Chrysalis: Spring 1978

Table of Contents Martha Guffey (drawings) ..............1, 19, 20, 24 Julie Stone (story) November Snows............................2 Bill Ameen (photos) ....................... 4, 30, 33 Jean Fruit (poem) The Breath ofLife ...........................4 Bob Powell (poem) It's a Game ................................5 Elizabeth Wev (drawing) .........................6 Karen Yount (poem) Erase the Broken Years ...................... 7 Cindy Carter (weaving) ..........................8 (drawing) ..........................37

Leah Blackwell (poem) Sea Games ................................13 Gary Fitzgerald (poem) Song of the "Free"Eagle ................... 13 James McDaniel (story) A Prayer .................................15 Ellis Hansen (photo) ............................16 Mary Jeanne Shaughnessy (poem) The Coming of the Storm? ...................17 Lucy Burriss (drawing) ..........................18 Barry Greenebaum (photos) .........................21, 31, 36, 39 Napalm (poem) ............................ 34

Tim Liptak (pottery) .............................8

Tim Carter I Want a Name (story) ...................... 22 L 'Automne (poem) .........................29

Rhonda Parsons (weaving)........................8

Betsy Conway (drawing) ........................23

Stewart Gordon (pottery) .........................8 Maria Garate (weaving) .......................... 8

Daniel Gribbin (poetry) Blind in You ...............................25 Postwar Boom .............................33

Cathe Hart (pottery) ............................. 8

George Ewen (photo) ...........................26

Karen Rinker (weaving) ..........................8

Tamzen Parsons (print) The Original Alligator Clip...................27

Sarah Holley (pottery) ...........................8

Ben Goggin (painting) ........................... 9 Lyn Collins (watercolor) .......................... 9 Ann Ragan (poetry) AtTheEnd ................................ 10 ConceptualTruth ..........................38

Debra Martin (poem) The Shower ...............................28 Cathy Hyler (poetry) The Intruder ..............................29 0. D. .....................................37

Rick Hawkins (poem) Birth .....................................10

Beulah Thompson (ceramic hanging) ..............30

Jeanette Lawler (poem) Fleeting Moments ..........................11

Rolf Nordlie (poem) On Bubbles Burst ..........................32

Ron Wright (photos) ......................12, 31, 34

Tom Smedley God in a Box! (story) ........................35 Son ofMan (poem) ......................... 38

Kathy Pyott (drawings) ................... Cover, 14

N ovemher Snows

by Julie Stone

-Drawing by Martha Guffey

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time Pappy had rheumatic fever. WiIIa kept 'em alI in bed for a solid week-almost killed Pappy. She fed them homemade soup and hot toddies of whiskey and honey.

The children were Willa and Pappy's happiness.

Mary Sue was born three years after the little sister who had died; Ted came along four years later. Pappy helped Willa when she had "the sickness"-even delivered the babies himself. They couldn't afford the white doctor from town even if he would have delivered black babies. Willa and Pappy devoted themselves to the "younguns" in hopes that they might have a better life than their parents. From the time Mary Sue started walkin', Pappy declared she was gonna finish school and go to college. He had ambitions of Ted's learning a trade at the new technological school up North. Pappy saved any leftover money from the crops he sold and put it in a savings account for them. Mary Sue and Ted both had graduated from the black high school on the honor role, making Willa and Pappy the proudest of parents. Mary Sue married a fine young businessman and moved to New York where she became a school­ teacher. Ted joined the Army and became an engineer.

No, their life hadn't been so bad after all. No major disasters like the Smiths down the road, whose house burned back in '42. And somehow they had always managed to have something to eat. WiIIa and Pappy thanked God often for being so good to them.

Willa looked nervously out the window at the growing darkness. Pappy must have gone to town; he usually told her first, though, so she wouldn't worry.

"Prob'ly forgot," Willa thought to herself, stirring the bean soup which filled the kitchen with a tempting aroma. They dido 't buy much meat anymore since it had gotten so expensive. Pappy said it was the "gov'ment's" fault, all this inflation, and so he refused to buy any.

