THESHAWNEE
The Shawnee Silhouette is published quarterly by the editorial staff at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio. Subscriptions are available for $2.00 a copy or $5.00 a year. The three issues will be published during Fall, Winter, and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose, poetry, art, and photography.
Staff
Teresa Lodwick, Editor-in-Chief
Henry C. Mason, Poetry Editor
Tamela Carmichael, Fiction Editor
Janet Nesler, Photography Editor
Jan Stein, Art Editor
Ozela Journey, Staff Assistant
Phillip D. Kaltenbach, Staff Assistant
Printed by Shawnee State Print Shop
Kenneth Powell, Director
All submissions should be mailed to The Shawnee Silhouette 940 Second Street
Shawnee State University Portsmouth, OH 45662
Copyright, September 1988 All rights revert back to authors upon publication.
- lliusion
TABLE OF CONTENTS
GUEST EDITORIAL
Several years ago I was in a dentist's office waiting for my appointment thumbing through one of those dated magazines circulated among the medical offices until they assume some historical value.
I was in the middle of an exciting article on gum disease when a teenage girl entered the office in obvious pain. She had been crying and seemed to be at wits end. "I must see the dentist. My tooth is killing me!" she exclaimed. The receptionist asked her name and the girl quickly told her.
"Are you Tom's sister?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"Tom hasn't paid his bill for his past dental work."
"What does that have to do with me? I can't help it if my brother hasn't paid his bill!"
The receptionist, maintaining her cool and composed tone, said, "It means, my dear, that you will have to pay cash before the dentist will see you."
"I don't have any cash." The girl now was holding her jaw and the frustration and continued pain caused a new outburst of tears. "I have a check. Will the dentist accept that?" "Only if you can confirm that you have a positive bank balance," replied the receptionist.
The pain, the refusal to let the dentist see her, and, perhaps, no balance in the checking account caused the girl to scream, "I can't stand this." Then she ran out into the steamy South Georgia afternoon and I never saw her again.
Some months later [in an economics class] I was discussing social responsibility and told the class of my dentist office experience. "Now, class, what action do you think should have occurred in this situation?" A student in the back of the class said, "You," pointing to me, "should have paid to have her teeth fixed."
In all the time during and since the event, such a solution had never crossed my mind. I knew what the dentist's receptionist should have done and certainly what her mother should have done. I could have outlined a code of ethics for the local dental association. I knew what the dentist as a member of the world's educated affluent minority should have done.
In my judgment of all the players, the penalty ran from burning in hell to a stiff fine. What I failed to observe was that I had been called to the situation, not as an observerjudge, but as a participant. I still wonder years later how the life of all the participants would have changed had I simply volunteered to pay.
Looking around the world with all its problems, I am still tempted to point the finger of judgment. Then comes the haunting realization that the world's problems stem from having too many willing judges who do nothing and too few people whose actions point the way to solutions.
-A. L. Addington Provost, Shawnee State University
Boom To Betrayal
I didn't think anything could stop the b_ig mills from turning, churning out miles of strip steel everyday. The energy of a generation seemed locked behind their spin. Then they came on the tube and said that the economy was running away and raised interest rates until no one could buy our steel. They allowed foreigners to dump here driving prices down so low that our companies had to close down. Mill workers accepted their fate as graciously as possible on empty stomachs always hoping someday to be back.
But no one ever really comes back ... from betrayal.
- Taylor Pierce
The Casework.er
He ha.s tost his em pa.thy; a. despite now fuets his emotions when he sees the fa.ces, overty f a.mHia.r, in the w a.itin9room, their eyes seemin9ty Uke ha.nds rea.chin9 for his inner 6ein9 - -
He wonders how ton9 his secret witt 6e sa.fe; how soon his indifference to the consta.nt ta.Les of woe a.nd sorrow wHt stip pa.st this professiona.t ma.sR. of concern to present a. 9rin of sa.tisfa.cti,on a.t those other's misfortune
- KenStone
Roots
It all has to do with roots. It is the reason why so many people can not leaue this place. It is the reason for the resurgence of this preoccupation with a romantic look at the good old days .•. being in search of roots long forgotten, long pulled up, and neuer replanted. We need roots and continuity. There is reassurance and security wrapped around the dirt, built in the foundation. We find ourselues lost and disconnected without a place to call home. I enuy those with a Home place which calls them their own.
