Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art — Vol. 77 (cover 6)

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ANDERSON COLLEGE ART AND

LITERAI

2

Ivy Leaves Staff

LaToyna Scott

Babinchak

Keith

Matt Boston Chasity Baxley

Carlo Carter Stacv Coleman

Andv

Burrelso

driving 1-85

driving 1-85 at night at seventy miles

the mind of reason/grips the

harnessed

in

body

the right seat eyes

in

an hour

strips

stark fear

mesmerized by one

shining ray unfolding mile after mile not daring to

look from side to side but straight

hands seeking something belt visioning metal like

box cars

end

to

from the devil

off the rails like

bow

in

Margaret Hayes

a puppet

into

a seat

each other

a child's blocks stacked

a tangled heap

like

an arrow

or a bullet to a target like fleeing

like fleeing

from the devil

like

upon metal slamming

end collapsing

released from a

ahead

to hold onto other than

from the devil

like fleeing

Mon

grand-pere

Papa, walking blessed the

hand

stick in

fruit

of his loins

with the palm tree's sweet wine.

He made music

with a

gnarled, carved

in his

and The

lulled the night to full

bamboo youth

stalk,

rhythmic slumber.

moon gazed, entranced

by the poignant melody of

whose brown eyes whose wrinkled quietly smiled.

Ada

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Ezeokoli

retold

face,

this

primeval soul,

a century of earthy splendor,

upon breathing

its

last

The House Up on

the

skeletorial

hill, its

to disturb

come

to

peaceful slumber.

its

a place

shadows

with

remains

someone or something

stand, waiting for

that

But

who would

seems almost haunted

that run across the floor

as you walk by, wind that howls through the

open walls and doors.

Rain falling onto the open floors,

lightning flashes across the sky

leaving

all

who

see

feeling both horror

Where

One

is

this

this

—

great sight

and wonder.

—

place

lone tree stands

in

the yard,

no branches only a trunk pointing upward, a perching spot to

for

watch as cars pass by on

dirt

road, sending dust

into the

empty yard.

growing, making

it

and gravel

Tall

grasses

impossible to see

the animals hiding in wait

The house the

on a

is

many people

crows this

hill,

—

looking over

below, haunting

some

with each clap of thunder causing them to

shudder

Maybe we

in fear.

should

all

take a

moment

and look up

at these remains

with respect

and even

then quickly run away.

Mary Morris

fright

—

Miles linoleum print 1

2"xl 2"

Stacy Coleman

Epitaph Stranger, look

upon

this

marker and smile

in

the knowledge of the exceeding

of

my

life.

Not

that

it

was

easy,

but richly blessed; not that

I

but that

I

to

overcame the world,

now go on One who

be with the

John Lyons

did.

abundance

Les Saisons

Trees

spew

forth fire,

Valleys rage with shifting hues...

White death, backstage,

Outside children

smiles.

frost,

Taste fluffy drifts of white rain...

Angels

sifting salt.

Frozen breath escapes,

Tanned Birds

Ada

skin

pen

on white sand beckons.

their lyrics.

Ezeokoli

Sleeping through class.

Stay open

.

it

through

this class.

Dry erase and chalkboards coffee wears off at

blur

last.

I'm drifting into oblivion

Where no science teacher exists And no one can remember How many classes have missed.

I

fieri

Hancock

.

eyes

little

You gotta make

As my

.

Marriage oil

on panel with cheese

5'x3'4" Allison Holdredge

cloth

The Bagel Shop At the door,

I

pause before entering

considering the sanity of myself

and those

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; brewed coffee and bagels â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

inside,

assorted group of early risers

this

perfectly

that defy the still-slumbering

Not

solitary light

that

we'd choose

to sleep in for hours

we would

and

if

of dark storefronts.

given the option,

our tradition,

stick to

rising before the

world

among a town

a

inside

sun

like

the fresh bagels

to experience the familiar consistency

that suspends daily

chaos

allowing us to prepare for the day,

one hurried

task after another

where we can,

for just

peacefully sip our

just that

It's

that never

a few moments,

cream and sugar-laden

the eyes of the tired looking clerk

seems

to muster

a

smile,

the salesman's neatly pressed suit

and

the wrinkled T-shirt of a

proudly displaying

his

random

and well,

to

tattoo...

the hour,

collection of lives,

I

can't help but appreciate the purpose in

when we

our only shared experience of the day

Moore

common

leave.

each of us

being here

unknowingly acknowledge our

Jill

tie

the infinite possibilities that will meet us

has even this,

and

man

forearm

and when you consider the

coffee.

ground.

A

Home

Feeling of

Sometimes when

Though

I

pass by a particular house,

suddenly

I

is

it

sad and

feel

a house

lonely.

never lived

I've

in,

never even entered,

something about

look brings back

its

known sometime, somewhere in the past.

a happiness

I've

a feeling of home,

It

is

a

memory

of

my own

that clings

to the place,

as intangible as a wish,

as solid as a stone.

It

as

is

if

I've

been

away and

left

behind something or someone meaningful,

and now have come back I

It

I

it

lost for fills

my

soul with a wistfulness

somehow

don't often feel, but

as

is

if

to the things

a while.

arms

I

once

trusted

beckon me back,

and a voice

and

my

I

house,

that

take It

is

calls to

wish with

all

my home

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

childhood place no one can ever

away

or completely forget.

the joy of being a child again

with the innocence

so

welcome me, heart it were

my

little

and

which hasn't grown up as nor

one

trust

feels

as time escapes us,

become

cautious as

I

but remains forever sealed

remembered simply as

Margaret Hayes

have,

I

have, in

love.

the heart,

Confessions.

