbyPowerPointbullets. The soul is more like the “imaginal cells” scattered throughout caterpillars. These odd, seemingly-useless biological remnants bide their time until—and this is important—the caterpillar spins a cocoon, retreats from its normal homeostasis, and gives up its caterpillar identity to an oozy goo. In this nutrient-rich medium, imaginal cells begin to multiply. The goo attacks them even as itfeedsthem,buteventuallyimaginalcellsfindeachother,reachacriticalmass,andbeginthemost remarkable transformation in nature. In multiple communities, they create new nervous and digestive systems, legs, wings, and a totally original heart. Only after a period of inner growth does thetransformedorganismstrugglefromitsseclusiontoburstforthasabutterfly,readytocontributea fresh piece of outrageous beauty to the world. Retreat, release, renew, return—that is how the soul works. As we speak of it here, the soul is neither an abstract Platonic concept nor an immutable thing to be saved or lost nor a construct built entirely from bullet-points of knowledge and detritus of data, but a mysterious, abiding, ineffable juiciness that transcends facile categories. It is both intimate and Other, and it communicates through symbols: wind, water, breath, clouds, doves, sunrises, art, music, even darkness. This soul has thrust, dynamism, valence, telos. Its purpose lies beyond the shallow Western notion of self actualization, reaching into the vast joyfulness of a subtle and astonishing universe. The soul is more like Jesus’ parables than Aesop’s fables. Fables resolve thorny problems of human existence with tidy aphorisms; parables challenge consensual reality with stories that invite us to reframe the moral imagination in light of a new understanding of who we are in relationship to our Creator and each other. The soul is more like seeking than certainty. Soul is in the spaces between notes that make sweet music of sounds, the moment of withdrawal claimed by Jesus when he knelt down and drew in the sand to wait for guidance before answering a trick question, my cousin’s wail of despair to God after her husband, a beloved minister, committed suicide. Let us not forget that there is also a dark night of the soul. The soul is more like quantum physics than Newtonian physics. Newton’s glorious gifts were formulas with reliable predictive power. The wide wonder of quantum physics is surprise. In this arena, a particle can blink out of existence at Point A and simultaneously reappear at point B without traveling the intervening distance. In the quantum world, energy and matter are connected throughinformationfieldsthatvividlydemonstratehoweverythingweknow—anddonotknow—is based upon relationships. Here is a paradox about the soul: While it is universally available, it is not cheap. It will cost you disturbing awareness, time for retreat into prayer and meditation, the challenge of living with questions, the courage to act upon promptings that cannot always be explained to family and friends, and a willingness to die to parts of an old identity and emerge from the goo as a transformed being. Anotherparadox:whileitisnotdata-driven,thesoulcanflourishingreaterrichnessthrough
The Soul Is Not Data-Driven
23
mental and spiritual discipline. If you do not believe that, study the lives of the religious geniuses who have emerged during the last two millennia. They were not slothful dolts. Forget the lyrics to rapper Kayne West’s song You Can’t Tell Me Nothing, or the sophomoric statement I once heard from a college student: “I’m smart enough to know that I can’t really know anything. End of story.” Such laziness, such certainty in the face of wondrous life, sounds like the so-called “unpardonable sin”—blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, a sin that is less about what we say than what we do not do. Every academic discipline reveals the soul if you bore deeply enough into its heart to feel its rhythms. At that point, research becomes a voyage of discovery; brain neurons make uncountable and unexpected connections; life becomes curiosity and, eventually, wonder. Strange, is it not? The more you know, the more you wonder. The more you embrace wonder, the wider the window for soul. Attention to soul is, or should be, one of the outcomes of a rigorous education. The soul is more like servant leadership than heroic leadership. Heroic leaders tend to seek satisfactionofegoneedsfirst—allforagoodcause,ofcourse!Servant-leadersseekservanthoodfirst—not behaviors of “providing service,” but an identity of servant that will generate behaviors appropriate for the situation. A top-down leader says, “Do it my way or hit the highway!” A servant-leader says, “Let’sseeifwecancollaborateandfigureoutthebestwaytodoitforallconcerned,includingtheorganization.” Some the best servant-leaders, like Robert Greenleaf, who articulated the idea for our time, are introverts, adept at the art of what Greenleaf called “systematic neglect” in order to retreat, release, renew and return. Some religious traditions speak of inanimate objects as having souls. Call me anthropocentric, but my own opinion is that we tend to confuse the spirit of a thing with soul. I well remember a July day in 1983 when I rode in the cab of a 100-year-old steam locomotive as it chugged a small train up a narrow gauge track to the top of a Colorado mountain. The graying engineer was in his element—calm, quietly joyful, in harmony with the machine, attentive to its slightest coughs and sputters. I’ve always believed that his deep understanding of the mechanics and spirit of the locomotive was an opening for lessons from his own soul. Likewise, when author Tracy Kidder chronicled the 1978 development of a computer in his Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Soul of a New Machine, the real evolution of soul was not in the new machine but in those who created it. All this soul talk is not to suggest that one should ignore data, refuse to set goals, decide that nothing is permanent, or generally discount the world as it is. Soul’s call is to be in the world but not of it. That should sound familiar. It comes from the same place that speaks abundantly of love. Love, like the soul, is not data-driven. It has its own logic. Paul’s soaring statement in I Corinthians 13 offers a counter-cultural model of the loving capacities of our deepest nature: love is patient, kind, trusting, hopeful, not envious, boastful, rude or self-seeking. Moreover, it keeps no record of wrongs. Contrast that last idea with the obsession in current American culture to keep count of everything, especially personal wrongs. Paul gives us patently impractical nonsense, the stuff of love. The stuff of soul.
