Metamorphoses ‘96

Editorial Board: Erik Aikin

Josh Benson Diana Mulvihill

Adivsers:

Carol Hewer Paula Jones Rick Rivera

Graphic Design/Printing:

Diane Mourton Bill Surgett

Typist:

Elaine Tibbitt

Cover Artist: Daryl Myers

Darwin Falls You will see a stream snaking along in the rippled sand. A hundred feet from where it disappears into the ground is a rusted iron gate. This lone, ancient sentry guards the entrance to Darwin Falls. Follow the trickling water into the mouth of canyon. You will walk in ancient, dry riverbeds dotted by tumbleweeds. Look down and notice the stones fallen from a weathered rainbow as the sand crunches beneath your feet. On both sides of you will be rugged, granite walls rising hundreds of feet high piercing the bright, turquoise sky. A lone cloud will hang fat in the clear expanse above your head. Watch as he floats upon the soft currents in cottony bliss. A solitary raven will soar above you into the cloud. After bursting through the other side, trailing wisps of cirrus, it will land on a boulder a few paces away. As you follow the bird's gaze toward the water-worn paths, you will notice the canyon narrowing. Admire his oil slick plumage and go onward into the ravine. As the jagged canyon walls narrow in, the creek will become larger and louder. Gurgling replaces trickling, mud succeeds sand and cool breezes will rustle through the cattails which sprout into your view. These water reeds hold at the end of their long necks tightly packed seeds which explode into a million soft airborne travelers when pried away by the wind. The air here is moist, and a refreshing breeze will blow, cooling you, drying the droplets of perspiration and enticing you deeper into the dreamy atmosphere. Coming around the corner you will find an aged woman resting upon a slab of dark granite. She has thick, reddish hair curled close to her head, slate blue eyes and the spirit of the owl. She is a forest dweller and will have much wisdom to impart but you must be willing to tell her where you came from and where you are going. She and her husband are travelers with the passing of the seasons and are on their winter migration to the desert. This woman will tell you of other places of beauty and to beware of the wild burros which inhabit the canyon. Her husband has just returned from the falls. Talk to him of the rain, then go on. Buried into the canyon, the trees are low and twisted as if a large piece of glass covered the entire sky twenty feet above you, crushing them. The branches are intertwined and hanging down, seemingly grown to aid the adventurer across its muddy floor. Dry bits of rocks peek out of the mud welcoming your feet, "Let us help you cross the slippery path" they smile, their faces peering out of mucky, brown beds. When you come upon the first falls you may see a water sprite flit off the pool at the base of the rock. Do not try and find her but remember her. Notice instead the rushing grace with which the water cascades down the wall in two streams, merging again into one flowing entity. Watch, from the tiny islands of rock you stand upon in the basin, the sunlight dance on the ripples of your scattered reflection. Listen to the swallows serenade the clouds. Breathe slowly here; let the aroma of life seep into your nostrils. The smell of growth and decaying leaves nourishing those alive will permeate your senses. Think of

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the cycle of life, the natural order. Realize the comfort of death when it comes, but now you are alive. Stay for another moment to absorb the energy of life which floats on the breeze. Now you are ready to go on. Look up to the cliffs, a hundred and fifty feet of granite stoically emerging from the rocky floor. How small you will seem. But begin to climb, for there is more yet to conquer my friend. The rock opens up to your grasping hands and feet to help you ascend. Crags, crannies and crooks are abundant so soon you will be far from all ground and have only the mountain to hold onto. Higher up you may become careless and kick loose heavy stones. They will careen down the mountain knocking others free and fall for what seems an eternity. After watching them and realizing they could have been you, you will plaster yourself against the cold, granite face. You will cling, surging with adrenaline, until your avalanche has ended. You must breathe deeply before continuing and not again be heedless of the power of the mountain. Feel the blood pump through your body, the tense readiness of your muscles as you hike upwards into the sky. Here the wind blows without trees to catch it and whispers of the taste of freedom. You can feel as you grow nearer to the sun and it soothes with its rays of warmth. The breeze cools you. Stop halfway and look down. See where you have come from, how far it is now above the canyon floor. Glowing accomplishment radiates from your grin. Continue up the rocky wall with care and you come to a beautiful perch above swirling pools of Big Darwin Falls. The waterfall itself is about a hundred feet long and only a single foot across cut out of the canyon. Put down your pack and take a deep breath. Before you go to the edge of the rock, take another deep breath. For on this edge looking out you will see where the water flows. Down, down, down where the water flows. There is a huge boulder at the base pool and the water hurtles unscathed around it, through rocks and into tinier pools, converging again beyond the trees. It is dizzying to remain there long. Lean back against the smooth, cool granite and look up into the vastness of the sky. Close your eyes and listen to swallows' song tell stories of the water's journey from the high mountains as snow. Open your eyes and search the cliffs for tales of great floods and winds etching away at their face to create the desert. Christie Scott

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Time Lines Bob Blair

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Poetry Poetry is… wonderful enchanting beautiful moody just like a woman (at least like a woman a few days out of the month) Poems…

take out the vowels and you have PMS

Raynne Zurn

Truck A truck ran over my foot today it was the same truck that ran

over my foot yesterday and the day before that.

