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Page 115 text:
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RITES OF A NATIVE SPRING Sprout, bloom, spurt, New love. Snuff out the idiots! Blades of fresh green grass stab, My dripping mind, Bursting the dam of icy water-dreams thawing. Cascades, white foam churning, cool, clear, refreshing. Dewy eyes giddy, Showers of sights. Avalanches reversed. PLUCK THE DAISY MAN. Light slipping around silhouetted trees, shadow people, Sneak, hide and go seek. A game for twinkle-toed elephants. Stab me again, Laugh at the sight of your own eyes skinned of opaque corneas, Open the lid on your glass covered head. Ears, like cabbage leaves pasted on an erupting volcano floor, Observe the scarlet flowers popping open. Why are they called tulips? CARYN WARD AUTUMN Golden red drops of autumn fall from the royal blue sky and fill my bucket with the sounds of golden coins. Moonbeams and orange sunsets give light to my world. The black cat has disappeared. from my doorstep . . . Together we eat ripe pumpkins and dance with the falling SPRINGTIME EUPHORIA The earth cracked open that year and from its depths emerged a shivering naked spring. The clouds weighed heavy on my shoulders and pushed me down into breathing emerald grass. lwalked dazedly across the world of green sponge catching and keeping stars in my mouth. The birds joined forces in the tremulous strains of an aerial opera and the branches shook. While crowds dressed in rags hid in the shadows throwing rain in my face and trying to bring me down. Calling me didn't help because I breathed only giring and heard only those that lived in my head. IUDITH PFEFFEP. AUTUMN You are born like a candle in the darkness leaves from highest tree tops. You glgw like the reflection of the sun We slay the fire dragons with our swords. You burn like the consummation of your Self We walk through brittle forests and collect the You die winter flowers that wait for us. like eternity unexplained. TINA LADAS HELENE GROSSMAN O
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Page 114 text:
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C THE SEASONS SPRING Isaw the new green birth, fed and nourished by the sun's secretions, push through the hard, frozen, winter earth like the birth of a new child. . . Isaw them dance in the gentle wind by day and pray to their pagan Moon God in the night. . . Isaw flowers at dawn, whose colors poured across the meadow and reminded me of the stained glass window, where I. alone, was, knowing that God was angry, and the thunder lit up the church and sent the colors streaming across the floor, and lon my hands and knees, trying to pick them up . . . lsaw the dead squirrel, fthe rotten odorl, who had died on his sacred journey to the next season, lying beneath the huge, old oak tree which has stood here forever like a bent old man who walks slowly with a cane, awaiting the vision of the Angel of Death. TINA LADAS THE SALT WATER CACOON Iam emerging from my madness in the Spring of creation and l am seeing with newborn eyes the world, as tears and gladness intermingled. ln the Park, the lovers waft on sullen brown waves beneath the shell they sit in and they feel the brightness illuminated after the shedding of a saltwater cacoon. lfeel the brightness refracted from tears of winter stillness and the open air cafes along the streets of happinessi reflected in my visions. Vendors sweep the sidewalk with hot dog stands and Madison Ave. displays its latest output for the columnists talk. And lstroll with burning feet, scarcely noticing, for the salt tears are gone and Iam immersed in the brilliance of the after-death and the reborn: the awakeningg the new and lam sharing my wealth with othersg but I long to know if what they feel is the same and not scarce or few in the worldg by the Lake. lt is very beautiful to be alone, when cherry blossoms fall with over-ladened heads. lt is very nice to dream. It is very nice to be alone: and quite beautiful but not in Spring: only when cherry blossoms fall: not when souls feel unity and seek it and vagueness of my eyes discolor the unexceptional and Close out all ldo not wish to See, when there is no sight. ADELE GERAGH TY
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Page 116 text:
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Anthony Armato photography Alice Cardoso 400 ,oV. 2 5 Alan Weitz
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