The Soul Is Not Data-Driven (cont.)
by Don M. Frick
24
by Joni Williams
25
Of memories that stay of himAfter Dad has gone,Mine are those of Charlie’s hands:
Fingers wrapped ‘round milk bottle jars,Nicked up knuckles worked on cars,
Weathered hands, earth dirty and soiled,Planted trees, cut lawns, vineyard toiled,
Hands to aid in making a pun,Alsoheldafishingrodorgun,
In earlier days, gloved hands in a boxing ring, Where in later years, holding a hymnal to sing.
Hands upraised to make a point parental,Later cradeled a child in ways more gentle.
After Mom was gone, helping hands with generous waysGave meaning to long lonely days.
Stroke silenced talking made hands sayWhat he couldn’t any other way.
Hands hitched with a smile to a passerby,Reached out to nursing home people as they went by.
Hands always reaching out to help, up to hope,Ever taught that however worn and humble,Our hands are God’s too.
(For his funeral in July 1989)
Charlie’s Hands(A Memorial)
by William Best
26
Verse 1Time, won’t you take some time,Some time to clear your mindAnd leave it all behindAnd Wait, take some time to waitTake everything you areAnd lay it all downChorusIntheflickerofaninstantIn the shadow of a momentIntheflashingoftimeAs is passes byYou will see that you will need meIn every single momentAnd how important it isTo just let go…of all you knowVerse 2Sight give yourself some sightOpen up your eyesTake a look at your own lifeAnd Faith, have a little faithTake all of your doubtsand lay them all downChorus 2IntheflickerofaninstantIn the shadow of a momentIntheflashingoftimeAs is passes byYou will see that you will need meIn every single momentAnd how important it isTo just let go…of all you knowYou can see your breath before youAll is still as glass around youYou feel this exhilarationIn every breath you take
Time
by Cameron Bartlett
27
Oh, man… Dark alleys are never a good thing. Especially when an evil psychopath is chasing you with a loaded handgun. It’s not even my fault that I’m being chased. I can’t believe I even opened my mouth to defend that lousy, good-for— I haven’t had time to eat… A cheeseburger actually sounds really good right now… The cheese melting in my mouth, the ketchup dripping outside the bun because I put too much on, the taste of—
What was that? Oh a stray dog. He’s hungry, too. My dog’s a sheltie. He was the prettiest, smartest, most loyal dog in the world. I bet he’s at home warm and safe, unlike me. It’s cold and raining. My clothes are drenched. If I make it out of this alive, I’ll have to go shopping. I really need a new pair of—
Okay now I’m scared... It is way too quiet here… The silence is threatening to overwhelm me. My ears keep playing tricks on me. Maybe they aren’t really tricks. Maybe he’s just biding his time, playing mind games. This sucks like no—
Blue hair? Who even has blue hair anyway? What in the world would inspire you to dye your hair blue? Of all the colors in the world, blue? Really? This is not going—
Mylifeofficiallysucks.IfonlyIlivedinafantasyworld.Myknightinshiningarmorwouldbeshowing up right about now. But, no Prince Charming for me. Unless my attacker gives up, I’ll be stranded here. It’s like the ultimate hide-and-seek game. But the loser dies. Too bad I’m not much of a runner. And it’s raining so the pavement will be slick, so I’ll probably fall down a lot and—
What the heck? That dog still hasn’t found any food in that dumpster. Poor guy, maybe he’ll eat the attacker. Serves him right that good-for—
I quit. At least if I die, I won’t have to go to Chemistry anymore. That class just downright sucks. It’s so confusing! I hate it! Math rather sucks right now, too… It’s so close to summer, though… I can’t wait for summer! I’ll—
Wow, I’m tired. I guess I shouldn’t have stayed up reading all night long. Mom always said it—
Oh no! I should’ve eaten something! My stomach is going to give away my position. Yup, there it goes again. Stupid stomach. I hate you. But it’s my own fault for not eating anything at—
Ouch! Pain. Shooting through my leg. Dang, I’ve been hit. Can you not read? ‘Closed for construction!’ This really sucks, right in the calf—
“Come out with you hands up!”