There are signs that warn me about

this truck, but I ignore them and every day I step off the

same curb and get my foot run over by the same truck.

You would think that I would learn

my lesson, but haven't, not yet and it is not as if I enjoy having my foot run over, no not at all.

It is not my fault. Don't you see,

the truck should stop. I yell every day, but it runs over my foot anyway.

So again and again this truck will

run over my foot until I decide to go another way.

Raynne Zurn

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Lori Ann Guerrieri

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Bridget

One- Two- Three and ever upward I plodded, each step resounding like the toll of a bell. As I reached the third-floor bedroom, the air assailed my senses with its rancid venom. It was even worse within. My grandmother's comatose body lay upon an orthopedic bed she would have vehemently refused --given the chance. I moved beside her, taking a seat in a simple wooden chair, forcing away thoughts of odor, decay, and death. My comfort was nothing of importance now, only hers mattered. I took her translucent, blue-veined hand in mine. Whereas my hand was warm and slick with anxiety, hers was cold and claw-like. I held back hot tears, taking it all in. Her face was sunken --wan skin stretched over bone, tangled wisps of hair splayed over sealed eyes. Halting, ragged gasps escaped her blue-tinged lips, occasionally interrupted by deep moans that signaled her continued battle. I pitied this gentle soul that she must go through such pain, such agony. I cursed her "god" as uncaring --and perhaps myself as well. It had been a year since our last parting and this weak form before me held not a candle, wick, nor bloody flame to Grace "Bridget" O'Heyne! "Hello!" Bridget reached out, touching and holding a woman's arm. It was the thousandth time she had stopped to greet someone on this cloudless Thanksgiving morning --at least it seemed that much to this eleven-year-old. "Hi, Bridget. How are you?" the woman inquired. "Just fine," Bridget replied, then winked. The conversation turned then to the woman, her family, work and oilier mundane topics. Finally they were done and we entered our traditional brunch-time restaurant. Everyone greeted my grandmother by her nickname --Bridget. Her table --the one she had sat at from time immemorial --was held with a "reserved" note. And, of course, Bridget knew both waiter and waitress. Everyone seemed to know, and like, Bridget. In another room, a dish crashed to the wood-planked floor, followed by a curse and an apology. Then a man's enraged voice erupted, spewing forth insults and words I was already very familiar with but forbidden to voice. Bridget excused herself, only the tightness of her lips betraying her thoughts. I followed a moment later. Bridget moved slowly, leaning slightly on her shillalah. The sun glinted off her hair and brooch --one purest white and the oilier a dazzling rainbow of colors. She pulled up the sleeves of her emerald green sweater and briefly fingered the Celtic cross adorning her neck, approaching the enraged man and his unlucky waitress.

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"Excuse me," her lilting voice could have passed for the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. Both opponents paused. Then Bridget laid a hand upon the man's arm and spoke softly. Bridget was easily a foot shorter (coming in at just over five feet) than her Cro-Magnon adversary. She talked so as to assuage a wee one just out of the crib, but to no avail. The "giant" began cursing anew, and then the battle was joined. Bridget's eyes went wide while her lips drew into a single line. Her back straightened and the shillalah was forgotten. Fists on hips, Bridget let fly a scolding so harsh (and true) that it seared every ear within hearing. The effect was instantaneous. The man who had been fuming like an overdue volcano just moments before apologized to both women, even touching lips to my grandmother's hand. Perhaps she was part leprechaun, a trace amount of the little people's essence flowing through her, as she had often joked when I was a wee lad. The storm gone as quickly as it came, we both finished our meal. And when the man prepared to leave he stopped at our table, once again apologizing. "I'll remember never to get your Irish up again!" were his parting words, delighting the elfin-faced woman. Thanksgiving night. I found myself escorting Bridget to several homes, giving some of what we did not need to those who did. After a torturous march over high roads, low roads, and many miles (my feet screaming in agony), we came at last to the home of Brett, Jackie, and their daughter, Andrea. Jackie answered Bridget's gentle rap, cautiously cracking open the weathered door. Jackie's eyes were red rimmed. Somewhere within the dim recesses of her home, Andrea tried to cloak her sorrow. We brought in our surprise -- two home-made pumpkin pies. Andrea emerged, her mother's woeful expression mirrored on her teenage face. Bridget embraced them both, a Cheshire-cat grin foreshadowing the revelation of the pies. Then we sat. They sat. They talked, we listened. It seemed years, but was only hours that we listened to the verbal accostment recounted by mother and daughter, as unleashed by the husband- father. The pain was so real, so raw. When at last we left, I felt better than I ever had. So did Bridget. She told me then that it is not the reward that is sweet, but the deed that is savored. I didn't figure that one out until years later, when she gave me a book -- Le Morte D'Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory.

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There were numerous more hours spent listening and comforting people with various troubles. Then, a year before her coma, my wife and I visited Bridget. She had just lost her husband a few months before. And her daughter a year before that. Bridget seemed more stooped, as if a heavy burden now rode upon her shoulders. The light had died from her eyes. She frowned much too often. I stayed up with her late one night. Now she talked and I listened. She seemed the better for it, and we promised to keep in touch. We hadn't. I wasn't at the house when she died, when the banshee came to take her to Tir-na-nog, "The Land of Youth" -- as was her belief. That day there were four "remembrance" letters printed in the local paper. At her funeral, two eulogies were held to accommodate the overflow crowd, as "Amazing Grace" was played in the background.