Willa decided to go ahead and eat. "No tellin' when he'll get back, and I ain't gwine to starve waitin' for him.'' She ladled a big bowl of soup and sat down at the table. She ate slowly, jumping up twice to look out the window when she thought she heard Pappy. Just the wind. She finished eating and washed her dish. It was dark now and the house was getting chilly. Willa

"Pappy! Oh ... Pappy!" Willa's voice could be heard across the fields. "Confoundit, where did he take off to? Ev'ry time I fix a nice hot meal, he runs off. Then has the nerve to complain when the food ain't bot!

Damn men!" She gave one last glance around the yard and walked back across the squeaking boards of the porch into the little white house.

Wilia and Pappy had been married more years than they could count, ever since before the Depression, which Pappy called the "bad times." Actually, no times had been good. Neither one had finished school; Pappy had to go to work when his father died of smallpox back in 1917. WiIIa's parents didn't see any need for a girl to be "etucated" beyond the eighth grade. Willa and Pappy had a baby the first year after they were married-a girl too frail to survive the winter on the farm. She died three months later. But that was long ago. Willa stiil put flowers on her first-horn's grave in the spring. Pappy didn't talk much about it.

The first years Willa worked as a maid in town for a Mrs. Madison who treated her real kind. WiIIa, who was only seventeen, earned three doliars a week.

Sometimes Mrs. Madison would give her some leftover bread or potatoes. Anything helped in those days.

When Mrs. Madison moved, WiIIa went to work in the new textile factory as a seamstress, a skiII her mother had taught her.

Now Pappy, he was born and raised on a farm and knew no other way of making a living. He worked from dawn till dusk all year long. In spring it was the planting, in fall the harvesting, and in winter the fertilizing and preserving. WiIIa would stay up late at night boiling and canning the fresh vegetables for the winter's supply. Some years they had to skimp by when the rains were too heavy and the crops rotted in the fields. It made Pappy depressed having to sit in the little house for days at a time and see his efforts ruined.

At times like that Willa would remind Pappy that everything is the Lord's will. She'd get out the tattered Bible, an heirloom from her grandmother, and read a few passages as best she could. Pappy taught the men's Sunday school class at Prne Creek Baptist. They hadn't missed a Sunday in all their married years 'cept when the children came down with measles the same

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face had taken on new strength.

"Well, if you say so." He turned to leave. "Oh, yeah, your husband told me to give you this before he went unconscious. And he said for you to go, not to worry about him." The deputy fumbled inside his coat pocket and brought out a crumpled letter. Willa took it with a shaking hand and saw the postmark-"New York."

"Thank you," she whispered. ''Sure thing, ma'am, it's the least lean do. And don't you worry, Old Roberts will go to court about this. Well, goodnight."

Willa bolted the door and looked around the empty room. The fireplace didn't feel so warm now and shadows seemed to reach out to her. For a minute her head was full of thoughts and anger and questions.

Then she became tranquil and her mind stopped racing. "The letter, I must read it; Pappy said to," Willa thought. She unfolded the envelope and took out the crisp white pages. Two airplane tickets and a snapshot of her grandson were folded inside. Mary Sue had invited Willa and Pappy to New York for Christmas. Overcome, Willa brushed away the tears as she thought of how much her daughter must have spent on the tickets. She had known her parents would never get the chance otherwise. For a moment Willa forgot about Pappy's being in the hospital; she had dreamed of going to New York all her life. Then she remembered and refolded the letter. "I'll have to write Mary Sue and teII her we won't be coming.''

When the black and white deputy's car arrived in the morning, it was just starting to snow. Willa had already dressed and was waiting. She knew the deputy would come soon. She didn't need to hear the message. She already knew that, too.

As Willa rode through town, faces turned toward her with various responses; there were empty eyes which stared, sympathetic eyes filled with pity, gossiping eyes waiting to spread the news. Little children stopped playing and told each other to look. Willa had no emotions toward them. Let people think what they wanted. She knew in her heart Pappy wasn't a thief, and that was all that mattered. He had been a faithful church member all his life; even his last act was done out of unselfishness. All these thoughts kept Wiila strong during the questioning by the sheriff.

