Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art — Vol. 81

.

>^.^^#^j

.^S/fm^fAr^r/f Literary Advisor Dr. Wayne Cox

Literary Staff

Jill

Ayers

Cassie Kolasky

Maghan Lusk McAdams

Ashley Jess

Sopolosky

Design Advisor Eric Whitlock

Layout Design Danielle Webb

Photography Kristy Eppolito

aoob

C^

i_^^^ .=^â‚Ź'^^â‚Ź'.)

is

a

statement of arts and letters dedicated to

all

things we as artists strive for, a chance to allow our voices to be

heard. This potters,

is

a

collaboration of graphic

and photographers.

We

artists,

painters, poets,

have one thing to say to you.

The

striking electric light strobes saturate

His believers — parasitical sponges seeing only red, blue and green.

They

give their tithe,

devoted and faithful to the electric light deity.

This god that

summons

sits

in the center

the sea of souls to gather around.

Attending mass in half-hour increments they giving their

Baptized into the

life

life

to the divine light.

of flipping through

the waves of electric light religion,

channeling their souls to the screen,

connected

to a cable wire

that passes through the brain.

Cliff Burgess

Stacey

Adams acrylic

///i/lyMf/irM^m^/^ I

my summer working in a store among the fat, overripe adolescents

spent

them find

to help

discs they

and the occasional empty,

won't buy,

dropped

to clear the carnage of carelessly

discs

plastic shells left in their wake.

Call security again.

My

clothing too heavy and horridly ugly, a penalty I

of

retail

earn for knowing the dull

management; and

lifting the discs to

be scanned,

as

my

I

stand

art

among them,

thoughts float beyond

my monotonous task of scan, open, organize — to my life where nothing is so simple, after all

—

life

does not come with

a

packing

slip.

Confrontation comes in clusters like

too

much

product, in one shipment lumped;

which

1

cut, tear

open, and sort well.

Another email comes

more

more papers and

lusty teens to

watch

as I

in the droning, cluttered, yet efficient

of

my retail management

all

in,

projects to complete, to file;

do

it all

manner

through the summer.

Jess Sopolosky

>/4^; I

have a television that as

The

an unwanted

set is in

my box as a

is

brave, emotionless

how

quiet time

energetic;

it

obeys

it

golden retriever would,

my TV is

happened.

it

do-it-yourself kit,

when I want some in.

my place,

where, why, and

Just like a

broken

would;

shogxin warrior has to be

RCA explains when,

a^ trained

gxiest

the center of

pupil in the center of the eye,

like the

like

up my studio apartment

fills

after

me

it

has been

sees different actions

everyday as a

commercial

pilot sees different cities

during his

flights

unlike

my girlfriend who it

ask if she looks

does not care about staying

up

late at

to watch Emerils'

my television

is

its

obesity

night

cooking show

always there to help

just like the

fat,

my pillow

Antoine Robinson

me

sleep

^le

/m^^r^^(^m/aw^i

The marble holds the running steam Her weakened eyes fade to the floor I feel the warmth and I want more

My lonely day she will redeem This lovely woman,

I

esteem

To keep her

close I'd start a

Tonight she

lies

without

But more than ever she

a

war

snore

will

dream

And here, I am all she will need But to me she will never cling My embrace can only concede Her departure

is

like a sting

My sorrow continues to breed For I am just fabric and string.

Reb(

She

Amanda digital

Lyle

photograph

WmMeWmr/f Among piles

of sand used to a

It

fill

the graves

towering magnolia stood.

was hollow on the inside;

draped over

a crinoline

its

leaves

of branches.

On days when my father stood behind the oak pulpit, delivering eulogies I

hid under the magnolia,

among

the smooth, waxy leaves and heavy blossoms.

I

played in the dust, stirring

it

with a

small finger until clouds of grit choked the sand used to

fill

lay waiting, always waiting,

I

me

the yawning holes that

behind me.

scattered the thick white blossoms until

on my tongue;

the heady fragrance rested until

it

chased away the

on

days

I

taste

of death,

hid under a magnolia.

Sarah Swofford

Beneath the I

lie

Perhaps I

soil

you stand upon,

here to rot and watch the world go by.

I

am

bored;

never liked to remain

still,

Life was like a tiny prison.