Now you may scoff that "home" takes a solid form. Is it not just in the mind? We haue long known that we need concrete, brick or wood - if you will, objects to embody the connection between things felt in the heart, known in the mind.
With one death, one passing of an old generation, a whole series of changes takes place. The parent becomes the matriarch, the oldest, and the child becomes the parent. The old home with familiar coffee, eggnog with rum, and pine scents and sights of milk glass dishes, cranberry glass beads strung, and twinkle candle lights, are like the tin type
photograph so treasured ... captured and lost at the same time. Rnd the yellow kitchen and the paneled den will neuer be the same. The solid sold as a piece of concrete.
Is it the change I fear or the symbolic erid of an era? Who do my tears splash on, my chest heauing with emotion? Nothing, euen after 30 or 300 years, stays the same.
-Christie Rdams
'Bewitcliei
Cnosen diila soft eyei witfi summer ireams, 6ewitcliei Gy moon{igliti tfancing 6arefoot in tlie niglit coo{grass of a country garien.
Bottom Line
There is not one person, In all the world, who Truly wants peace. Why Should they, for everyone Knows, peace has no profit.
- Dawn Zapletal
- Clayton Stabnow
Jan Stein
Herb
His eyes were more than unusual. They were borderline odd. Each had three colors black, dark brown, inside a circle of blue. They were watery when he got drunk.
No one could stand to be around him when he tipped the bottle, so he always turned to me ' cause I was twelve and interested in a lot I couldn't get away.
" Time you was a huntin' boy. You're big enough and old enough, but there's things you need to know. I got more guns than I need." He could only be talkin' about ducks.
He rubbed his chin that had whiskers of more colors than his eyes. He was a unique lookin' man with a particular view. Mom said it was the Indian in him.
"Take floatin'," he said." Ain't no fun, but a man ought to do it 'cause the river changes every year. You can't fall in love with a bar or slough. Find the place that ducks love, " he said.
" The trick to bringin' in ducks is bein' where ducks wanta be. You might love the river, but ducks love only parts of it" He used his hands when he talked.
He had hands that Dad said should never touch a wrench. They were always scarred and nicked. Farmers have to use tools.
" Mechanics are lower than poachers, " he said.
11 Only one good wind to a hunter, one from the north. Any other keeps the ducks off the river or makes 'm set ' til a floater jumps 'm. 11 Not bunting over decoys wasn't hunting to him.
11 Blocks can be put out in hooks or bunches. Mine are always the same, a group above, a group below, with some travelin' between. You got to give 'm room in front of you. 11 His watery eyes were deep in thought
11 It ain't everyone that can do it 11 He was speaking of duck - calling now.
11 It's what you say and when you say it, and not talkin' too much like I do drunk. 11 He was my grandpa. I called him Herb.
-R. Riverbuck
Sallie Traxler
Lost Home
You make camp steeped in the shadow of pine where the rock basin swells lush with fems,
where the river bends beneath undergrowth, its shallows running off into pools hidden deep within an inlet,
watching as the night's hue trails off across the thatched sky.
You sleep with your head nestled next to moss like a shore bird's nuzzled within feathers, awakening at dawn to a light rain.
A bird crests the river in search of trout, and mica glows up from the riverbed.
This is where you have come looking for your lost home, where the sun filters through trees ... remembering silence and the sound of soft rain.
- G. Ling
THE DEAL
"Let's go over it one more time."
Those that knew Jesse Walters well, and there weren't many, .would have described his tone as worried and troubled. For those that couldn't sense the delicate nuances of what was otherwise a soft, controlled murmur, it simply sounded menacing. But then his voice always sounded menacing.
He went on. "Six straight coke deals have gone sour, after the exchange. The Columbians have been caught each time by the cops, with the money, after a tip. They've lost nine million cash over the past six months. They're very unhappy, understandably, and basically blame us.