Willa had known death before. Her own parents, a brother, the baby-all deaths were alike in a way. She knew the churchwomen would come and sit with her and the parson would pray with her. The neighbors would �end flowers or bring food. But then a week later everyone would seem to forget and Willa would be all alone. She often wondered why folks act like they do; sometimes she laughed at them when she knew they were only putting on a front.

What bothered Willa most was coming home to the little white house. Every clang of a tin pot seemed to echo in the emptiness; there weren't any mudtracks across the wooden floor from a man's boots; every noise at night was a deputy. She ate her meals routinely without much thought; she didn't like eating alone. At least she had hot meals. After all, there wasn't anyone to wait for anymore.

decided to make a fire so Pappy wouldn't have to do it when he got home. "He'II prob'ly be ail cold and tired after the walk. Prob'ly have lots to tell about everything in town. I wonder if Mrs. Lottie had her baby yet?

Pappy will know." Willa suddenly perked up as she thought maybe Pappy had gone to the Post Office. They should be getting a letter from Mary Sue and her family any day now teIIing them when they were coming for Christmas. Willa hadn't seen the baby except in pictures. Her only grandchild.She'd have to knit him a blanket. She smiled to think how happy this Christmas would be with the family together again. Why she'd have to m.ike a corn pudding and sweet potatoes, and maybe, she hoped, Pappy would buy a little meat. She didn't want Mary Sue's husband to think badly of them.

Ted was coming home from his station in South America. He'd have lots to tell them about his new life.

The fire was blazing now and Willa sat in her rocking chair with an afghan draped across her shoulders. She grew drowsy from the warmth and dozed off. She was awakened by a sharp rap on the door. That wasn't Pappy's knock. "Who is it?" Willa demanded as she crept to the door.

"This is the deputy, Mrs. Clarkson. May I come in?"

Willa unlatched the door and saw the tall white man standing there, the November air sending a chiII through her. "Sorry to have to come so late, Ma'am, but I think you'11 want to know." Wiila hadn't even thought about the time; she glanced at the clock on the mantel. Almost midnight.

"Is it somethin' 'bout Pappy? Where is he? Is he all right?''

"Sit down, Mrs. Clarkson, and let me explain. Your husband is in the city hospital." Willa let out a startled cry. "But he'll be okay the doctors said. Don't worry, they'II take fine care of him. He's been shot twice.

One's in the leg but the other's in his chest."

"But why would anybody shoot my Pappy? He wouldn't hurt-" "You see, he was breaking into John Roberts' store.

Had broken in, as a matter of fact. Old John sleeps in the front room, you know, and when he heard a noise, he took his gun and shot your husband. He was just about to get out the back door with a piece of beef... funny thing, he hadn't even taken the best piece-just a little fat end Old Roberts couldn't have gotten more than a dollar for. I wish Roberts had called us first; we wouldn't have shot your husband, Ma'am. We might have fined him, but Old Roberts just had to settle it his way. I'm real sorry this had to happen." The young deputy seemed at a loss for words. He glanced at his feet and shifted them nervously.

Throughout the explanation Willa had sat silently, stunned. "It's all my fault ... if! hadn't told him to get some meat for Christmas he never would've done it.

Now Pappy's gonna die."

"No he's not, ma'am." The deputy's voice didn't sound very reassuring. "I'll take you to the hospital if you'd like. It's right on my way back to town'."

"What good will that do? Ain't no doctors and nurses gonna let me near him. You said yourself they'd take care of him. No, I'll stay here. You just come here tomorrow and let me know how he's doing." Willa's

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The Breath of Life As the sWeet air chills my senses, All of the ugly condences Looking for something not to be found Onward searching I am bound For there is no one hurt_ if nothing _is lost Drink from 'the' wa'ter of t_htf_btidgeS-Crossed.