Alleyway of My Dreams
28
Yeah,yeah.Isurrender.Whiteflagandallthat.Ireadoncethatifyoutearofstripsofyourclothesyoucan make a tourniquet… This would be good right about now so I don’t die of blood loss. However, death would be easy. I wouldn’t have to take that social studies test tomorrow… Or go to class ever again—
“I said come out with your hands up!”
But I don’t want to. I think I just want to lay here and go to sleep… No, can’t sleep. Sleep is bad… Who does he think he is? A cop or something? Maybe they’ll rename the calf after me. Kind of like Achilles. Greek mythology was always fascinating with the—
“I won’t hurt you.”
Sure sure, because it’s not like you already shot my leg or anything. I’m not stupid. Well sometimes I am. I guess we all are some—
“I won’t shoot again, I promise.”
Liar. There are so many liars in the world. You really don’t have to add to—
“Bree, seriously.”
Don’t call me that you good-for-nothing. Only my friends call me that. You are not my friend. Not at—
“I’m starting to get angry.”
No way?! You, angry? Never! Who would’ve thunk it. You’re so stupid—
Wait! I know some self-defense! Let’s see, if you shove the heel of your hand up someone’s nose it’ll force the bone into the—
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Yeah, yeah, you’ll huff and you’ll puff and you’ll blow my house down. Whatever, dude. Where was I? Oh yeah, self defense! A knee to the groin can possibly kill a guy if executed correctly and—
The ringing of my alarm is waking me. Oh. I glance over at the clock. It’s only 7:00 in the morning. I am safe in my bed, waiting for a new day of torture—I mean high school—to begin.
Alleyway of My Dreams (cont.)
by Britnie Jenkins
29
She lay there in her bed
She was alone
All those things she had done
Everything that had happened to her
All of it came down on her
Suffocating her
As if she had been standing
Inabeautifulbuildingadmiringitsmagnificence
When the ceiling fell down and the wall caved in on her
Suffocating her
She lay there dying inside
Feeling alone
“Oh God!” she cried out listing the troubles on her heart.
“Where are you now? Where have you gone?
Forgive me, Oh God, for all that I’ve done!”
She curled up in pain
She cried so hard the bed rattled and shook
Then she opened the book…
Then She Opened the Book
by Anonymous
30
A crime, they say. You'll be taken away.
Spend your years in lifeless decay.
Ambition partakes in passion below sky.
Construct your eternity from a lie.
Deny,
You still die.
Like pages falling from an open book,
You scattered. And since, you took
For granted the blood on your hands;
The life of a man you didn't understand.
Let logic hide reason like hours make wishes.
Time spent in remission, it still dismisses
You and your delusions of universal election.
And you may be special but you're still no exception.
Raw hands claw at the walls that trap you.
The last thing you wanted was the judgment you were due.
You didn't mean to.
You didn't mean to.
Sincerity
by Kelly Wolfer
31
Figures dance across the wallTrapping my wandering eyesPainted in sea foamBursting over the line of sanity-mystified-Glorious unspeakable wonders
Twirl for me shadowAcross my- broken- frosted heartGlazedIn crushed pixie dust
See my sweet sorrows drip down-heated-fillinginripsandstabsBroughtuponbyfigures-shadows-Painted in skinned roses
Warm shivers embrace meBouncing smiles off anotherAs I see you laugh and playAmidstthefloorlesssurface
Mending the rips and stabsLove my FatherLove his daughterBeautifulGlorious unspeakable wonders
Sweet sorrows meltRevealing scars-deep-
But you remind me of what’s to comeBouncing smiles off one anotherAs you laugh and playDownthefloorlesssurfaceGlorious unspeakable wonders
The Pearl is Beautiful
by Amanda Xydis
32
by Kelly Valentine
Antiqued Luster
33
ThefamiliarfeelingofthesoftsoiluponmyfingertipswasstrangelycomfortingasIranmy
thin pale hands through the rich dirt once again. It was warm and I could smell its earthy fragrance.
