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^i)t Clarion Merarp
Supplement
Tuesday, May 1, 1984
Photograph by Cherl Harrison
BY MYSELF
It’s a dark, dismal under-the-rock day.
I just want to run away.
No where specific,
Just somewhere unrealistic.
Where nothing matters.
I just want to be left alone.
A place, by myself, that I can roam.
“^^ere can I go?”, is all I ask.
Finding a place seems a bigger task
Than going there when you’ve found it.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright.
It’ll just be me slipping from sight.
YES!
And then,
I lose niv shoes
To (lance
In socks on sidetvalks --
Sot mine,
But someone's
ff'ho has
Heard the tune I felt
And said
In this there is a poem.
Jane Roberts
THE LISTENERS
The forest whispers.
A cold October wind moans
Throufih the dark
Dark tvoods.
Speakinf! in loiv tones.
The t'oice of the forest
Whispers to the night
Summoninf! the stranjie
And the unknown.
The I’oice calls out
softly, softly.
The wind murmurs.
A melancholy sound.
A forgotten language.
And in the forest
Hidden beneath towering trees
That loom like ancient sentinels.
There are the listeners.
Silent and calm
They listen to the night tvind.
(Failing for their summons
Waiting for their call.
Then the wind begins to howl
Like a raging demon hound
And the command is given.
The listeners emerge as
They feel their power grow
Stronger, stronger.
Slowly they begin to make their tvay
To the (fathering Place.
The waiting is over
And their answer echoes
Through the dark forest
W'e hear. We hear. We hear.
Lisa Funk
Barry Deitz