-Photo by Bill Ameen

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It's a Game

It's a game we play, these childhood years Baseball, cops and robbers too Become tangled together on Monday morning Sunday faces staring out of subway windows And forward we move So quietly, right along As if not to trip over a single line As we laugh while scheming, reasoning and lying And we dream of ballads as we fall asleep As our thoughts outgrow our faded bodies We look, we listen, more or less We keep our style Jt never changes We always keep our claims intact The "New York" look Grown old and weary Lost the game, but keeps on playing.

-Bob Powell

-Drawing by Elizabeth Wev

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Weaving and Ceramics Erase the Broken Years

So you say you're locked inside a cage And you cannot set your feelings free Blinded, you watch hurting people age Paralyzed, you do nothing but let it be Deaf, you have entirely missed their plea So you say you're finally giving up And your spirits start to sink You no longer try to lift the cup Believing poison is life's only drink Still, I feel you reaching for the missing link FEEL THE EMPTINESS. FEEL THE TEARS. EXPERIENCES OF THE BROKEN YEARS. So I say to you, I feel compassion growing here Vibrations of music can turn away the blue Let the waves of serenity draw you near Peace and love are awaiting you It's all so clear and you know it's true

Weaving by Cindy Carter Pottery with dried leaves by Sarah Holly Pottery by Tim Liptak

Weaving by Rhonda Parsons Pottery by Stewart Gordon

So I say to you, Experience the wind Let it take your spirits soaring high Can you feel your emotions mend?

Go ahead, release a peaceful sigh Come on, the time has come to try IS IT EMPTINESS? ARE THEY TEARS? ARE THEY STILL BROKEN YEARS? So we say, waste no more time.

It's hurting people that we seek.

They're the ones who need to climb.

We'll help them not to be so weak Not to drown, but to float upon the creek.

So we say, the ocean is a release As rising waves let our feelings flow.

We are on our way to eternal peace.

Realizing we have made the emptiness go Compassion fills the hollow as we grow NO MORE EMPTINESS! NO MORE TEARS! TIME HAS ERASED THE BROKEN YEARS! -Karen Yount

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Weaving by Karen Rinker Pottery by Sarah Holly

Weaving by Maria Garate Pottery (cylinder) by Sarah Holly Pottery (bowl) by Cathe Hart

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At the End To You The force of life I make this prayer: I want to always be aware of the earth and my senses And always remember The beauty of youth And old age Always revere

-Painting by Ben Goggin

I've finally learned Life is to live Joy is to feel And death is truly earned.

-Ann Ragan

Birth.

Starting from earth's womb, as a tiny drop, Waiting in its mother for that uniting spark, With nature's will, it leaves the innocent dark, And a spring is born on a mountaintop.

-Rick Hawkins

-Watercolor by Lyn Collins

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Fleeting Moments

She scurries through the night Knowing he is close behind.

Yet, she flirts with the dark, aloof strangers, Coyly dancing in and out among them.

She plays her game, enjoying it well, Though she knows she cannot stay.

He is coming and she must not let him catch her.

Demurely she bids goodbye, skipping daintily away.

Just as she slips behind a hill, He appears.

He advances-slowly; And as he does, he grows larger and stronger.

He glares at those around him, Power flashing from his eyes.

On and on he comesSteadily, never veering from his path, Beating down relentlessly upon the earth, Searching all the while.

He must find her!

But she is nowhere in sight.

Maybe over that next hillAs one upon an endless journey He makes his way down, Disappearing with the day.

Quickly now she rises up and once again goes on her way, Smiling and knowing he will search no more Until the coming dawn.

-Photo by Ron Wright

-Jeanette Lawler

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I Want a Name

by Tim Carter

-Photo by Barry Greenebaum

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I boarded the bus in the early morning when the earth was cold and the air was thick with the apprehension of a new day. As another knot rose and twisted in my stomach, I came to the painful realization that the rest of the world lay sleeping, unaware that I was about to make the most dramatic step of my life. I found a seat and smoothed my hand across the frosted window of the bus, watching my father sitting in the car staring straight ahead. He was not a part of this moment, any more than he had been a part of any important moment in my life. "I carried my own bags," I sulked, "he never even cut off the motor." But this was not a day for remorse or even sentiment; it was a day for fulfillment, a day for a new emotion in my life.

