April 19, 1989
Page 5
Scared to Dance
The doors and windows are
all boarded up;
The neon sign is now light-
less.
I used to dance for 10 cents
a dance.
But now the dance hall is
gone.
Night after night, with an
ticipation,
I would take one dollar,
I would dance nine daiKes,
then stop.
Scared to spend my whole
dollar.
You caught me watching
you.
So you asked me to dance.
We stepped on the floor
together
One cold January night.
My dance was strange.
But you tried to follow.
You save me your hand.
Then you took the lead.
I danced with fear
That you struggled to
overcome;
But every time you moved
forward,
I would gingerly step back.
My moves frusrtated you.
But I feared your dance;
Afraid that I would be lost,
Forever in my prison.
Night after night I waited
for you,
I was scared to take the
chance,
I would'nt dance the tenth
dance, yours.
So we could no longer
dance.
You left the dance hall long
ago.
Leaving me no reason to re
turn;
But I went back time and
again.
Hoping to find you for one
more dance.
Still night after night I
wander by;
And night after night I
wonder.
What if I'd danced the tenth
dance?
What if I had spent my
whole dollar?
Quill and Ink
DO NOT SHOUT
Do not shout
those crippling lies
when walls collapse about
you
and your mind can't hold
its bitter thoughts
or memories anymore.
Do not whisper
CTuel ideas
wihtin the noise of crowds
so your voice
will carry far into
unconscious minds of
virtue.
Do not speak
of evil once you've
turned a naughty stone
and your pride that once
was power
is conquered
by your shame.
Do not say
you've seen the light
and ask me to befriend you
when all I see
is brewing hatred
lurking in your eyes.
Do not cry
on shoulders
that are open and recieving
and feel sorry
for your hardships
and your lonely, darkened
days-
for dwellling deep
inside you
in your heart
and blinded soul
is the antedote
to poison
that's possessed you all
along.
—Amy Cox
BY THE LAKE
By the lake
Welcome to my painted
room
where acrylic eyes
tell shadowed lies and
I behold true fruit
surreal cobwebs veil
she is picking flowers.
the modest clock.
And as I gaze
Suspicious sighs hover
the old man says to me
between doubt and
he says:
bridges and
"Son,
(dali died today)
I've learned that all there is
crutches crumble
to life
beneath images of a
is having big toys
madman
and lots of green paper.
Gala smiles as an atmos
I've collected my fair share
pheric
of both.
skull becomes the bust of
so I believe it's time
Voltaire,
you go and do likewise."
becomes the last sup
And I looked at the old man
per.
and I looked
the self-portrait of a
and I realized
sfranger.
that
then abstracts through
I'd rather be picking fruit.
time
—David Southwood-Smith
and space
and minds
and is gone.
—Georgia Goff
i