As my hands buried deeper into the soil, my soul seemed to come alive. Something about that soft
ground carried my mind far away; away to a happier time; a time when all of the earth seemed to laugh
and clap its hands in rhythm to my heart’s joyful dance. But my heart had been clothed in silence
and stillness of late. A soft sigh escaped my lips as my eyes wandered over the various bulbs that
were popping up through the fertile ground. Spring was supposed to be a time of life, renewal, and
hope…but I only felt cold inside. The soil that I was holding within my hands seemed to be my only
connection to the life that I once knew. It was the only thing that made me feel alive and free.
As my gaze came to rest on a purple iris, my thoughts immediately turned to her. I could pull a
picture of her face into my mind at any moment of the day. I could feel the warmth of her smile. I could
hear her gentle voice calling my name once again. She was summoning me into her garden, where her
purple irises grew… the ones that I viewed every spring day from my bedroom window. I could still
recall her eyes as she talked about them… they always sparkled with a wonder beyond words. She
knew my delights, desires, and heart better than anyone has ever known it. She knew what made me
laugh and made me cry. She knew everything about me; all of my secrets and dreams. In her arms as a
young girl, my heart felt safe and all the cares of the world would just melt away in her embrace.
Yes, she was beautiful and strong. But now she is gone. Her last breath was breathed in the
garden… this garden where I now sat. I glanced over at the wicker rocking chair where she would
always sit; enjoying the fresh air. She would tell me that the sunshine was good for her irises; that they
needed to soak it up in order to grow. Then she would say that, like the irises, her body needed sunshine
to heal. So there she would sit… often with her precious Bible open on her lap. I knew that the disease
was eating away at her body, but no matter how hard it tried, it couldn’t kill that radiant light in her
eyes. She would sit there underneath the spotted shade of an old cottonwood tree and quote the psalms,
pausing every now and then to look up and admire her beautiful purple irises. Even though her strength
wasfadingfast,stillsheinsisteduponkneelinginhergardentotakecareofherflowers.“Thewarm
soilmakesmecomealive”shewouldsaywhileflashingajoyfulsmileoverhershoulder.
Purple Irises
34
I glanced at my hands which were now very buried in the soft soil. How long I had been sitting
there, I did not know. Being in my mother’s garden again after a year’s time had passed seemed to
awaken new thoughts and memories that I had long tried to put to rest. Last spring, as the purple irises
bloomed, my mother’s strength returned along with them and for awhile, all looked hopeful. But then,
one bright summer day, her heart quietly faded away along with the wilting petals of her precious
purple irises.
A tear abruptly hit the soil where my hands were buried. “If only her irises would have bloomed
for a few more months perhaps she would have found the strength to hold on” were the words that
foreverplaguedmygrief-strickenmind.Iraisedmyeyesandagainfixedmygazeonthosehardy
flowers.Theywerebackagainthisspring,butshewasnot.Ithardlyseemedfairthattheywould
continue to bloom without her here to take delight in them. I gently picked up a purple petal that had
fallen to the ground and held it tenderly in my hand. Tear drops washed it clean of dirt until it was a
brilliant shade of purple. Suddenly, a passage from Ecclesiastes echoed in my mind:
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born
and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear
down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance… He
has made everything beautiful in its time.”
I held the soft purple petal against my cheek as fresh tears watered the soil where I sat. They
werenottearsofheart-wrenchingsadness,buttearsofbittersweethope.Forthefirsttimesinceher
death, my heart was at peace. A small smile found its way onto my face as I realized that God had
orchestrated my mother’s seasons of life in the same way that he had orchestrated the growing seasons
ofherflowers…herpreciouspurpleirises.
Purple Irises (cont.)
by Emily Zerger
35
In the middle of my living room one day A tree began to grow,
and spread its branches everywhere I sat or slept or ate.
I liked the treebut found it always in my way--- for wherever in my home I went
the tree was sure to grow.