I had made the decision to leave home for college years earlier when I would sit in the floor of my room, thumbing through countless university catalogs, each one offering a br:ighter future than the last. Only now do I realize what cruel advertisements those catalogs had been, promising me a life and identity they could not fulfill. But I was pitifully naive and with each new picture of the immaculate young preppie flaunting his way across an ivy covered campus, something inside me soared. It was in such a state of mind that I left for school, waiting for the realization of my sweet illusion.

My hands were beginning to sweat but I held firmly to the lunch my mother had prepared for me. Poor Mama. She had wanted so badly for me to become a man but my father would not permit it. The day before I left, she had sat at the kitchen table, stitching my name into my clothes.

"What do you want to waste your time with a fool thing like that for?" my father asked her.

She had smiled and tried to be cute. "It's a tradition, Emmanuel. AIi young men put their name in their clothes when they go off to school."

"Don't worry," he said, "the boy will be back."

The incident embarrassed me, and I reached to take the garments from my mother and into my room; but I could not help but smile when I saw the lettering sewn

across a jacket collar. "One day I'll leave this jacket somewhere on campus," I thought. "Somewhere conspicuous, like in the library or the gym. Yes, I'll leave it in the gym and then I'll wait for some freshman to recognize my name and bring it to me."

Across the aisle sat a military man with a proud black and white name tag that announced his rank. He was holding a little boy who was thumbing through a book of Bible stories for children. He kept patting the little boy on the head and brushing his hand up and down the boy's back, "You Daddy's little soldier?" he asked.

The little boy just sat there.

"You Daddy's little man?"

There was no response.

He spotted me eyeing him and blushed for a moment that his son had not responded to his affection; but it did not bother me because I knew that one day the little boy would grow up and remember how his father held him in his lap and touched him and called him special names.

When I was young I could remember my father taking me to Sunday school where an old lady with wrinkled hands and tired eyes would read us stories and give us lemonade. And on the wall was a faded picture that was supposed to be Jesus God; but I knew it wasn't because he had a black beard and arms outstretched to the little children, and I knew that God didn't have a beard and besides that, he never held out his arms to anyone, especially children.

Outside my window on the bus I watched the endless miles of flat earth, undisturbed except for an occasional plowed field with ceaseless rows that waved good-bye to me over and over again. "How good it will be to get to college," I imagined. "The land has so much character there; mountains with elegant names like Margette and Chateau Peak, and even the trees and shrubs on campus have little plaques beneath them with their names engraved. Nothing is left un­ identified.''

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When I was a little boy, father bought me a little dog, but it died before I even had a chance to name it. I buried him carefully in the backyard and laid a rock with a cross painted on it over his grave, but at the bottom I just wrote "puppy" and the date of the day he had died. I didn't know what else to calI him.

We stopped to pick up a tan boy standing by the road and I knew immediately that he must be headed towards my destination because he wore a yellow and purple college letter jacket and he was carrying an enormous suitcase that could have held everything I owned twice over. He got on the bus and took the seat beside me.

"Hi, I'm Ed Shaw," he said. I started to introduce myself but he continued. "I go to State; that's where I'm headed now."

"Me too."

"You a college man?"

A college man. I weighed the words carefully, savoring them over and over.

"Yeah, I'm just starting."

"Well good luck buddy, that's all I can say."

I was too naive to resist.

"What do you mean?"

"The school's getting bigger by the day. You should see the classes; they hold them in auditoriums now.

Hundreds of kids in one class."

"How do the teachers learn all the names?"

"Don't call them teachers, they're professors. And besides that they don't know your name. Everyone has a number."

"A number?" ''Yeah when you get there they give you a card with a number on it and you carry it with you all the time."

"A number?"

"Yeah, that's all you are."

I turned my head away, staring blankly up the long aisle leading to the driver's seat. Across from me the little boy with the book of Bible stories lay sleeping in his father's arms, probably dreaming of the day he would be something special.

-Drawing by Martha Guffey

-Drawing by Betsy Conway

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Blind

•

ID

You

If I were blind, with thought My only instrument to match your eyes, Could yet my soul have interlaced The interval between our lives?