"To make matters worse, our end of the deal has gone bad as well, to the tune of 24 million - street value. We haven't lost any men, as if I cared, but the junk's gone nonetheless. The guys that have hit us, the few times they've been seen, are average height and weight, with ski ~asks. The junk hasn't hit the streets, the cops don't have ~t, nor app3!~ntly, does _our comp~tition. According to our informers, 1t s not a police operauon. The question is, Who's doing it and why?' "
Tony Maheen rose from behind his desk. The three men in the roon worked for him but they knew nothing of his background, beyond 12 years back, so they couldn't know his controlled, cultured voice wasn't always that way. The slu!lls of _Miami aren't known for culture but Tony had . trame~ himself to look, feel, and be the picture of an executive. Maheen wore the role well and liked it. But now he was unhappy. The drug empire he'd built over twenty years, was in danger. He'd had trouble before but had always known instinctively how to react. This was unclear and he didn't like it. It took all his self-control to stay in his role.
"No, Jesse, that's not the question. I've told you before that I'm convinced the police are behind this regardless of 16
what our inside people say. All this started right after you wasted that cop, Rodriguez. It was an unnecessary move and that's what's brought all this on. What we've got to figure out is where the drugs are and how to convince the Columbians that we're not behind this. If we can't do that, our supply line is cut off and we're out of business."
He reached for the phone as it rang, listened for a moment and hung up. He addressed the three men. "That was Walker, at the desk. The Columbians are on their way up for our meet. There's only two, and Manque isn't one of them. You guys are to keep your mouths shut and let me handle this."
As the two Columbians entered the room, the thug who'd held the door open moved to the left while the other stood ready to the right Walters remained at Maheen's right hand. It took no more than four seconds. The Columbians opened their coats, drew the machine pistols they'd hidden, and opened fire on the four men in the room. Maheen died in the first burst of bullets. Before leaving, the Columbians turned their weapons on the paintings, crystal and art work around the walls, then marched out to the crunch of their feet on the glass. After the cacophony of sound, the silence was nearly painful.
Ed Francis watched the last of the body bags being carried out of the shattered office. When he and his partner, Phil Bailey, were alone, he threaded his way through the broken glass to Bailey's side. Both were silent for several minutes until Bailey turned, made sure the office was empty and spoke. His tones were hushed.
"Well, Ed, it's over. I've been on the force for almost twenty years and this is the first time I've set somebody up to be killed. I'll tell you straight, I'm not overjoyed with the way I feel right now."
"We've been all through this, Phil. These guys were scum and we both know it. They arranged the death of Rodriguez and God only knows how many kids they've hooked on drugs. There was no other way. Besides, we never killed anyone ourselves. All we did was bring two
gangs to a point of conflict This ... ", he waved his ann to include the room," ... is the way they lived and what caused them to die. All we did was bring 'em together."
Baily sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and spoke. "Yeak, well it's done anyway. We've still got the problem of all that coke hidden in the storage shed. What do you suggest we do with it?"
"Well, McGregor gave us all the info so he'd get his boss' job and he expects the junk as part of the deal. I'd suggest we keep our end of the bargain and give it to him. After all, a promise is a promise."
Baily was shocked. "Oh, that's just great! Create another drug lord to take Meehan's place. What's the matter with you?"
Francis smiled. "I didn't say there wouldn't be one more anonymous tip phoned in once he was in possession. How far do you think he's going to get holding that much junk and what's his explanation going to be?"
They left the room, broken glass crunching under their feet
-Robert 0. Peterson
Carrion's Call
Lady, hate is such a strange element caught in the moment's gold-a conscious willingness away from, a searing wound, kissing of cold metal where the lips sting, hold tightly as if some beast unknown weighs the spirit, teeth and claw bound. No release, a rope invisible. No birds sing except carrion's call-we a helpless breaking, a fall known by archangels, time and distance no matter from heaven's gate. Suppose, just suppose, some dark thought on broken wing flies past of late staring white wolf eyes, howls of fate with memory on latent crutches, dreams vanquished to powder, then think not love an ardent adversary locked and repressed from getting in. You cannot crush the yang to spare the yin.
-- Lee Pennington
Mark Rose
Seconds
I see the seconds of the night that wrap your body in blankets of blue shining darkness, Yellow and red flowers that lace your skin with sweet summer rain and kisses of gold french perfume. Your lips are pushed back with sugar coated fingers that trace the curves of your mouth as they leave dripping honey on your tongue. Your hair cuts the sky high above the mountains and twists the green rage left in the sea. You close my eyes with your fingers and your touch haunts my sleep with a realness that questions my heart's integrity! Glass lakes remove the broken pieces of your past and gives you thirst for the sun of morning edging on the horizon.