In death

I've

found freedom.

My sadistic humor, my lack of faith, my anti-conformist spirit is welcome here.

Perhaps I'll push out of my eternal cradle, and reach up to you who visits my grave, to grab I

as I

your ankle quickly- then

will listen

with the pleasure

I

release, retreat-

never found in

life,

you scream with horror.

will cackle in the

and you

will

jump

wondering what never to stand

is

same deathly tone

I

suppressed in

life,

away; that ghastly

upon

a

sound beneath the stone-

grave again.

Jess Sopolosky

Nearby

The

a

wren

cries out,

An August and auburn

rain invades

I

my

sight,

leaves curl, taking flight.

Raking them?

I

never bother.

pray for spring buds, dear Father,

—and guide my That

soul to do what's Right.

last line

My prayer when

"Mother."

wrind pulls trees toward each other.

all life's I

was an afterthought.

is

incomplete

at best,

wars have not been fought.

should not

These scattered

sit

alone

leaves will turn

while

all I

do

is sit

at rest.

and

rot,

and jest.

jAmber Dumas

../fm-rfA'^//

The as

I

salty air

caught in I

shift

my

lungs

onto the huge, slippery rock.

step carefully

Now

permeates

a

my

position of contrapposto,

full

weight forward

—

landing both feet on the ocean-drenched boulder.

The

sun's vibrant rays caress

my arms and legs —

with long, luminescent fingers

leaving a slight impression of golden fingerprints.

The choppy, green water foams and churns beneath me, -

lapping

Gazing down,

at

I

on the

my moistened see

my

reflection dancing

water's surface,

and the brightly bejeweled

Longing

feet.

to join

fish

them,

I

dancing beneath

it.

inhale deeply,

preparing to plunge into the liquid

crystal.

moment, I find myself floating backwards.

The sun's rays are replaced by the

But, at that

obnoxious intensity of overhead

and the

lighting,

tantalizing waters that

would have enveloped me

now enveloped by

gold frame.

are

a gaudy,

Chris Bradley

Savannah Springer graphite

In

a

dark part of the

city,

Where people sleep on cardboard beds, Sui-vival takes on a new meaning; it means Getting through

a brutal

winter

Without catching pneumonia.

They roam

the streets looking to dig

Their next meal

like

up

an archaeologist.

People with malnourished bodies

Expose their ribs through their

An x-ray.

skin, like

Their discovery means new

life.

Forgotten by an entire world, they Live to see

if a

new day will bring

Second chance in

Where

And

the only light

smiles of those

a part

of the

a

city

comes from the hopes

who make

it

another day.

Jeffery Watson

Nicole Tyson oil

David Slone oil

The in

of

tip

its

my pencil

yellow uniform.

poses for a

moment

on a half-sheet of paper, marooning my thoughts, confining them to two narrow edges before they flee

They're fleeting

my grasp. at best,

trying to elude the graphite that pins

to the

No

them down

prisoners held

like

ground by stronger hands.

barbed wire here,

no razor

fence,

but with minds of their own they ignore a

and

slip

before

I

call to

attention

over the edge

can catch

Margaret B. Hayes

a

hand.

Nikki Fillion ceramics

S^M/.^w/iS^^e^^/e I sit

on

the dock in late Augxist

breathing in thick, humid, sweet

summer

air

my feet slowly in the lake warm like my bath, dead water my murky green reflection stares dipping

back

on

at

me; and

pierces through as

as raiy feet

stand weighted

the rotting wood, the sharpest splinter

my thick flesh

words sometimes do, certain broken words

like failure

shattered,

and committment,

mangled oak,

which cuts deep,

hits the

bone, and stings

in the fresh, bittersweet, heart-break

of the lake in

Jamie Ball

late

August.

Kelly Shaw

pen drawing

I

was just your average a

man — 2-5

kids, a pretty wife,

house in the best suburb of New York.

Each lawn spread out

like

patches of the same green quilt,

no blade of grass longer than

its

neighbors,

each house a carbon copy of the others.

I

worked on computers, and

thanks to constantly crashing servers I

spent a lot of time gone on business.

Milkawee called again,

me right away, I told my wife. kissed me and told me to hurry home.

they need

She

I

assured her

I

would.

