Newspapers / St. Andrews University Student … / Oct. 22, 2004, edition 1 / Page 16
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16 ii OFF THE WALL Week of October 22nd. Pheonix Gilbert Abraham Staff Writer Each day I feel my wear. I feel the oxidation slowly burning me from outside and within to ash I feel wings then form in the grey silence of the still I feel the quills materialization the slick raw wet afterbirth and the loftness of the sky that bore me beneath my wings again. Crumbling Land Have a short story, poem, drawing, or other work you’d like to share? Submit it to the Lance and it could be published hei'e in the Off The Wall section! Subit your work at the Communications Of fice TODAY! Matthew Stucke Assistant Editor / look around me... Crumbling land: Crooks and thieves and ugly things Crooked wishes, fading dreams Willing madness waiting brings Windy willows shriek aloud Witches servants all about Sentinels watching closely Seeing eyes of glory Set the course for homeward stories There we’ll find our sheltered young Theaters strum our favorite song Thousands of years, but still just one Offerings brought to praise the dawn Often, she’s the only one Offended, alone, I now return Allies now all but forgot Alliance has no meaning Alpine planes with snowy dust Follow me all, bring your lust Anniversary Matthew Phelps Contributing Writer Beside the tent where the clipped lawn turns to thick pas ture he pinches a stalk of long grass at its base between his thumb and forefinger, pulls the grass and shows me the collected seed in his hand. This is how the turkeys do it with their beaks. He is still a hunter, though this year he has stopped chasing the big game. Im too old now for anything but the birds that come to my yard and offer themselves for my taking. I listen to his breathing that is like the guttural growling of a bear. The rumbling from deep within frightens me. He is dying, not in the sense that each of us are, but in the way that old people should not have to. I hear his wife telling my father that his heart has been fimny for some time. Today, on their fiftieth anniversary, they have collected what is left of their wedding party. I see his death in his wife and daughter, in the way they watch him knowing he has been in bed two days and arose this morning with energy borrowed from a pool that cannot be replenished. I see it in the way he looks out over his land, in the way he speaks to old friends as though he might not again. / was bom here, you know. I follow his gaze to where the afternoon sun casts grasping tree shadows against white clapboards. A barn swallow swoops in and out of its nest in the eaves of his house.
St. Andrews University Student Newspaper
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Oct. 22, 2004, edition 1
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