A word unspoken sits behind unknowing eyes and waits for the ever elusive second to escape into the twilight of all that has never been said
- Jeanpaul Ferro
Mark Richards
Close Encounter
1.. com.e to the ec:!9e of ti,m.e to ptay wi,th cri,sp September
a.nc:! ca.[£ i,t f reec:!om..
Here , the true sounc:!s
a.re a.[£ that brea.~ the thrushes' m.i,nuets. Here, the f a.i,ntest whi,spers
pa.ssec:! from. tea.f to tea.f a.re a.uc:!Lbte.
'.Even the sHence of the sun penetrates the treetops
a.nc:! wraps i,tsetf
a.rounc:! the stenc:!erest of trun~s, qui,etty.
When 1.. want to be a.tone, 1.. neec:! a. dose encounter w i,th the sLtence that the wooc:!s a.tone a.fforc:!s.
- Harding Stedler
Mark Rose
It Just Isn't There Anymore
The faded tin sign hung there crooked, and read simply, "Henn's Candy Store." with a rusty old squeak it would whisper, "Come in ... you've been here before."
And the sidewalk was a path laid with gravel, that ran to the end of the block which lead to the front step of Hennsy's, a step that was just a big rock.
And the front of the stucture was aged, like a tired and weary old man. All weathered and washed- out and wrinkled, it made you wonder how long it could stand.
Well, the second- floor balcony was cluttered, with clotheslines and porch swings and such, but the dull yellow film on the windows didn't bother us kids very much.
And I'd hurry with pennies and nickles I'd earned from a long morning chore to tum the crystal - cut door knob and throw my weight to unjar the door.
This store had once been a hotel of an antique Victorian style, I stepped in the used- to - be lobby, to the counter which spread down the aisle.
Though it never was very well lighted, the aroma was illumination itself, from the peppermint stix on the counter to the apothecaries lining the shelf.
Then Hennsy, as we called him, would enter, from a room in the back of the store. He'd reach down to get a cigar box off the patchwork linoleum floor.
Then he'd speak in a soft friendly manner, through a Captain Kangaroo style moustache while I studied the goodies before me and thumbed through my pockets for cash.
And he never once lost any patience while I was trying to make up my mind, or when he struggled to find me some candy that turned out to be the wrong kind.
And the treats that sold two - for - a - penny with a wink would turn out to be three, till the little brown sack would be buldging with the extras he'd trown in for free. ·
Then with what money I paid him, he'd pitch in his"King Edward" box, and with a thank-you grin I would exit and skip down the stepping stone blocks.
Then I'd open my sack with excitement and eat what I'd pull out by chance, realizing another small treasure, I still had some change in my pants ...
But with a sense even children could feel, this tradition was soon to fade out. With that new grocery store on the comer, it didn't leave much room for doubt.
With the neighborhood awestruck by "modem, " before very long things were changed; poor Hermsy was soon out of business, and the entire block rearranged.
They tore down that ancient, old structure, as always , more often than not, apartments now claim that foundation, and Herm's and the rest were forgot.
But I am one who remembers, and I think it's really quite sad, cause my children won't have the experience, but through stories they hear from their dad.
Bright boxes and cellophane wrappers can't replace the sweet air of that store and it's a shame cause I really do miss 'it, but it just isn't there anymore.
- Phillip D. Kaltenbach
Valerie Nesler
Mark Richards
The Walls Sing
Between walls claimed by cobwebs, beside fly ghosts (a final buzzing) sit
I my brown way into morning drinking my mirror, crossed feet to break barefoot chill.
Walls speak that way (perhaps it's singing). Long lines creep, sound like old houses settling.
The crack by the fireplace eases down to baseboard, up to ceiling.
I guess it a poem carved from the awful stillness of old wallpaper.
-- Lee Pennington
Ramona, My Angel
Maynard cast his line out in the water. "The fish just ain't biting today," he thought. It had been like this for two days now, and he was running low on food. The chill in the wind told him that the late December air would soon be filled with snow. He reeled in his line and headed back to the cabin. Pushing open the door, he felt the heat radiating through his clothes.
"Mmm... ," he murmured, and then he grinned. "I've out-foxed her this time; she'll never be able to find me here."
Night fell early and so did the snow. By morning, it looked as if a white sheet had been carefully placed on the ground, and Maynard's little cabin was tucked away beneath it in the shelter of the valley.