They

tell

Climbed

When

the story

when

at

I,

4

and cut her a moment.

into Frances' crib

left

alone

for just

"What happened

to this

curls

baby's hair?"

Mother laughs as she repeats my ready

lie.

Looking straight into her eyes without blinking,

Holding her scissors behind me, covered "The

rats

did

it,"

I

in curls,

answer.

My conscience was

born

when

I,

at

4

Was laid down for a needed nap Among coats and handbags of visiting

aunts.

Sparkling coin purses inside handbags beckoned.

First

Then

a penny from each, then a dime, guilt,

remorse

for all of

Did they find out and I

always worried, "did

Joyce Stein

my

life.

shame me? they know?"

silently

Hinduism on wood

acrylic

24"x24" Lashanda

Salters

A Confession I

once ripped the mirror

off

my

to

park

parent's car, trying

I

the

in

it

my

To avoid

tried to fix

narrow garage.

father's wrath,

with help from a friend

it

who knew all sorts of things about cars. thought we had done a good job And reveled in my success until the next day when my father was driving to work and I

the mirror at

I

a stop

convinced

To give dollar

off

fell

sign.

me

bill,

my younger sister new crisp

her in

exchange

for

a magic quarter.

I

could buy so much more with a dollar

Than I

was

I

could with twenty-five cents. quite proud of myself for

outsmarting a six year old

showed

to

Mom

until

she

the "magic" quarter.

Andrew Anderson

Solitary

I

walk over

flattened, shining leaves,

Through a lamplit

stretch of

parking

lot.

My hand, as reaching to scratch A phantom itch, searches to hold your if

I

I

down

look

am

the

lot

hand.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

acquainted with every step

I

will take,

Trudging through a photograph I've

I

seen too

my

pull

Resting I

many

times...

step before crushing a red

in

cannot fathom why, only

Like

a drop of blood

Forgetting myself

Chagrinned as The

bloom

the sea of trodden foliage.

I

my

lift

in

a

how

solitary,

field of

snow.

up the flower,

careful fingers crack

stiffened petals,

Dry as a desert.

There I

is

cinch

And

it

nothing more to know.

my

grip over the dried rose,

crackles like a

Allison Holdredge

fire in

my

hand.

Music Box

On a stage of velvet, A miniature ballerina Tiny hearts.

Gossamer

gracefully twirling,

weaves dreams for Her porcelain flesh draped in a

fabric, forever frozen in time.

Arms posed above her head, as if she Ready to take flight, instead of racing Around and around her lonely stage.

is

The haunting music of a forgotten

Composer

rises

from beneath her feet

Racing to keep up with

And

her, then

Tiny hands reach out to start the

They

slowing

stopping an instant before she does.

slip

and

the music

dance again,

box crashes

The ballerina races out of

control.

to the floor.

The music

Gets louder and louder, then suddenly Silence.

LaTonya Scott

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Brice oil

on canvas

74"x41" Carter Boston

a merry-go-round

Life is

Constantly moving,

until

That one moment,

You

lose

And

your grasp,

fly off

Hitting the

I

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

pavement.

super glued myself to the bars,

Hoping

to

be the

Then a persistent

doused

Idea,

And

hit

I

Head

the

last

person there.

idiot with the

my hands pavement

in

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

first.

LaTonya Scott

Outside the

air

has

Settled in the crystal cold

Of

winter evening.

The rasping crawl of Fallen leaves rakes along

Midnight parking

As

the

door

lot.

clicks shut,

draw ice into my lungs, And cling to my arms.

I

Allison Holdredge

same

acetone

a

Cats'll eat tuna

'Ere they'll taste

a spoon

Anything else

the fridge.

in

o'

"Cats won't touch boiled cabbage,"

new adage,

To coin a

But they'll help with the

Cats won't take

Why

just

Enough

bacon a smidge.

their vitamins.

the sight of 'em's

to

make my

kitty

cringe.

But give her a spider That'll fight

She

purrs,

back and

bite her,

"O, what a heavenly binge."

Angie Owens

The carnival

A

sits in

faded rainbow

Of

the valley

in

the midst

nature's green.

Lights as bright as the sun

High above

brilliant

once blinked here

patchworks of

tents

That held within their folds

Throngs of excitement.

Mechanical rides soared, the creaking machinery Mixing with the

And

jovial

Over

the unusual

Children laughed

Candy At

and

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

exhilarating.

coated, sticky joy

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

sights of delight.

Their voices

A

sound of music

the delighted voices of crowds exclaiming

still

drift in

the wind,

haunting sound chanting through the

Left

behind are

Faded booths and abandoned Broken

lights

and

tattered tents

Forlorn, Left for

reasons forgotten,

Nothing but a memory That

will

always

Wendy Morgan

exist.

rides,

trees.

Fumie oil

on canvas

28"x34" Tracy West

REASON In

creating a

artwork,

I

magazine format

was hoping

on campus. This allows the

and help

to create

interested

staff to

a buzz about

about

its

to display

a strong image through

to create competition

existence.

among

have more images

Ivy Leaves so that students I

also

wanted

to get

pamphlet look which other covers conveyed This

is

the artists to

a magazine, not an

Lashanda

in

away

from the

the past.

instruction guide.

Sailers

work with, become more

HV

Y

JOIN THE COMPETITION

Starting this year there will be a

competition to get your artwork featured on the front cover of Ivy

Leaves. Entries are accepted during the Spring Semesters.

This

is

would

open to ALL ARTISTS who like to

be featured

annual publication.

in this