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THE LANCE
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By Mel Allen, Jr.
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Is there anyone out there?
I need somebody to listen right now.
Can you here me? Friend? Mom? Dad?...Somebody?
I woni take up much time, I promise.
Please listen.
Hey you! I know I've never met you t>efore.
Even a complete stranger will do for now.
Would you mind lending an ear or two?
I wont take up much time, I promise.
Please listen.
Am I important to anylxxly? Is there a
Person who will admit they tmly care?
I just want to tell you something special.
I won’t take up much time, I promise.
Please listen.
I guess I'll just talk to myself again.
I should have teamed by now, nobody loves
A person like me. I'll listen to myself-as usual.
I woni take up much time, I promise.
Please listen.
Ail I wanted to say was that "I love you."
It's hard to tell yourself that — But who do
You tell when nobody cares about you?
You see, I didn't take up much time.
Did you listen ...yet?
— Randa Richards
December 8,1986
End of Her Reign
Reading with deep anticipation
My eyes ponder upon a foul deed
A goddess struck down from her ihrone
Within mid-air, her body projects light
Her heavenly body, turns to shadows
The sky mourns her decline
With fierce tears, the sky cries
As her body ceases to be.
—J.F. Bradsher
IP"- V
%S’ .
I dance the dance I call attraction
twist and turn towards satisfaction
girls they shimmy and they shake
unaware of hearts they break
Now 1 dance the dance of death
no one to share this feeling with
unspent motion flowing free
still they will not dance with me
Here you see the dance of life
full of pain and grief and strife
I dance this dance in the public's eyes
safe inside my heart's disguise
The dance you see is Poetry
it flows from deep inside of me
and if I dance my poem for you
1 hope you feel it flowing through
—Jon Pargas
Harry
He 5at quietly in a second
class railroad car.
I thumbed through a book
purchased at Dachau that
uery day.
Dachau: the first Nazi
concentration camp,
a paragon of torture,
dehumanization and
death
The beginning of a daric page
in man's history.
Rn aged hand politely reached
for the book
I gave it to the man
Such friendly eyes
He looked at it quietly
not needing to turn a
single page
Memory was his book
He handed it back to me
Then steadily he pulled up
his sleeue to reueai the
branded numbers
They were his copyright.
He spoke no English
and I no Polish
but the word he spoke
told all
"Ruschwitz"
—Heidi Jernigan
Reflections from fibroad