Maynard finished eating most of the biscuits he had brought with him, and he held the warm coffee cup between his hands. He sipped from it slowly, thinking, "I really ought to try to catch some fish for lunch, but I better do my chores first; looks like it's going to weather."
He walked down to the creek to bring a fresh supply of water back to the cabin, and then went out to the woodpile, carrying armful after armful of wood, stacking it almost to the ceiling near the back of the room. By then the sky had grown dark and it was only eleven A.M. Maynard had lived in this part of Eastern Kentucky for thirty -eight years, but he had never seen weather like this. He marvelled as the darkness settled in, but in the back of his mind, he felt uneasy. He lit the coal-oil lamp and lay back on his cot., remembering what his mother had said to him when he was about to leave for his one-week trip.
"Now Maynard, you married Ramona, knowing she was a city girl, and you just can't go traipsing off every time you take the notion. You just can't leave her to face the winter weather all by herself, at least not until she's learned about country living. She's your responsibility, and you best remember that"
Maynard got up from his cot and opened the cabin door. The snow swirled in so fast that it stunned him, and he
quickly closed the door, brushing the snow off his brown flannel shirt "What is this?" he wondered. "Something's bad wrong. Could it a bliz~d? In these parts?" He looked around the cabm, knowmg he didn't have much food left He felt a kind of fear he'd never felt before a fear grown men just aren't supposed to feel '
In the sh?rt time ~at the door had been ~pen, the cabin had (tlled with cold arr. Maynard shivered. He lay back on his cot and covered himself with a heavy blanket "It's ~er own fau,lt that she's alone," he told himself. "If she Just wouldn t hold on to me so tight, I'd be there with her now."
He thought about the thirty-seven years of his life before he h~ married Ramona. He remembered the hours spent alone m the woods, listening to the wind blow through the p_ines, and waiting patiently for the tell-tale bar~ of a squirrel. He remembered how good it had felt to be smgle, to.be free. But now things were different. He had sp_ent this whole last year just trying to learn to live a new kind of life, a life with a woman. "Women " he thought, "alv.:ays telling a~ what to do, like ~pe your feet, _and don t wear that shirt, it don't match. Women. So different from men."
M~ynard ate another biscuit. He couldn't see through ~e window now and he was afraid to open the door. He piled m<;>re wood on the fire and lay back on his cot "The snow v.:ill surely stop by morning," he thought, "It can't keep this up forever."
Again, his though~ traveled to Ramona, the way an old hound dog keeps commg back, even when it's taken a_cross three or four counties. It'll come back every time nght_to Y?ur door. Maynard just couldn't get that wo~ off his mmd, not ev~n here, in this secret place. He remembered the excited look on Ramona's face when he came ba~k home with his big catch of bass. She had helped ~rm.clean th:mjust like a country girl, and then talked hrm mto helpmg her fry them. He remembered how her eyes sparked, almost as if she were about to cry when he gave her those orange creek flowers back in the summer.
Maynar~ didn't know how long he had been sleeping, but a crackling sound had awakened him, and he wondered
what it was. He lay wide-eyed in the dark, then he heard it again. . th al "What is that?" he wondered and got up to hght e cooil lamp. He looked around, hearin~ the sound again. It was coming from the back of the ca?m. ~e n_io';~ closer to the sound "Good Lord, the roof is cavmg in! Maynard could see part of a tree limb sticking down through a hole. The wood he had stacked up earlier ~as all that had been keeping the roof from collapsing. Hurnedly, he looked around for something else to wedge under the swagging ceiling. He grabbed the ax and chopped off the pantry door. "There. That should hold it," he said, breathing heavily.
The cabin was getting cold, and ~aynar~ ~ould see snow sifting down through the gap in the ceili!1g. He grabbed his mattress from the cot and pushed it under the big oak table: He filled the thermos with water, pi~~ed up the last biscmt and crawled back on the mattress. Well, that's all I can do for now," he thought. "If she falls in, she falls in." Maynard covered himself with a heavy blanket He felt tired, as though he hadn't had any rest for a long time. He ate the last biscuit_ to give himself strength, realizing he hadn't eaten much during the last couple of days. .