Itgrewintomykitchenfirstandspreaditsbranchesuptofind
my scrambled eggs and I. It poked a twig into my coffee
and twirled itself around my forkandfingerswhileIate.
It grew into my bathroom next and curled around the toilet bowl. It dipped its branches in my tub
and sniffed and poked around in therebetween my duck and coffee cup and soap.
Andfinallyitsrootsbrokethroughthe mattress of my bed
and curled and grew and twirled around my body while I slept.
And when I woke I found myself entangled up and bound:
my roots and hersnow one.
I love the treebutfinditalwaysinmyway---
for wherever in my life I go the tree is sure to grow.
The Tree in the Middle of My Living Room
by Mark Watney
36
“Brian do you think you should be playingthat guitar? It's kind of expensive.”I don't know.What is a guitar if it is not played?Can it any longer be called a guitar?No, it is merely an instrument.When a guitar ceases to be played,To call it a guitar is an insult to all true guitars.
For a guitar is an extension of the soul,And with no soul to be grounded on,It is nothing more than pieces of wood.
When I look at a guitar, its monetary value is farthest from my mind.Instead, I see its beauty, and I long to share it.Ifmyfingerscantouchitsstrings,thenwearebothmuchhappier.It becomes a part of me, and I, a part of it.
I love all guitars equally.When I picked on that Taylor, I experienced the same joy as playing my father's beat up and ancient guitar from a garage sale.The quality of craftsmanship is of the least importance.Just as two humans can increase each other's beauty in love, a man or woman can make love with a guitar and become something that transcends both.
Even a novice can transform when doodling on a guitar.However wretched the notes may sound to a trained ear,The shift from guitar and man to guitar-man occurs,And with that shift, the beauty will emerge.
If your guitar is injured, it can surely be repaired.A broken fretboard may hurt, but like a broken heart, with some work, it will mend.And if your guitar dies, then maybe, it was its time.It's better to love than to cower at what may come of that love.You who claims to be a musician but will not love your guitar,You who claims to be a musician but is diligent to notes on the page,You don't understand.You don't know music at all!
Leave the brain out of it!Music comes from the heart.Music comes from the soul.
Guitars Should Be Loved
by Brian Allen
37
I am amazed how noisy I am.But this is only possible to know through silence.The clink of a spoon against my teacup,sounds like the gong of Big Ben.How much noise surrounds me in life?The noise of cars pealing past.The roar of planes screaming overhead.The crash and boom at building sites.Are these the sounds of progress?Heck no!But there are other sounds.These are the sounds of life.They can be pleasant to the earor they can be annoying to bear.But they are real.The sound of children playing or bickering.Thesoundofneighbourschattingorfighting.The sound of babies nursing or crying.The sound of dogs walking or chewing.Then there are the sounds of nature.These require a more acute sense of hearing,because they are so often drowned out.These are the sounds that we have forgotten.They are the backdrop of life, there but missed.The whistle of a bird,the rustling of squirrels in the leaves,the swooshing of a heron’s wings,crickets chirping,rabbits hopping,leavesflapping,trees creaking.But then there is the sound which is hardest to hear of all.It is the voice muted by the noise we have created without
Noise
and the noise we’ve created within.This is the voice of the Father.This voice speaks from behind the backdrop.He does not compete for our attention.He does not alter His volume.He seems to be heard bestwhen our hearts are at rest.
by Craig Smith
38
A man half a world away,A man much smaller than I,Mounts a tank to defyIt’s crushing, murderous ways.He stares into its tiny slited eyes.
It halts!Persons protected inside speakTo a braver heart than theirs…One willing to be smashed soOthers can be free,One caring not for life nor limb,But only that hate not win.
Finally,The stranger climbs down,The tank rolls on andAll is as it was before.
But for a moment,Hearts meet hearts,Projectiles of love easilyPierce the metal of hate,And I, half a world away,Am one with them.