C.V. Dreesman

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In Good Hands Cori Karnos

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Friends Pleeease! if you've any decency at all,

you 'll turn away and not let me see

your desperation. (I've been kind enough to save you

from learning who I am

and what I need. ) Thank you so much.

Where were we? Oh, yes --

How are you? I'm fine.

Susan Hook What If What if the entire universe that we

think we know is only a speck of Somewhere Else?

What if these galaxies --all we conceive--

are just a common ailment Somewhere Else?

What if as we strain to imagine the vastness

a cure is being discovered Somewhere Else?

Susan Hook

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Birchim Lane A canopy of cottonwoods

pushing their toes under the softened asphalt.

Light spatters through the leaves and drips sunshine on tall roadside flowers.

The soft grey-blue of the Sierra wall looks cool against a shimmering sky.

Hushed, except for a small rustle in the dry weeds next to the road.

The warm rich smells of manure and wet grass. Sleepy afternoon.

Susan Hook

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Stan Thummel

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My Brother Niki Since birth, Niki had always been different from his five sisters and two brothers. His complexion was darker, almost black. His head was slightly bigger than normal. His right leg was a tad shorter, and his foot would make a sweeping motion causing an interruption in his stride when he walked. His build was solid, accentuated with muscles, evenly distributed throughout his frame. Niki did not mind the fact that he looked different from the rest of the family. He resented it when the village bully teased him about his appearance. It was the event of the day when Niki stood up to the bully. Niki delivered a powerful punch to the bully's stomach. The sound of impact was a loud thud followed by a silent grunt. The boy curled over with both hands embracing his stomach. With the speed of lightning and with all his might, Niki threw another punch on the side of the boy's head. The statement Niki made that day was that he was not afraid of anyone and he would not be intimidated either. He was fearless. Niki had an inventive mind. The sky was the limit to his imagination. He would spend hours carving images out of wood. He also enjoyed making automobile toys out of empty cans by cutting, flattening, and reshaping them. One of Niki's fascinations was with water, inspired by his father, a plumber. Our backyard was always full of holes and trenches that Niki would fill up with water while manipulating and mapping its flow by adding tangents and dams. Niki was always very daring. He tried to prove to his younger brother that he was invincible by consuming a rat. He roasted the rodent, hair and all, on hot coals until it was crispy. The aroma wafting from this thing was very much like barbecued chicken. Niki would roll his eyes in his head, making "hmmm" sounds whenever he took a bite of his meal. My baby brother felt sick watching Niki enjoying the meat of a filthy, trash-eating, sewer-loving creature. Niki was inquisitive. He learned, at a very young age, the names of the different vegetation in my mother's flower garden, including my father's plantation. He expanded his knowledge into studying their flowers and berries. Occasionally, he would sample a berry or fruit from a tree that he was not familiar with. Niki's little friends brought some seeds for the botanist to determine whether they were edible. There was a nod of approval signifying the familiarity of the seed. He cracked one open, licked its pure white meat with the tip of his tongue and hesitated before he bit into it. It tasted very rich. It was like eating butter by itself. Within minutes, Niki's face showed signs of discomfort. His brows knitted while his questioning eyes probed his mind for answers to what was going on inside his body. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. One hand hugged his stomach while the other one reached out feeling his way as if he were in darkness. His head facing the ground in a repentant fashion, he stumbled to the nearest object for support. His panic-stricken body plopped on a pile of ashes like a sack of flour while his back and head slammed against