Maynard thought of what his mother had said and admitted that she was right "Well, at least about a lot of things. I wound't be lying here no~, ~d 1 th~t the roof was going to fall in on me at any mmute_ if Id JUS~ faced up to my responsibilities; but when a man hv~s by himse~ for so many years, he kind of forgets about being responsible for anyone except himself. \YhY, s~oot, I ought to be able to resign myself to wearing a shirt that matches,. and learn to wipe my feet better. After all, Ramona was Just trying to be helpful." Maynard re?1embered ho~ she ha~ bandaged his leg after he had cut 1t on a com knife back in the fall. She had kissed him and said, "I think you'll liye." He thought of how she danced around and teased him while he was laid up, and those little_ black eyes of hers, . twinkling in the moonlight the first time he ho?bled out.in the yard, after his leg got better. Tears filled his eyes with a kind of mist "Gosh, I love that woman," Maynard thought. Eventually, he fell asleep, huddled there under. the table with the warm wool blanket wrapped around him.
Maynard was awakened by a crash. He didn't know how long he had slept, but when he stuck his head out fr?m under the table he could see light coming from the window. It was daylight. He felt excited, just like kid when he crawled out from under the table. He tiptoed across the floor so that he would not jar the cabin, and gently opened the door. The sunlight reflected in the snow. It seemed like a ~lion sparkling stars covering the ground. He pulled on his gloves and edged his way arom~d to the side ~f the cabin. When Maynard looked up the hill, he saw a sight he didn't think he would ever f?rget. His ~ttle black-eyed Ramona was coming down the hill toward hrm.
"I got here ~s quick as I could," she called. Maynard tned to run to her, but the snow was too deep About two feet of that beautiful stuff had fallen. He · ~a.tch~ her coming down the hill, lifting her feet hight. City grrl, my foot," he thought, "Why Ramona is braver than any country girl I've seen." When they finally met each of1?- er, there at the bottom of the hill, he hugged her for a long time.
"I'm sorry I took off like that," he murmured. How did you know where to fmd me?"
. Ramona l~ughed and said, "When a woman lives in this wilderness with a man she loves, she learns more in a year th~ some women learn in a lifetime."
You knew all along where I was, didn't you?" ,, ,She nodded, smiling up at him. "Come on," she said lets go home." · '
They walked ~p the hill to the main road. Maynard st?OO there, looking at Ramona for a long time. When she raised her arms_ to straighten her shawl, he playfully pushed her backwards mto the snow.
Ramona giggled, struggling to get up. "What did you do that for?"
Maynard r~ached out his hand, pulling her back to her feet. He put his arms around her shoulders and turned her around "Look at your shape in the snow," he teased . S~e looked at the ground where she had lain. The im~pnt was the shape of an angel, glistening in the sun. Ramona, my angel, " Maynard said. - Mary Jane Wilburn
Mefoay of'Tears
jf_n, frarp strommea 6y an. ill wina of ft.uman suffering echoes in tft.e gft.etto
To be published in Thirteen strewn witli. tft.e primoraia! ref1L5e of 6onaage ana alienation. •Sunaay {jfoOttUJ Sunaay • of learning ana retrwuti.on, suiciae ana insanity. 'I1i£ • 'Bal£ ana Cft.ain • of lnowfetfge ana wisaom fies smotlierea in an. opium fiaze wfiile areams arift in unison witli. tft.e mefody of tears.
-Xe.Mason
Sallie Traxler
A Garden Spot for Molly
"And they say she's nothing but a bitch." My mama wove the word through warm velvet lips one night when she thought I was sleeping sound. "That cat house is the reason most of the valley men can face lean years and lovers turned into nagging wives," my paw whispered
Now, I didn't know what a cat house was, but Mollie lived there, and she was as pretty as the china doll my mama oought me. I told her so once; I said it right out: "I'd like to be just like you, Molly, all smiles and soft strong." "This ain't no life, Lou," she said as she cold-creamed the smile from her face.
"You got to find a man who'll give you a garden spot, one who'll make you wake up singing." I was tending garden one new day, singing "Shady Grove" as I pulled the weeds when Ida Maybell Right dropped her thin lips by. "Well, that old whore's dead." She whispered the word.
"Didn't want no funeral, and a good thing; nooody'll miss her. She just wanted to be buried in that old cemetery, the one up on Quiet Green." I asked her would she like some of my sweet com; I had plenty--more than I could use.