Eyes closed, I scan the landscape Of the darkling lover, dream your face, Rehearse your profile, etch my brain With every muscle, every trace.

An exercise to soothe the heart, This blindness, for my eyes will view, When lids retract, a world of forms Bereft of any curve of you.

The distance thrown between us now Could prove a chasm all too wide If we had foolishly confined Our souls' embrace to arms and eye, But I am learning, day by day, The braille of patient thought's caress Along the cheek of memory; My love is blind to see you best.

-Daniel Gribbin

-Photo by George Ewen

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The Shower I come into your presence with demands, Demands of comfort, warmth, and relaxing peace of mind.

I stand before you listlessly as you beckon me on, Or to enjoy your inviting sensations.

I turn you on, and I feel you turning me on.

Your driving pulsations plunge over me as I stand there Engulfing the warm, tickling, feeling of your slender fingers.

The Original Alligator Clip -Print by Tamzen Parsons

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As they massage me, and free me from all prevailing pressures And strain.

For the time I'm with you, I'm yours.

And when we've finished I leave you just as I found you Waiting, patiently To beckon me on, when I return.

-Debra Martin

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L'Automne Les feuilles... rouges, oranges,

et jaunes

L'air... frisquet et froid Le moment calme et tranquille La saison...

L'automne -Tim Carter

The Intruder What beauty hovers over me As the trees hold me As the stream of running water slaps through my soul As the wind plays music to my ears As the sky inflicts its love upon me But I am afraid I am a stranger in your midst If only I were a part of you perhaps a butterfly or maybe a tree where I would stand tall and strong And try to touch the sun.

Maybe someday I will be a wild flower living amongst you then I would truly be a part of you Not just a stranger treading Upon your world And stealing your beauty -Cathy Hyler

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-Ceramic Hanging by Beulah Thompson

-Photo by Bill Ameen

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On Bubbles Burst On the dawn of the day after The world ended On the morning that couldn't Be, but was I sit s

0 w

-Photo by Barry Greenebaum

y Going over the pieces of the unbreakable Dream, now so fragile the fragments crumble to dust these chips of life's lust Wash into pools around the sand Castles of hope, never checking The rise of the tide, the sea The equalizer, the leveler of all Men's dreams, washing the beaches clean For the next generation of fools Who build in such insubstantialities as sands Of love and grains of hope.

-RolfNordlie

-Photo by Ron Wright

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-Photo by Bill Ameen

Postwar Boom Thank God, they went off to fight their war; But the Babes of the Boom wouldn't sling hot steel.

"Peace With Honor!" But I kept score, Nor ever forgot whose fates they sealed (POW and MIA) those brats who ran Smoking the leaves of conscience peeled.

No, even a war couldn't set them straight.

Be damned if a man can figure why The strongest country on earth will lose Its nerve every time the Babies cry.

The Postwar Boom is a gutless bust, The honor of thieves an alibi.

-Photo by Ron Wright

The memories stick to their bloodied brains, The muddied gutters refract the light; While pardoned rats drive cabs, I sit On shrapneled rump, with lids pressed tight; Mentally stripping my old M-1, I dream of a war that boomed so right.

-Daniel Gribbin

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God in a Box!

by Tom Smedley

Striding out of the flaming ruins of a dying civiliza­ tion; boasting a relationship with the most significant event in human history; able to see through sham and pretense and elaborate facade; is he a sage? A scholar?

A warmed-over relic of the Jesus Revolution? A Methodist circuit rider born 150 years too late? Perhaps all of these, perhaps none; we can call him-SUPER CHRISTIAN! Or, Sam, for short.

The setting sun poised just above the horizon, painting the parched desert in shimmering shades of red and orange. The grotesquely contorted cacti cast long, purple shadows. A figure appeared black against the horizon, following his shadow with weary tread. It had been a long and seemingly endless trek, and a lot of Sam's natural ebulance had abated. As he came closer, one could see several days worth of stubble on his f�ce, the tattered, travel-worn attire, and the rugged hiking boots.