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one of the cooking hut posts. Niki's lips murmured inaudible words interrupted by an occasional desperate sigh. Color slowly drained from his face, robbing him of energy .His head lolled to the side, his upper body slumping to the ground submissively. With the last bit of energy, he pulled his knees close to his chest. Whimpering like a sick puppy, he lay in a fetal position, surrendering his life to the poison racing through his veins. It was then my mother scooped Niki's ash powdered body into her arms, which cradled him like an infant. At that very moment Niki felt confident that the poison had been defeated. That was one sampling Niki almost did not recover from. Niki had an insatiable desire for food. My father, quoting from the Bible, compared his son's appetite to "Land, which is never satisfied with water, and fire, which never says, 'Enough!" My mother was always concerned that Niki would eat all the eggs before she could raise enough chickens. It was mango season. The branches of our mango tree were weighted with kidney-shaped, green and ripe, orangy-yellow fruit, the size of a big Idaho potato. Niki decided to climb the mango tree for his share of the sweet nectar. He was getting ready to make his descent, after his craving had been satisfied, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw the biggest, ripest mango suspended from the tip of a branch above his head, enticing his sense of greed. He utilized the branch above his head by holding onto it with his right hand. He turned his upper body towards the left, his left hand stretched out the same direction as he gingerly walked to the end of the limb. Adrenaline surged through his being as he reached for the fruit, when snap, the limb that supported his weight broke. The vegetation beneath the tree could not offer enough cushioning to break Niki's fall. His child body lay limp and absolutely still. My brother went into a coma. My father knelt by his son's side, watching him through a black veil of grief. He cried while stroking Niki's cheeks with the back of his large calloused hand. He had a silent admiration for his son. My mother cried while she wiped invisible sweat off her son's forehead. My parents neither ate nor slept for two days after their son slipped away. They consoled each other's souls by fasting and1hrough incessant praying. They never left their son's side in fear that his body might disappear to wherever his mind was. On the third day, my parents' fervent prayers were answered. Niki opened his eyes, lifted his head and shoulders off his pillow, and supported himself with his elbows while he scanned the room. It was exhilarating for him to see the most important people in his life. His parents. Naturally, Niki requested food. It had been three days! Niki ultimately wanted to be a fisherman. Everyday, Niki and his little friends spent a couple hours fishing at the river. This particular day, like a young bird trying out its wings for the first time, Niki wanted to try his fishing skills where the big guys fished. He had out-grown the river. I rarely saw Niki cry or heard him ask for anything, but this day he did both. He pleaded and whined for me to take him. I deliberately disobeyed my mother, and gave in to Niki's frivolous wish. We grabbed our fishing poles and headed for the South Pacific Ocean. We walked in silence. My brother was too excited to talk, and I was concocting excuses in my head to appease my mother when we returned. Niki could hardly wait to get to the ocean. There was an urgency in his stride. The strip of cloth he had wrapped

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around his hips was flapping in the wind but he did not seem to care. It was low tide when we arrived. The sea water had receded fifty yards out into the reef, exposing a large area of bumpy, wet, black sand. What was once submerged under water was now vulnerable to the intrusion of all kinds of crawling sea creatures and curious people with their pets. We walked out to where the water was. After we carefully selected a perfect spot, our bare feet waded through the warm water stepping over colorful bouquets of sharp coral until we were at knee level. The wakes, created by the water crashing into the reef, felt like gentle massages over our legs and knees while we stood there fishing. Our bodies were insulated from the hot rays of the sun by a cool sea breeze. Niki would look my way periodically, smiling. His big brown eyes reflected sheer happiness. An eerie feeling crept over me. I looked around and noticed that the tide was coming in. The water level was no longer at our knees; it was at our waists. Niki knew it was time to head back to shore, and fast. I kept him close to me by holding his left hand in my right hand. With our fishing poles secured in the tight fists of our free hands, we aimed for safety . The sea water was rising fast. The gentle wakes became strong waves nudging and pushing us from side to side making it difficult to walk. We let go of each other's hand so we could swim, using the waves to push us along. Niki had fun surfing the waves. We were almost to safety when a gigantic swell caught up with us. It pushed us forward and pulled us down, head first, at the same time. I did a complete somersault before I realized what was happening. I struggled to the surface for air and looked for my brother. Our fishing poles floated by me in a circular motion, navigated by the current. Niki was six feet away from me. His little hands were frantically beating against the forces of the waves, trying to keep his head above the water. The angry waves continued to crash around us, encouraged by a strong wind. The current beneath Niki's feet was draining the energy out of his body. His efforts seemed futile. His hands gave in to exhaustion. The river that was a benediction to our village and had accommodated Niki and his friends was now in alliance with the sea creating a powerful whirlpool, and like a tornado, was carrying my brother away. I knew what I had to do. I mustered up all the energy I had left and started swimming to the shore. I yelled for help the entire time. Fortunately, one of the fishermen who was napping under the shade of a tree on the shoreline waiting for the tide to come in was awakened by my pleas for help. He stood up and ran towards me. I struggled to my feet, my body trembling with despair, pointed my finger to the location I last saw Niki, and in between sobs, told the man my brother was drowning. Without hesitation, he disappeared into the fury of the waves. When the man laid Niki's body on the ground in the shade, I saw that his skin had turned blue. His eyes were closed, his teeth whitish between purplish lips. His stomach was bloated, and he was not breathing. The child who was so lively chasing the crabs, stopping to watch the sea snails, shooing the sea gulls away, and picking up sea shells, was now lying in front of me engulfed by death. I was overwhelmed with tremendous fear. I was shivering uncontrollably from a chill deep within. My throat was paralyzed. A shroud of darkness blocking all sight and sound enveloped me. I negotiated with God

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saying that I would never miss any more Sunday school classes, disobey my parents, or fail to pray to Him ever, if He would restore my brother's life again. I reminded God that Niki was only the tender age of seven. Choking sounds snatched me back to reality. The fisherman had resuscitated my brother's life. Niki and I walked home, holding hands, in silence. I was anticipating the inevitable. My parents' wrath. Niki was grieving the loss of his fishing pole which he had made with his own hands. F. Sina Righthouse

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Jennifer Miller

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Foolish Woman Poems, Series of 13 Remember, I said she was foolish

1. Once there was a woman, who had a man who loved her, and only her, but she didn't believe him.

2. A woman thought it was wrong, to worship this man whom she worshipped. So she fed him, clothed him, and bore him children, teaching them also not to worship him.

3. A woman noticed a man, looking at her the way a woman likes to be looked at. Then she ruined it by not letting him know.