(6-6-89 On watching TV pictures of a Chinese student mount a tank in China)
Man on a Tank
by William Best
39
I do not know you.But I see you skin deepand your tone is testimony enough.Astrangetonguesimplyservestoconfirmdifference.I feel difference is dangerous.More of you means less for meand I earned this, while youroot away at the fertile soil of our prosperity like feral pigs.We will not tolerate this invasion.We’ll keep vigil, so ante up;dare to come you tired and poor masses;these open arms we bear express no welcome, onlydeathfor crossing a line drawn in the sand with wire and disgust.When did diversity become a threat, a weakness?How did Homeland Security turn carte blanche for hatred?Why has such daft conviction swept this nation?Ignorance is the true invader, a terrible diseaselike some paradoxical amnesiathat grants those but a few generations removed from the strugglea sense of belonging, of establishment.Pilgrims’ regression, sod houses turned stonecoldmarbled halls mock the marbled meat cut each daycarving a niche we conveniently ignore, butno home.No room for abiding; forced to hide, to migrate, to separateso long as we can enjoy strawberries in winter.This sweet land of liberty is soured with bigotry,a melting pot of mutts drunk with some phantom scent of puritychasing the wind.And now I must claim ignorance.I do not understand why this land cannot be yours and mine and theirs as well;why pursuing a better life is met with bitter reproachand the letter of law meant to uphold freedomtakes form as a fence.If this is my country, then I have been made a stranger.I feelI do not know you.
Alien
by Seth Svaty
40
by Britnie Jenkins
41
He made his mark on the untouched snowThat masked the ground and everything so.The sky showed no stars until away from the lights of the city,The streets that held onto his safety,But his feet betrayed his senses.He hurried through alleys with no caution.Freezing he found the sudden change in temperature,A cold that only a dark alley could muster.
Nofearwasnearuntilvisibleadarkfigureinthedistantmist.Correction,darkfigureswerevisibleinthedistance.
He acted as fast as a saint could act in the other direction,But only found another crowd at the end of the section.He turned around, and nothing was found.He hurried forward, and noticed an increase in sound.His own breath kept up with the patting of the ground.His own feet were not the only feet bound. They shouted at the sky, “Why so late out at night!”He replied into a jog, into a race to the light,But was discontinued by a man out of air.He was surrounded, in no state of care.A long night it’s been for the priest.He cursed his car in a thought so brief.“Look what we have here,” they remarked in surprise,“One of God’s own but in disguise,”
He circled now, and put up with their joking gestures.
Dizzied up, but caught their apparel.
Theirhairwaslikeflowersandskinlikesnow,
Forever Granted Pt. 1
42
Their faces clean cut, perfected bones.
They’re ghosts he said in his mind.
“We’re not ghosts,” one of them declined.
His mind isn’t even safe he thought.
Pleading now just kill me and leave me here to rot.
He was dumbfounded as he listened with no mind to escape.
They interested him in a way the night could only appropriate.
The man breathed to speak, “Do you know what we are?”
They traced his fear, and couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re a gang,” he tried not to stutter,
But the cold made his teeth chatter.
They laughed and in a more serious manner replied, “Worse,
We’ll get you home alright,” the man assured.
The snow, once pleasing, ceased to be.
They all howled and grinned as the man stepped with glee.
His eyes, calm as the night, said do your best.
The man ripped at his neck as he fought for breath.
Without defeat he clenched his teeth,
Then shook the man, but did not succeed.
His night conscience kicked in and gave way.
The ground fell to his knees, then snow to his face.
Forever Granted Pt. 1(cont.)
by Jesse Kagarise
43
There’s something to be said about saying something that’s worth anything
Today there just isn’t a day when anything worthwhile has any worth
I’ve spent my time spending time doing things, time after time
I’vefoundmyselffindingmyselfnowheretobefound
We are full of emptiness
Wehavenothingfulfilling
There’s a road which will lead to road after road
We walk where people have walked before
We’re stumbling upon stumbling blocks
We’re falling upon the fallen
We are full of emptiness
Wehavenothingfulfilling
Inthehollownessofourfulfillment
In the grandeur of being nowhere
In the eloquent words worth nothing
In the gold that is all dross
Ineverything,wearetossedinthefire
Along with all our things
The things, they burn away
The people, they stay another day
The dross is all removed
And now we’re approved
Willwefighttostaythewayweare?
Or will we let ourselves get caught behind bars?
Fight for consciousness.
Fight For Consciousness
by Joseph Powell
44
Ancient home—Jaded, worn.Earthen curse—Thistle, thorn.Oaks fall.Apples rot.Leaves wither.Summer’s hot.Imperfection—ConsequencesOf rebellion,Guilt, offenses.Cruel truthOf dire placesSeen in angry,Spiteful faces— Acrimony,Indignation,Toward the LoveOf all creation.Giant God,Emanuel,Redeem today.Make it well.Make it well.Return today.Make it well.Have Your way.
Make It Well
by Gentry Sutton
45
I took it all for granted.
It seemed so easy then.
I’m looking at a scene that I’ve seen
Time and time and again.
