December 3, 1987 THE LANCE page JJ Quill anrt INDIAN SUMMER J2HF ' V Leaves falling like snow and it’s 75 out side! Does this mean that summer is passed? Is winter on it’s way? The Indian summer is here with it’s wind Blowing the leaves like Toy soldiers falling in a mock battle. Yellow leaves to me are the best. Covering the brown and red, Yellow stands out like the harvest moon On a cool August night When all you want to do is hear The crickets chirp in the darkness. Indian Summer, how long will you last? Will you be here so that I can Rest by the lake in your warmth? Can you bring the butterflies back so I can Watch them frolic in the sunlight? But it will be enough if you just stay So I can relax, sit back, and breathe freely. Summer, you are Indian. Trees, your leaves are drifting to the ground; But you don’t just let them go. You have them light up your branches with Colours so brilliant They leave images Ingrained upon my soul. Indian summer, you please me so. You bring back memories Of hot sand at the beach, and Of walks along the creek near my home. You bring back memories Of watching wrens feed by the roadside, and Of fish swimming in translucent waters. But what do I love about you most? It must be your yellows, reds, and browns. But most of all I love your warmth that re kindles the Flame in my heart that winter tried to quench. JAMEY DONALDSON UNTITLED It hurts trying to break away from you ripping flesh puts the fear of Death in my Blood JON PARGAS UNTITLED Fantastic nexus ' you are not the ritual, even the way you dress excites me. You, folded under in a glittering veil of whispers. Soft and inviting eyes Take me deeper into your arms and embrace what stuggles within me MPB&PED ' UNTITLED Boco and I had been seeing each other for three years. Boco is a clown in a traveling circus. I met him in the ladies room stooped over the sink patching a run in his leotards with nail polish. Don’t ask me what he was doing in the ladies room because I don;t know and I never have asked. I write for a free lance magazine called “Good Karma, Bad Breath”. Boco and I have had our share of problems. I think it is because we are both left-brained. I don’t know, my psychiatrist told me that it lakes a year for a couple to know if they’re really in love with one another. If one or the other isn’t ready to make a commitment by then, it isn’t u^e love. ButBocoandlah-eady knew that. We weren’t in love. We weren’t even inlike. I really don’t know why we stay to gether. We fight constantly about nothing in particular. We know each other well- every flaw and insecurity-and we don’t hesitate to viciously attack those insecuri ties if the moment arises. Boco would constantly comment on my “lard-ass” and laugh at my attempts to become a writer. Every once in a while he would pick up scraps of paper I had written on and read what I had written in a loud sarcastic voice. He is, undoubtedly, the most arrogant bas tard 1 have ever met. However I would never let Boco know that he was getting to me. That would give him the greatest pleas ure in the world. What a bastard. If I wanted to get to Boco, I would usually comment on his bad breath or his dandruff or what a loser he was working as a clown in a traveling circus and why didn’t he get a real job. He would then retreat to the bed room leaving awhite trail behindhim. And I would follow — I would always follow. We would make passionate hate all night long and coo insults into each others ears. It was always wonderful, I don’t know why we stay together. ruth ECKLES UNTTTILED - ' . J * No Not even you Can change my emotions The tears will still fall My stomach will still sink If you only knew what’s inside of me now Your little world would topple with me on top of it I’d go crashing down down down into the dust The dust would soak up the tears and become mud and I would sink into the mud made from earth and tears BETH RUSSO UNTITLED The words won’t come. The words won’t come, The words won ’ t come. I hale trying to write When the words won’t come. The words are inside me. But they’re not interested In being shared. The words won’t come. The words won’t come. The words won’t come. Pond Scum, Bubblegum, Napalm. Who cares about the words. Nonsense emotions. Garbage To fill up the skull. The words won’t come. The words won’t come. The words won’t come. I wish there just weren’t anymore words. AMY P. KANE UNTITLED a sad guitar slides notes too blue i think of you my heartbeat blending with the song as the rain commences delicate ripples dance across the lake and i think of your hands feel the hollow emptiness you drove away with a smile JON PARGAS KISSES IN DISGUISE I give to you The smile The nudge My advice ^ The question The attention My secret My friendship (I’m content, because I care) My heart The reality (the tear from my eye —) The patience (the impossible?) Don’t you know? The kisses in disguise — I dare give nothing more. LAURA ROSE UNTITLED Riding that train he passed a lot of places looking out the boxcar doors saw trees and rocks and towns and faces a world of Hellos he missed the Goodbyes gone without a trace in the wink of an eye JON PARGAS MORE THAN THIS When Matisse showed me “The Good Life,” I forgot Darwin, Let myself forget him. And the choking idea of planned devotion to science asked to undo the catch and release its steady security grip. Let go? Would I rise above time-woven exjxjc- tions? Or slip through a greasy-walled path of uncertainty and irreversible mistakes? Follow the bold blind? Or join the skeptical searchers? A line drawn with a pointed stick in the sand often grinds another image with time. Shifting grains wonder if there is More than this. Screened through a sieve, the options sepa rate and leave all the sizeable chunks, easy to grab onto. But the flitting downfall of sparkle dust makes me look hard at the substance in my fist. Is there more than this? LAURA ROSE

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