4. A woman had a beautiful daughter who fell in love, but the mother wasn't glad for her. When the daughter's first love faded, the mother wasn't sad for her . "Good," she said, "Now let me pick your husband for you."

5. A woman was beautiful only as long as she didn't think she was.

6. A woman found some love in her heart. She loved this love and nourished it year after year. She gave all her love to a dream man, a Viking's son who only knew how to take. She forgot how to make more love when he was gone.

7. A woman paid a lot of money for perfume that she didn't even like the smell of. It reminded her to be nice to people that she didn't like being with.

8. A woman waded in the foaming surf to her knees, careful not to get her hem, much less, her hair wet. But, she should have.

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9. A woman gave her children so much freedom they didn't think she cared about them.

10. A woman ate when she wasn't hungry and sang when she didn't want to sing, so she was never happy

11. A woman was afraid to get old, and tried very hard to stay young, which is too bad, because she missed out on being old.

12. A woman wanted, more than she'd ever wanted anything in the world, a beautiful yellow house. She cried on her bed all summer and drove by the house in the afternoons when her tears were dry.

It was for sale! At Christmas, her family drove around looking at Christmas lights and they drove by the yellow house, where other people lived and the woman began to cry and said, "Take me home."

13. A woman decided to get rid of her pot belly. So she stopped eating jelly doughnuts, cheesecake, and ice cream. Then her stomach was as flat as a pancake, I mean, griddle. But her bra was empty, and her girdle fell off. She put on a baggy dress to cover the saggy underwear and went out to a diner, where she ordered jelly doughnuts, cheesecake, and ice cream.

Martha Cox

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November Days “I love and treat all my children the same," my father would say with millions of frown lines scrunched on his forehead. His words sounded so sincere; however, my older sister and I were two totally different cases. This unfair treatment stripped me of confidence and left immense feelings of unworthiness. For instance, I will never forget one terribly cold November day when my dad, older sister, and I went to I<mart. When we arrived inside with our red noses along with static whirling in our hair, my sister asked if she could get a dress. I waited for the answer while scooting my feet back and forth on the shiny tile. Unexpectedly, he replied "O.K., go ahead and pick one out." I jumped up and down ecstatically, "I want one too." Not even the thought of anything but yes coming from his mouth crossed my 8-year-old mind (She could have asked for a bowl of frogs and I'd asked for a bowl also). A long drawn out sigh escaped his mouth. He looked at me with disappointment dancing in his eyes, then he said, "No, we better not get any dresses today." My sister, who never liked to be disappointed, glared at me with hatred as she began to bawl. Because I was so shy, I said nothing. But to this day I remember the shrinking feeling inside my body. When we went shopping for school clothes for years afterward, I always looked for the cheapest clothing I could find. I remember buying five oxford shirts at JC Penney's one school year because they were two for ten dollars, ( of course, they were the ones without the lions on them) while my sister picked out a variety of pretty clothing. It was all I felt worthy of. Then when I started adolescence, I thrived on trying to get attention and decided being the shy one was simply not fun. Therefore, I often dramatized, exaggerated, and went overboard. As I look back, the most memorable experience happened on another cold November day. Not only had I decided to move a state away, (although it was only a 30-minute trip, it was nevertheless a state away) but also I moved on Thanksgiving Day, directly after Grandma took the great smelling turkey from the oven. No one said much of anything. So one week later, after experimenting with marijuana, among a few other things, I walked into my new-found town and called my dad at 3:00 a.m. and said, "If someone kills me, it was Terry Young, but don't worry ." Click. That got their attention. My mom drove down to Arkansas the next day, and she showed up at the Waffle House, which was my newly acquired place of employment. I remember acting shruggish like I didn't give a hoot. But I did. These feelings of unworthiness also lingered with me into adulthood and almost cost me my life. It was my 20th birthday, (yet another November day --the 23rd) and I was at the Enlisted Club in Tennessee where I was stationed. Because it was a Thursday night, the D.J. was playing lots of Violent Femmes music. My friend Debbie and I roamed from table to table, getting drinks from people we hardly knew. Curfew was drawing near, but I decided to heck with it. I was going to stay out no matter what. I ran to the bathroom to hide from my friend who was trying to drag me to our barracks. The next recollection I had was when I woke up in a hospital bed with people all around me. A doctor looked down at me with the same disappointment 1 saw in my dad and asked me if I realized I had been only one beer away from being legally comatose. I remember thinking, "Comatose, what does that mean?" Since I couldn't recall, I laughed. Yet they had

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pumped my stomach. My friend came to visit me the next morning and upon seeing me cried. She said some of our mutual friends saw me in an ambulance, but they didn't recognize me due to the paleness and disfigurement. At that moment, I realized my worth. So what if my parents forgot to call and wish me happy birthday?