"This looks like as good a place as any," Sam said to himself, and proceeded to make camp. He had just stretched out in his sleeping bag, and was preparing to bid the world goodnight, when the Friend appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

"How's life?" the Friend asked.

"Hangin' in there," Sam replied.

"Looks like you could use some of this," said the Friend, and held out a canteen full of ice-water. Sam seized the offered vessel, and drank several hearty, welcome swallows. "Here," the Friend said, "Looks like you haven't had a good meal in quite a while!" In a manner typical of his personality, the Friend produced a banquet table, loaded down with a delectable meal.

The two enjoyed a leisurely dinner, and communed together over a convivial glass of wine.

"Had a really unusual experience today," Sam said.

"Saw the Institution."

"Really?" asked the Friend. "What was it like?"

"Strange," Sam replied. "Like on the outside, it was

as modern as tomorrow's supermarket, but inside, it was like something out of the last century!"

"And?" hinted the Friend.

"Well," Sam said, "I hear the whole place exists to confine one person. Someone they call The Inmate!''

The Friend chuckled, Sam caught the familiar twinkle in his eye-and suddenly, awareness dawned. "Wait­ a-minute!" he hollered. "Don't tell me YOU'RE-The Inmate?"

"One and the same," the Friend responded.

"I mean-good grief! How did it happen?"

The Friend sighed, and began his story. "My family decided to put me away one day," he said with a poignent expression.

"This is really getting confusing!" Sam exploded. "I thought that was what they did with madmen and criminals! Don't tell me YOU'RE insane!"

"Some say that I am," the Friend returned.

"Incompetent, is more like it. Actually, I don't think my family approved of my associates. I enjoy being around the uncool, misfits, and rejects of society. They're my kind of people. My family got tired of tagging along­ embarrassed, maybe-so they decided to shut me up, and keep me safely guarded, safely isolated from the mainstream of life."

"Did they ever come to visit you?" Sam asked.

"Religiously," the Friend replied. "Once a week, in fact. They'd come, they said, to visit. But, the whole time, they'd talk around me, at me, about me-never with me."

"So, what did you do?"

"What would YOU do?" the Friend replied, a bit amused by the incongruity of the situation. "I split.

One day, I just disappeared-and you know, it was quite a while before they even realized I was gone! By then, visiting had gotten to be such a habit that it had become a grand social event, one that could very well go on without me! And so it has!"

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-Photo by Barry Greenebaum

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0. D.

Son of Man Born from above, full of grace and blessings Son of the Father, Servant of man.

Bringer of brightness, giving us beauty Jesus of Nazareth, joy of our souls.

Lying in my arms, he was warm in our circle of shelter I lingered within his dreams, emerging only when curiosity stirred within me.

He is worthy of worship, our souls bid Him welcome Into His awesomeness, humbly we ellter.

Prostrate before Him, pray we our Lord For grace to serve Him, who has given us all.

Words filled the room circling around my head I tried to catch each word and d-i-s-s-e-c-t it but I suddenly became lost in the english language

Boldly He lived, bravely He died Risen from death, He reigns now above.

The legacy He left to slaves of His love, The power of His presence, His grace and peace.

-Tom Smedley

Time slipped by, the dancing wind swept down upon my mind raising my spirit higher higher weaving with the wind through the icy night Cold breezes tingling through me Penetrating...

Lying in my arms he was cold

Conceptual Truth God, I swear Youth is an incredible thing And consequently so is life Simply mind boggling Endlessly confounding Incredibly astounding A total, lethal, miraculously beautiful, Giant revelation It may be That we've all lost our senses Or maybe finally teamed to love It's uncontrollable but the forces are conspiring It ¡s truth we 're desiring The pure simple, naked and absolute Unchanging force of nature.

-Cathy Hyler

Lay down in the dirt Wiggle your toes and roll around Get to know your mother The absolute, unquestionable Essence of your being The most fertile, gracious lady Our mother the earth -Amt D. Ragan

-Drawing by Cindy Carter

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-Photo by Barry Greenebaum

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