The plane touched down, I retrieved my car from overnight parking, and started for the house.

In the best suburb of another I

parked

city,

my car and greeted my wife with a kiss.

I

was, after

all,

just

your average man.

Sarah Swofford

m//i//^^ yf^c^f^

Don't pretend that these are tender moments.

I

told

you

like this

There

that there

would always be days

where we swear under our breath.

are things neither will

comprehend

about the other, locked into the cruel vault of consciousness, hs. the orange flame

of your pining cigar whittles to ashes against the coolness of the sky, that

I

embrace you that

I

don't

like a mistress.

some jealousies

feelings

myself

tell

are better than others,

the one that wants you to

Then your head

I

myself

tell

know what thoughts or

come back

to

me.

crested with curls roiling

like the restless sea turns,

your cheek

brighter somehow, the kind folds

of your eyes speak

softly.

like vagrants, they say,

Come

at

the edges

let

us talk

our words the only

necessity that will leave us never satisfied.

Maghan Lusk

Rebecca Shaw acrylic

Kristy Eppolito digital

photograph

No

inspiration, only lack of sleep-

Am

I

to

be creative in

This asks too much,

My I

friend,

I

I

suffer

I

am

all

must

I

I

my

feet.

fate.

is late.

sleep.

give up.

creative notions gone.

not sure

I

Oh look — line I've

Abandonment

again, again.

—

theme too deep.

blending rhyme and

be unique before

try to

I fail

a

lacking; time to face

find no hope.

I'll

simple form mandate.

do not expect

struggle, merely

My sonnet,

this state?

this

can get through twelve.

muck.

this

Hooray! I'm almost done!

only gotten through by sweat and luck.

Petrarch

— he had

a

weird idea of fun.

Maghan Lusk

^/^ 'C^'e/^^o Wheat that

it

as this

is

sleeping underground, yet

will

I

vow

ripen in our eyes so long

know no wrong kneading of your brow

path goes unforked.

in dirt-caked palms, the

I

turned over now,

like fresh tilled rows,

the

your

mockingbird's love song

sickle spine, the

in your kind, upturned

soil,

mouth.

I've

walked alon^

befriending fresh horses, a polished plow, a

double harness wanting use, and must

place in thirsty earth to wait for the

my unfounded

fears

blooming heads of hope. Dust

reapers, clouds, soothsayers in oil-black tiers

darken the ground. Be rain, I

have lain fallow

Maghan Lusk

all

I

will

not

these winter years.

rust.

Bonnie West mixed media

Emory Cash acrylic

Heather Dowell

mixed media

This place

I

know,

so thick with trees

one wonders

if they,

like friends after a binge,

hold each other up.

So close are the

fabric's threads,

one could weave if

a net,

wool in hand were wound

from tree to tree.

It would soon a covering be, but not for catching things.

This place stretches

No human

foot,

free.

not even mine,

disturbs this sanctuary

for

little

no one

things

ever sees.

Margaret B. Hayes

Dianna Morrow oil

I

have packed

my bags and

closed

Leaving the heaviest of burdens deep in

Only

a

more long and wearing miles

few

muddy wellies

after

tight,

my dark suitcase.

until peace

Leave your beaten, old suitcase Like

them

at the

and

serenity.

door,

an April shower.

Take off the anchor that has been tied around your ankle.

Like a ball and chain weighing

Walk down Feet

on

for at least a while,

And all

you

all,

at the

it

brings with

you will do

your deep hole with endless

Closing

it

tightly,

door.

will escape the real

the baggage that

At the end of it Filling

a prisoner.

the sand, heart in the clouds.

Leave your worries

And

down

to the ocean, light as a feather,

and off I

will

it

world

it.

again.

issues

and such.

go back to

reality,

A crowded bubble full of confused faces awaiting failure.

Tying I

The

this

slowly,

my ankle once again, make my way back home.

anchor around but surely,

black suitcase, full of clothes

Feels of

from

nothing but dead weight,

as

a

weekend spent

heavy

Antoine Robinson

as a

at

the beach,

bucket of wet sand.

Beth

Ann Johnson graphite

Dorian Gunnels digital illustration

Dianna Morrow oil

Amber Dumas acrylic