Sheila Perez

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All The News All The Time All the news all the time That's what the slogan says All the world's news in half an hour A promise that is kept While Judge Ito is in his chambers O.J. is in the can Clark and Shapiro are swapping tall tales But Kato swears he didn't lie Jordan throws a garden party And cashes in fifty-five Americans are imprisoned in Iraq For straying from their path A drug-induced suicide occurs In the heat of the night And female imitation bobcats Are released into the habitat A new cure for our social ills Safe effective and reliable The morning after pill Elton wins an Oscar Singing for the Lion King While spiders are on display Frightening little children Monarchs are leaving Mexico Winging to their summer palace As nerve gas floods the subways in Japan Russian satellites are falling from the sky The postal service coins a stamp Never forget the POW or MIA The Senate puts the brakes on No more compromises for today Our soaring national economy Is heading for a soft landing Big Boy is cut up with a hacksaw Criminal mischief from three men and a boy Baseball was out on strike But the Bruins win the final four Tax cuts for the filthy rich While poor kids starve at school D'Amato pokes fun at Judge Ito And now he's eating humble pie A contract with America Is a circus in the capital As they punch holes in the Constitution I say, No Newt is Good Newt Tony Jaime

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Michael Davis

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International Bloodlines Once, when I was in high school, a teacher who believed in reincarnation told me that in my past life I was an iguana. Although I did not believe in this rebirth of the soul, I found her conclusion about my past life quite interesting. My father had once told me that my grandfather would kill an iguana with a sling, slash its throat over a glass and then drink the blood while it was still warm; this was supposed to keep him vigorous and healthy. "As a matter of fact, he has never in his life used eyeglasses," I recall my dad saying. As it was, some mystical connection between my grandfather and me had been implanted into my inquisitive juvenile mind by a good natured teacher. For days and weeks to come, I could not let go of this thought and the feelings that came with it. Up to that time in my life, I had seen pictures of my grandfather, and known about some of his antics through my dad's stories, but I had never personally met him, which was something that I had always wanted to do. After some contemplation, I decided that I had to make the expensive trip and finally meet him. My opportunity to meet my grandfather came soon after my high school graduation; my dad was going to pay him one of his occasional visits and asked me if I wanted to go. Of course I wanted to go; I had to. As the day of travel drew near and I packed my suitcases in anticipation, I recalled the image of a photograph that my dad had once showed me. This photo depicted my grandpa at the tender age of seventy-five. There he stood with a tenderness in his eyes, yet a sort of strength came forward through his golden brown skin, high cheekbones and powerful slim posture, his Indian heritage. A white rancher's hat, which covered his white head of hair, a sparkling, silver nine-millimeter pistol held firmly in his grip, and the white fire that blazed from the weapon's nozzle seemed to want to dominate the image in the photograph, but my grandfather's heavy set, softhearted eyes defied these material symbols of force and strength, and brought forth in this picture the image of a good man, a strong man, a man. When the day finally came, my oldest brother Richard, who was actually born in my grandfather's village, drove us to the airport. Four hours later my dad and I were in a cab riding through the heart of Mexico City on our way to the city's major bus station. I had read somewhere that this giant city possessed some of the most beautiful architecture in the world, and it did. It certainly lived up to my expectations, at least from what I saw; our ride through the city was just too brief. I swore that someday I would return and spend more time there, more time to fully absorb and appreciate the aesthetic and cultural beauty that this great city had to offer. After a four-hour bus ride, which took us deeper into Mexico, the bus finally turned off the main road and followed into a descending dirt one. It was then that I caught my first sight of the village. It was located in a miniature valley, about the size of a large city block, and the village took all of its space; hence the village was small; it simply could not grow over the land that made the surrounding hills, land that was then reserved for

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what seemed like endless rows of corn. Standing out in the center of this palce was the church's steeple, which made this congregational gathering place the tallest structure in the village. After we stepped off the bus and made our way towards my aunt's home, I received my first authentic view of this place. The plaster covered adobe walls that made the villagers' homes were painted with bright and pastel blue colors in a method that I had not seen in years; the first bottom three feet of the walls were painted bright blue and the remainder a pastel one. Also, the narrow street that we followed was composed out of cobblestone just as I had imagined, but the street was empty, except for an onlooker or two who stood by their doors to curiously look at these two passing visitors. When we finally arrived at my aunt's modest but comfortable home, she joyfully and excitedly greeted us. "Where's Dad?" my father asked. "Oh, he's up with the mule minding the plot," my aunt Maria replied. "My eighty-year-old grandfather attending to a corn plot?" I thought. We went back outside and directed our attention towards my grandfather's plot in hope of being able to spot him, but the only thing we could locate was the white mule, which looked like the size of my thumbnail from where we were. We decided to go inside my aunt's home and wait for him to descend. Finally leading the large white mule, Grandpa showed up. M~ dad introduced us, and we shook hands. He gave a strong, firm handshake as he offered me a warm smile, a smile that grandparents seem to reserve for their grandchildren. As I stood there before him, I could see that he was tall; as a matter of fact, his back, in its old age, was rather hunched, but even then he was a few inches taller than I. We all sat down and my dad and granddad engaged in conversation. At one point, my dad pulled out from one of the suitcases a pair of size thirteen work boots that he had bought for his father, but when Grandpa tried them on they didn't fit; they were one size too small! The hours moved fast as I silently watched this father and son duo converse. Eventually, as the evening had clearly set upon us, my grandfather had to excuse himself. He had to leave because his girlfriend or common-law wife had been waiting for him to come home for quite some time now. As we saw him out and watched him walk up the narrow sidewalk, I could only watch in awe at the pace that he kept, a pace similar to that of a young bachelor who is on his way to see his gorgeous girlfriend, a fast one. "How can he walk so fast?" I thought, "He is eighty-years-old." Although my initial perceptions about my grandfather were somewhat out of proportion, my blood brother was, in a sense, everything I expected him to be and more. He just manifested himself in a different form, a more realistic one. My grandfather was not the gun packing cowboy who cantered on a white stallion like I had once imagined; he was a man who kept himself busy with his relationships, his plot, and his animals. Although I doubt that I can ever fill his shoes, I would still like to try to be very much like him. I would like to remain healthy, and I would like to be all the good things that this man was. Actually, I already possess one of his qualities, and that is the one of perfect vision, which ironically is just like that of an iguana.