Before autumn burned the last rose away, I climbed the Quiet Green with white and red. The old path was free of weeds and briars, and a loving wind kissed my shoulders.
I smiled when I saw her resting place nestled among the pines. It was garlanded with crimson roses interlaced with tansy and with thyme.
Shady Grove, my little love... Shady Grove.
-Louise Potter Logan
Survival
I am a part of Nature I am a part of everything that lives I am bound together with all living things In air, in land, in water. My life depends on Natureupon its balance, upon its resources and upon the continuity of both. To destroy them is to destroy myself. As a member of the human race I am responsible for its survival.
I am a part of NatureI will not destroy it!
- Jan Stein
I'M A COWBOY, ON A STEEL I RIDE ...
David Wolery
Dear Willie,
People who went North for the almighty buck made a big mistake. Working overtime, undertime and tween for that green stuff--only thing kept them sane was thinking hard on going home to the hills. Thought they'd give themselved a place to die and be buried by buying land back here; most did. Thought kids would bring their kids and they'd be summer picnics every year. Tweren't so, Willie. Kids don't care for country. They thought we's all slow-witted and dull-thinking, maybe. Thought good ground was just so much dirt, don't you see? Yep, them that went up North and came home to die, they left lots of farms that got "For Sale Cheap" stuck on em now, honey. Kids with a history of concrete don't know land's a collector's item. When you got some, you hold on to it.
Specially ifn your people owned it. You see, Willie, you and me, we know they ain't making no more land.
As ever, Emory
-Deborah Hale Spears
Valerie Nesler
My brother stood there, yesterday: He stood underneath a dark storm cloud, with the crackle-fire rising slowly up the slope until it consumed him head to toe.
"burn't offering"
-Ray
Goforth 3rd
In Praise of Reason
Myself was dull and heavy, And for the millionth time I explained away my life. Self and sadness were a myth, But the myth was blind with tears.
-Tom Nakano
On Man's Yearning
Poetry is like music: it speaks to the heart and the senses rather than to the intellect. It expresses for us an indefinable something, an expression that basic words can only touch upon, and, like music, frees a something within the soul to rise, to know, to learn. We're not sure what exactly, but an awareness creeps through the brain: an awakening that can only come when the soul is in communion with the universe. Poetry is the magic whereby we learn more of ourselves, the touchstone of our inner being, one of the "Whys" of our being--an expansion within the mind, a light that stimulates the thirst within us all to want more, to know more, and to search for the meaning of our private selves. Poetry, like music, has been operating on the soul since man stood in awe of his first sunrise.
Not only has man set in prose and musical note his awe; he has constantly tried to analyze that awe. There has to be justification! So, we read novels and through them we travel and see the world; we relate to life events and increase our scientific knowledge. We know where the author is coming from, but when we're touched by a word, a phrase, or a line of poetry, a question fills the mind. Why? We want to know what event transpired in the life of this person: how did he think, what, and where are the motives for such universal inspirations? We must discover the secret we feel and embark on a journey into the life and times of those that has possessed the magic to enter our innermost caverns, to see the empty, to feel the dark, to taste the mists that are ever abiding, wordless, in the
reaching soul of each of us.
We must understand the magic we feel. We've a need to break it down, to make it common; something small enough to lessen the burde.n of our quest, to bring the scope of our personal universe within our grasp and deny the intensity of the core of our being. We analyze!
By that analysis we have taken the music from the dance of the symbolic. If our great peots had the common usage of words to express, inform, and teach, they would have done so. It's much easier to relate in that fashion. What each has given us is so much greater--a symphony, a triumph of notes, a spiritual revelation of a deep personal nature.
Toe importance of poetry IS a personal thing, a reality that is different in meaning to each, individually. Toe mystery, the magic, the music, should be left there to be experienced in the personal way as it was meant to be by those who composed it. We should accept it as such, grateful to those blessed with the gift of expressing that which we cannot. No amount of word usage, in any form, can translate the songs our poets strummed. We should acknowledge, applaud, and revere this unique talent. It comes from the heart, the soul, the universe ... and speaks to the yearning of the heart in man.
- Helen M. Dr.{four
Myself Ad Neauseum
Intruding into the desert of my fears and the barren stretch of rule bound human touching, a women's hand reached out to me with life. A flower of warmth and love that her hand held, burst into unprotected blooming.
