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Page 24 text:
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THE RIVER WHAT IS OURS Ours: The miles and miles of slope and sage and Rolling ridge; The great canyons and giant cliffs and Isolated, noble monuments; The lacy lakes and glistening waterfalls And dark rivers with mistic thunder of waters. Ours always: The seasons, the shrill icy blasts The intense cold, the steely skies and Crisping snow; The thawing mud and the bleached grass Swept by spring storms; The pleasant skies and balmy summer breezes Playing in the verdant growth; The glorious golden autumn When it’s always afternoon and time stands still. Ours: The time to repose and contemplate Nature’s continuous harmony; The purer thought and keener mind Evoked by nature’s pure aesthetic inspira¬ tion; The time to think and act before Our thinking puts an end to doing; The responsibility, yea, the duty to keep the earth And it’s sweet affluence; A world of mounting momentum and increasing speed And accuracy. But... Let our inner thoughts, our purer thoughts, Slow down and find a way to conserve the natural earth. — Norman Schmidt A river left the mountains And grew as it sucked dry the easy flow of plains. It raced along its rut taking slow bites From imprisoning banks of dirt. With courseless energy and uncertain fury It swung frothy aims in defiance, Struck with sudden savagery: Caught an unwary tree, Pulled down a bridge, Engulfed a highway, Smothered a nearby huddling field. Then strong-backed cliffs stepped out And with unfaltering conscience Cramped in the stream Until its surly waters Sank beneath the dark-waved sea. — Jim Edwards DISASTER AT SEA The foghorn sounds its lonely wail. The moon retreats from sight; Slowly the wispy ghost-like veil Spreads thickly through the night. From out at sea the fishing fleet Returns to end the day, And sailors rubbing tired feet Await their hard-earned pay. But now the urgent call is raised, One ship is still at sea; The sailors only listen, dazed By the sound of the lashing sea. The captain and his crew set sail To help their comrades in their plight; Suddenly, they hear a dying wail, As the doomed ship slowly sinks from sight. The foghorn sounds its lonely wail. The moon retreats from sight; Slowly the wispy ghost-like veil Spreads thickly through the night. •— Carol Schroeder 22
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Page 25 text:
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BEYOND THIS HORIZON Beyond this horizon The immortal storm rages, Bringing childhood’s end To a young, tired people. The tomorrow people, Emerging from the caves of steel Into the naked sun, Pilgrims through the door Into summer. Dwellers in the mirage Of forgotten time, We stand alone Among the green hills of earth, The sands of eternal time Drifting through our clutching fingers. Here gather the stars. The far reaches of man Are as futile as the grasping Of an ant, attempting to move A mountain. Unless — Unless man emerges From the morning of existence Into the afternoon of intelligence — A golden sun Rising on the glory that could be. — James Grant Thiessen HE CANNOT FORGET The rain beat hard on the roof of the world, A dull, dark silence was there; Catching the rhythm, he turned around And glazed his eyes in a stare. A vision he saw — a wonderful dream, Charlotte was there by his side; But she seemed so distant — so far away Like the ebb of an outgoing tide. Then Fate stepped in and dealt him a blow — What was this? Only a dream? His joy had changed with the blink of an eye Into pain and a smothered scream. But the silence came back, and with it the rain, The pattering people of thought; It was only a dream — a wonderful dream, But why must it be of Charlotte? — Luther Pokrant THE DRIVER The Jaguar lies inert in the garage, Her potent, sinuous length Suspended — on four squat tires, The rubber smelling of open air and concrete horizons. A young man walks briskly into the garage, His smooth, clean-shaven face puckered into a tuneless whistle. Office-keys and car-keys swing in noisy unison Around a blocky, determined index-finger. With youthful dexterity He enters the machine And maneuvers it into the street: A strong right hand Clutches the gearshift knob And snaps the transmission into low gear: Left foot and right foot De-clutch and accelerate In smoothly synchronized motion: The Jaguar leaps ahead, Rear tires screeching in masochistic delight, Dual exhausts spewing out a deep-throated roar That peaks and falls thrice Before car and driver blur into the horizon. He parks his car at the office, And gets out. The engine makes odd little noises as it cools. The car is one ride older — Metal fatigue has set in; The tires have lost some tread; There is a new scratch in the body paint... Meanwhile, the young man strides into his office Refreshed by the early morning ride. Warm blood pulses through his hands and feet — He is ready to drive the world. — Robert Buhr 23
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