Fernando Vargas

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Injustice; in “Justice” Joseph L. Gum II

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Powerless Some children have an innate curiosity about the inside of a jail cell. They fantasize about being locked up and escaping, playing cops and robbers, and locking up the "bad guys." I never had such desires, my childhood world being filled with horses, just horses. It didn't matter what kind; as long as the creature in question resembled a horse, I was satisfied. You can imagine my horror to live some children's fantasy of jail. I can still hear the sharp, loud clang of the steel door as it closed, my innocence stolen from me at the age of thirteen. At first jail was my salvation from the cruelties inflicted upon me by my dark-haired stepmother, who, surprisingly, was a psychology major. For the previous three days she had kept my sister, Pam, and me locked up in a small bedroom of her apartment. She had also confiscated our clothing. Naked we sat, my sister and I, for three days disallowed the humane courtesy of clothing. Even Adam and Eve were allowed clothing after they sinned; God himself tailored their garments. My stepmother wasn't God, although she professed to be an atheist. On the second day I began my period and was denied the materials to take care of myself. Instead I found an overlooked towel, and sat on its softness for the remaining two days. My dad didn't appear to be bothered by these events; he even drove us to jail and signed necessary paperwork after my stepmother returned our clothes at the end of the third day. I was brave at first and resisted the almost overwhelming urge to cry. Pam, however, wasn't disturbed by these events, and had an adventurous spirit towards this experience. Pam enjoyed herself so much that she nonchalantly added her name to the multitude of other names on the wall. Horrified at what my sister had done, I lost my urge to battle the tears, and freed them at last. My body, beyond my control, shook violently. The jail cell, lacking a bathroom for my use, smelled of my vomit. My sense of time disappeared, and to this day I have no recollection of how long I sat huddled in a corner of that jail cell. Sometime later a pot-bellied police officer in a blue uniform handcuffed Pam and me. We were led down an almost hospital-white hallway, just wide enough for two people to walk through side by side. We were herded out into an abysmally dark, starless night and shoved into the back of a police car. The door shut. I had managed to stop the tears for the march, but the closing of the door again showed how powerless I was, how alone. I felt the tears run unabated down my face; my hands being held captive, I was unable to wipe them away. The back door opened, and my red swollen eyes were suddenly blinded by the dome light of the car. I heard an angry woman's voice command: "Get these handcuffs off these girls. Whatever were you thinking?" I felt my body being pulled out of the car and falling to the pavement. The next day I found gravel from the parking lot embedded on one of my arms, but at that moment I experienced no pain. My arms were freed and a Kleenex was placed firmly in my hand, as it searched for my tear-inflamed face. My other hand was gently held by the angry woman, and I was again walked back to the car and quietly asked to sit down. The compassionate lady sat next to Pam and me as we were driven to our final destination, Juvenile Hall, but we were unaware of our destination.

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After the car's engine was turned off, the lady in the blue uniform removed us from the back seat of the cruiser, and we were instructed to follow her. As we entered a large, red brick building I saw the policewoman for the first time. Besides the blue uniform, she had short blonde hair that was curled under at the back of her neck, a slim build, and she looked to be about thirty .I don't remember her face that well, but her voice was soft and kind, the only kindness I would receive in quite a while. Pam and I were placed in a room that resembled a classroom, except for the ten or so teenagers hand cuffed to desk... We weren't handcuffed, though; we were simply told to stay at the appointed desk. "The policewoman had trusted us to stay," I thought. "Maybe they'll realize that we don't belong here." Pam asked an older teenage girl where we were. "You're in juvy," the girl laughingly replied. My stomach flip-flopped, and I would have vomited again, but my stomach was empty. I made a valiant effort not to cry. I couldn't cry in front of these murderers, then they would know I was an easy target. But I failed. The murderers all laughed; even Pam who was a year younger joined in. A khaki-clad officer pulled me up and led me away to a room by myself and told me to drink a glass of water. The officer left me and I collapsed across the carpeted floor. I calmed down some, and thought about what my life would be like living in a place like this. I also wondered why I was there. What had I done? The blonde officer returned along with the khaki policewoman. The blonde pulled me up from the floor, and tenderly made me sit on a couch. She wrapped her arms around me, and then told me that my sister and I had been charged with being incorrigible (I didn't know what that meant)! She also explained that somehow my dad bad neglected to sign the necessary papers, and instead we would be held in protective custody until the court could sort matters out. I asked to call my morn, but was denied. I was taken away from the quiet office and was walked past the room where Pam still remained with the murderers. "There's the crybaby!" one of them leered. I was walked into a building with orange and yellow walls. Yellow had been my favorite color until then. The blonde policewoman said goodbye to me and I could feel my legs sway and my stomach roll. A Hispanic woman about thirty walked over to me. "You'll be all right, come on now." I was led to the bathroom where I was once again subjected to the humiliation of losing my clothing.