Why did they make this clip so long?
They should have known that I
Was going to get sick of watching
It each time I die!
I just got another game over.
This game is so unfair.
If I see those two harsh words again
I might rip out my hair.
It really wasn’t me this time.
The game just must have glitched.
I would have beaten Bowser
Ifmyfingerhadn’ttwitched.
I’ve tried so hard to get a life
But1-upsarehardtofind.
I wish I could start over
But this thing ate my last quarter.
If Mario would do his job
Maybe my eyes wouldn’t leak.
Game OverIf Donkey Kong is really that strong
Why is his performance weak?
Sonic should collect my pain
‘Cuz it’s like an endless ring.
It’s even more annoying
Than Link’s stupid fairy thing.
I’m like that guy from Ski Free.
This downhill never ends.
Unless I’m eaten by that weird
Evil snowman guy.
It seemed that all along
I was on top of my game.
But when did my big toe
Become a vital spot?
If thos civilians didn’t want to die,
then their moves were poorly planned.
They shouldn’t dart around corners
when I’ve got a weapon in my hand.
Why in all creation
were they in this seedy joint?
It’s their own fault that they got shot
and I lost karma points.
by Paul Brecht
46
by Kelly Valentine
All Seeing Eye
47
Once upon a time there lived a stone. It was a small stone, smooth and round and grey like lead. It lived in the desert with its friends, the sunbeam, the sand dune, the cactus, and the breeze. These friendslookedwithpleasureontheirfriendwholentfirmnesstotheirworld.Thesunbeamwarmeditsbody. The breeze encircled it with love. The sand dune made a bed upon which it could sleep, and the cactus stood watch by its side.
One day, a strange creature came into the desert. It was not hard, like the stone, nor soft, like the sand. It was hard AND soft, and hairy, like the cactus. It carried a sunbeam in its eyes and a breeze on its lips.
“I am hungry,” said the Creature. “Give me food.”
“I have no food,” replied the sunbeam. “But I will warm you with the beams of my light.”
“I have no food,” replied the sand dune. “But I will make a bed so that you may sleep.”
“I have no food,” replied the breeze. “But I will circle your days with the breath of my love.”
“I have no food,” replied the cactus. “But I will stand watch over you and protect your sleep.”
“I have no food,” replied the stone. “But I will be a pillow for your head.”
“I am a MAN!” replied the Creature. “I cannot live on sunlight and sand. I will provide my own pillow. I will be my own guard. Soft sleep, the breath of love, these things I don’t need. What you are is not enough. A man cannot live by this alone. Give me Bread.”
“We have no bread to give you. We are but a stone, a sunbeam, a sand dune, a cactus, and a breeze.”
“You!”, the Creature said, pointing to the stone. You are the size of bread. You are round like bread. You will be my food. You will be my bread.”
“I cannot be your bread. I am a stone. I am solid to stand the test of time. I am a foundation for footsteps. I am a shelter for the ground. I am a roof for insects and a perch for birds. I am strong and hard and do not bend. I am a stone. I can be none other.”
“I have a need!” growled the Creature. “How dare you defy my need, or the needs of my people. We are the Sons of God. Created in his image! We have been given dominion over you, oh small one, and you shall be my servant. Feed my needs, oh small one. Stone, I remake you. You are now …. BREAD.”
Where the cool round stone had sat, there lay a small loaf of grey brown bread. The creature picked it up and tore it in half. Devouring it quickly, it walked away.
The sunbeam, the sand dune, the cactus, and the breeze mourned the death of their friend and wondered why a creature was not permitted to be that which it had been created to be – a simple stone.
A Parable about Power…
by Anne Smith
48
All the pain
The deep gut wrenching, heart breaking pain
Hearing the knock on the door
Hearing her dad beg for a peek at her body’s “progression”
Not knowing at eight years old what was happening
Not knowing that dad’s don’t normally ask their daughters these questions about her body
Junior high hearing her brother say that this is what guys want from you
Hearing her mom say no on but your dad is allowed to touch or look at you
High school, walking around the corner hearing her best friends saying horrible things about her
Wanting to disappear every day
No one would miss her
No one really cared
At home before college
Feeling like nothing she did was good enough
Being brought down so low she couldn’t feel anything
College, not caring what happened
Why should she?
No one had cared about her
God had abandoned her
Even he didn’t care
Sitting in chapel pushing that little voice away
“If I give you my dreams, will I get them back?”