My heart and hand reached briefly out in defenseless love's response, and a flower bloomed in my hand. But I in fear and vicious life negation ignored and crushed the flower I saw within my open hand
And she in shame and pain - filled bewilderment, withdrew and closed her open hand, and in her hurting crushed the tender flower that was offered me.
Neither she nor I spoke of the moment we had shattered, for each looked to each for the flower of love, and in the blindness of our fears, denied the crushed flowers our hands held
The Illusion of Ten
Ten willows undulated gently in the summer breez.e. And ten naked maidens languored in their shade.
I sighed ten sighs in longing, and took ten steps toward the trees, but there were more than ten.
Ten tears and only ten fell from my eyes. Then my heart was silent until I cursed myself ten times.
-Tom Nakano
Valerie Nesler
Leaf i.n Autum.n
1. am crt..mson a.net transformed: from my munetant..ty; my vet..ns are rt..vutets, crosst..n9 th.emsetves t..nto nets t..nto Cattt..cewor~.
They are tace, rec! a.net ch.t..tti.n9, ft..tti.n9 wi.th. autumn.
1.sn't i.t oetci; 1. ti.ve tme everyone unti.t:
1. turn as rec! as a wi.th.eri.n9 sun , ciress myself cirop a.net eti.e.
-Stephen G. Reed
Illusion
Man is an animal, living in an illusion called civilization, afraid to live, but free to ki II at will.
PERFORMERS IN THIS DRAMA
CHRISTIE ADAMS, a member of the Board of t~e _Sout~ Shore Area Enrichment Council, was a recent partlcipant m the Appalachian Writers Conference at the Hindman . Settlement School in Kentucky. THAD BLIZZARD IS a literature major at SSU. HELEN M. DUFOUR is a humanities/fine arts major at Shawnee State. From Hope, Rhode Island JEANPAUL FERRO has previously appeared in The Sillzouette . RAY GOFORTH 3rd edits Bad Haircut Quarterly.
PHILLIP D. KALTENBACH, a student at Shawnee State, makes his debut in this issue. Recipient of an Academy of American _ Poets prize ~t Rollins College, G. LING writes from Key Biscayne, Flonda. LOUISE POTTER LOGAN is an active member of and a contest sponsor for the Kentucky State ~oetry Soc_iety. H. c;.
MASON poetry editor of The Silhouette, IS an English major at SSU. TOM NAKANO writes from Calif~rnia and has appeared previously among these pages. A nat~ve of Greenup County, Kentucky, LEE PENNINGTON Is one of Kentucky's poet laureates .. ROBERT 0. PETERS~N contributes from North Carolina. TAYLOR PIERCE IS one of the coordinators of the annual Shawnee Hills Poetry Workshop held at Greenbo Lake State Park each April.
STEPHEN G. REED is a Tampa, Florida contributor.
MARK RICHARDS is a photographer for T~ Open Air. A duck-hunting enthusiast, R. RIVERBUCK Is_ a m~mber of the administrative staff at Shawnee State Uruversity.
MARK ROSE from West Portsmouth, recently completed his degree in S~cial Studies Education at Ohio University.
DEBORAH HALE SPEARS is the new poetry editor of Muse's Mill From Big Sky Country, CLAYTON STABNOW makes his first appearance in The Sillzouette.
HARDING STEDLER, an "earth poet," teaches poetry writing at SSU. JAN STEIN is presently the art editor of The Silhouette. KEN STONE, from Portlandville, New York, edits the journal Thirteen. SALLIE TRAXLER is a communications major from SSU. From Maloneton, KY, MARY JANE WILBURN is a member of the Phoenix Writers. DAVID WOLERY is a member of the SSU Student Senate. A former SSU student, DEXTER WOLFE is now a research chemist in Columbus . DAWN ZAPLETAL is a first -time contributor, from Millbrae, CA.
The sixth annual Shawnee Hills Poetry Workshop will once again be held at Greenbo Lake State Park outside Greenup, Kentucky during the last weekend in April. Like last year, the Phoenix Writers will sponsor a poetry contest with attractive cash prizes to be presented at the Saturday evening awards banquet. For room reservations, contact Greenbo Lake State Park. For contest information, contact Lena Nevison (606) 932-3919, Charles Whitt (606) 9323621, or Deborah Spears (614) 533-1081.