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"Get in the shower and wash your hair." The woman had the shower on, and I meekly complied with her orders. When I had finished, there was a clean nightgown, slippers, underwear, and to my relief, feminine hygiene articles. I willingly dressed and was walked down the hallway to the last room. "You sleep on the bed to the left," and I was pushed in the room. It was late, and the room was in darkness; I was unable to see. Then I heard the door locked behind me and I felt relieved. "I'm safe from the murderers in here," I thought. Then I heard someone breathing on the right side of the room. Desperately, I worked on the locked doorknob. "Please open," I prayed, but the door wouldn't budge. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I found the bed on the left. I sat on the bed as close as was possible to the comer and tightly hugged my knees. "God, please don't let me cry," and "Please don't let that murderer kill me," I pleaded. I was awake for most of the remaining night, but eventually I lost the battle and fell asleep God did hear me, though, because I lived through the night, and I cried no more. I have also wondered through the years if my dad had signed the papers, or whether the blonde policewoman, sensing an injustice, had simply lost them. I like to think the latter was what occurred. I am glad that my daughters are both blonde.

Coleen Minnick A Little Rose When you touch my hand, the hand becomes a little rose.

Keiko Sunagawa

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Bruce Habberman

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Chocolate Therapy I grew up on dairy-rich ice cream and farm-fresh butter the taste of which has become a fond distant memory. For now I count fat grams and avoid cholesterol with the same fervor as I would DDT (for everyone knows they both can cause deformities). True, my life was more active then. No car, bus, or taxi rides took me from end to end of my sleepy little town. I like to think that if I should return to those cozy green environs I would once again employ Shank's Mare and wall<. to church up the hill and across the river or to the store down by the tracks and being "fit" after such exertion I would then be free to prove I have long outgrown my fear of Elsie the Borden ' s Cow by indulging in double dips of chocolate in a golden cone as part of my daily therapy.

Mykle Loftus

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mas-cu-line Cori Karnos

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Writers Reflect on Their Writing Martha Cox I once read that researchers had determined how many thoughts the human mind has in one minute. The number wasn't that high (something like 2000 instead of 100,000; however, I might be off by a zero or two), but I was impressed that there is a finite number to our thoughts. This encourages me to go out and rope a few thoughts with my lasso pen; then if I get them into the barn, sometimes a poem is born or sometimes it just turns out to be manure. C.V. Dreesman Writing is a smile and a frown, a tear and a twinkle, a gesture and a remark. It is the truth that is unspoken, but should be. Tony Jamie Having been a musician since my early teens I have established a definite connection with the inherent rhythms of our lives and the way we express ourselves. Those rhythms extend into almost all parts of our lives, especially our speech and written words. Phrasing, tempo, and intensity are integral parts of our methods of expression. "All the News All the Time" was written at a very frantic pace as I listened to CNN one afternoon. I guess you could describe it as a found poem as I took snippets of sound bytes and wove them together. Mykle Loftus Growing up in a small town in Iowa during the SO's and early 6O's provided me with my delightful memories of childhood. I had the freedom to roam the town and surrounding environs at will. It is true, however, that as a small child I had an inordinate fear of Elsie the Borden's Cow derived from a display in the window of the Greene Cafe. Elsie's smiling disembodied head was battery operated to tilt from side to side as she invited one and all in to enjoy her ice cream. I would squeeze my eyes tightly shut whenever I was required to pass her way but she definitely did not keep me from enjoying the rich dark chocolate ice cream served inside the cafe. Sheila Perez When you discover your worth, it's like letting loose fistfuls of fireflies into a darkened room. F. Sina Righthouse During our walk in life we come in contact with someone whether it's a teacher, friend, or a stranger who inspires us to reach for the stars, or spurs us on when we're ready to call it quits. Niki will always be that person to me.

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Christie Scott Appreciate. ...everywhere. everything. everyone and the world will open up blossoming as the lotus along the path of enlightenment Keiko Sungawa Most of poems that I like don't take time at all when I write. The sentences come up suddenly in my mind. The way I express the atmosphere or feelings in the poems mostly reflects nature. I like the sounds of English, so I choose the words carefully and put in rhyme. I like short poems like Haiku which gives us strong images of sight. I put all I want to express of images or thoughts in short sentences. Fernando Vargas I was born in a Mexican town which is located adjacent to the U.S.-Mexico border, but I was, for the most part, raised in the United States. This fact left me believing that I had no true sense of culture, either a Mexican or an American one. I found myself somewhere in between. My grandfather and the village where he was born and where he recently passed away were the missing links that, in a sense, helped me find myself. I now believe that to know about our past can be just as important, or even more so, than to know about the present or where we are headed in our futures.

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