That one question made her heart of stone melt
All the walls and barriers came crashing down
How many times would he put her through the unbearable pain?
But it wasn’t over yet
Why Me
49
Being so angry and not wanting to feel the pain
She attempted to drink it away
Losing her virginity to a man twice her age
While her best friend stood by and watched
Being the booty call for all the guys
Finally giving in and thinking well everyone thinks of me as a whore so I might as well give them
something to talk about
Trusting the wrong people
Feeling the pain over and over again
Not knowing who to talk to
After God put her through this
Why would he care about her pain?
Watching people around campus
So full of love and joy, faith and God’s light
Wondering how she got so far gone
How she got so lost
How had she turned so far from God?
Lord forgive me
Help me forgive those who have hurt me and caused me this pain
I want to be yours
I want to do your will
Here I am Lord, take me
Take my all
Everything I am I give to you
Here I am, take me
Why Me (cont.)
by Lydia McKinley
50
No one really knows what it’s like to be a KingThey see the suit, the podium, the mic, and my face in Time MagazineBut if I’d written that articleThey’d know that I’m a martyr for what I believeBut God I’m tiredSo as I collapse to my kneesTempted to ask You to remove this cup from meFor fear of indigestion‘Cause ev’ryday I questionLord, why did You choose me?Then decide to use me?‘Cause instead of writing these speeches and sermonsFrom which it seems no one is learningI’d rather be home with my wife, servin’Her, who’s been with meThrough more than most knowAnd more than she’ll show‘Cause some of the seeds that I sowDon’t always sprout unending love and devotionShe needs me and wants me, but I just go through the motionsGod, she deserves moreAnd those four little kids whom I adoreIt breaks my heart to leave them behindOn the road night after nightWanting to tuck them in, but never making it back in timeGod, I’m tiredI feel like I’m on a mission to nowhereWhen my brothers and sisters get sprayed by hoses and attacked by dogsDo you think they care?I remind them that you want us to love those who persecute us
Kings Get Up
51
But what about justice?‘Cause when that man spit on my baby girlMy theology went out the window, I hated himForget the rest of the world‘Cause God, I’m tiredNo one really knows what it’s like to be a KingThey don’t know I have feelings and sometimes I’m meanI wish they’d take me off the pedestal‘Cause I only operate under the shadow ofThe AlmightySoGod,beforeIgiveupthisfightI want You to know that I just mightQuitIt hurts to be rejectedWhen your standards are ejectedFrom the hearts and minds of menHow did You do it, Lord?Will You walk me through it, Lord?I hear Your Spirit reminding meTo whom much is given, much is requiredSo while I’m complaining about being tiredYoubecametheultimatesacrificeAnd without thinking twiceYou did it for loveSo now being refocused on the things aboveI give You meMake my life Your ministryAnd after having all these feelingsAnd feeling all these thingsI can’t even imagine how it was for You,The King of all Kings.
Kings Get Up (cont.)
by Adedrea Chaney
52
The past seems as distant
As a ripple that's reached the next continent.
The color is gone. Not even a pigment
Remains. Its passing I won't lament.
The future's lost inside a fog.
Things aren't want I'd expect.
But it isn't lost. It's only changed,
And it's up to me what happens next.
A Metamorphosis
by Brian Allen
A muse bemused is heWhen asked to workWhen he’d rather shirk.
“I thought,” began the poet inside,“That I’d beget words when I wantAnd not when I’d rather not.”
A wiser muse, amused at this, advised,“Success comes sweeter to savorTo those in discipline labor!”
(8-1-77)
A Muse Bemused
by William Best
53
by Brian Allen
by Krisi Metzen
54
Today I looked out at their facesand tried more than usual to seeifthereflectionreturningwas all I thought it would be.Already it’s springand it’s lateand I wonderHave I taught?Have they learned?Can it be…?So quickly they’ll walk from this classroomSometorun,sometofly,sometocrawlAnd I ask that same hard questionHave I made any difference at all?Have I left any fragment of wisdomHave they seen the love God has asked me to share?Have they learned that the road will be bumpyand narrow and hardand joyful and tearful and rare?Have I broken the word you’ve entrustedand fed them faithfullycrumb by crumb?Will there be peace in my heartwhen I send themwith a prayer that your will has been done?Yes, it’s spring, LordAndIfindsomecomfortAs each fragile blossom I seeThat in your world I am but a servantand their futures are not left only to me.
One Last Look
by Katherine Glynn
