Broward Community College - Silver Sands Yearbook (Fort Lauderdale, FL)

Page 25 text:

1 N N v- 5 I 5 ,, -F-I.-3,-.5-F.,-ff-, ,, . -...,j' ,'.sa v'-. K I... - '-- ,. ..Y.,.' a. , . ' .. A' Y his -v- A 4.4 HE rain stopped falling just a few minutes before I stepped out the door. The soft, gentle breeze which blew against my cheek and ruffled my hair was warm and moist as though a wet piece of cotton was covering my face. The clean smell of wet earth was wafted to my nostrils as I breathed deeply. Although the rain had stopped, the sky was still filled with clouds in varying shades of gray floating lazily before me. In the distance blue-black moun- tains of clouds were massed against the horizon, pouring out their tons of water upon the waiting earth below. Palm trees swayed in the breeze like graceful . , R f.-. N f 1 s ,gm - 4 Sb, N- X.- xr is 'AW . il ballet dancers. Leaves skipped along the ground turning over and over like happy children doing cartwheels. Water trickled from the eaves of the porch and glistened on the emerald green leaves of the ixora bushes. Tiny drops of crystal water spar- kled on the pink hibiscus blossoms like diamonds as the first rays of the sun poked through the part- ing cloud cover. Gay ripples played across the pools of water standing in the driveway. The storm had passed. Once more God's earth was refreshed by the cool, clear water which had poured down from His heaven. I stood in wonder and awe before the beauty of this land after the passing of the summer shower. 17 1

Page 24 text:

'Y' 1 16 Ulla cgafzaigilzkcj fain BY JEANETTE MACHINSKE For Mrs. Ne-da Hil1's English 102 Class q 'x in Q -' Sf s X

Page 26 text:

cle to a gema e cfogenafzian 18 BY DAVID WATKINS FOR MRS. NEDA HILLS ENGLISH 102 CLASS The caressing touch of each finger to a key, the whispering hush of felt striking wood, the grop- ing and gnashing of ebony and wire, all lavish them- selves to my supervision, to 1ny fate, and to my everything. Yet my piano is not wood. She is pressed uni- corn horn transplanted and crystallized from an aqua-tinted raindrop, she is gargoyle skin, webbed and silken-thatchedg she is the plucked, feathered carpets from the shiny parlors of Olympian maidens, she is the stretched beams of tossed-away prisms, and the retrograde whirlings of excavated minds. Yet my piano is not wire. She is spun moonbeam trapped in a rusted thimbleg she is the tarnished porcelain from bloody spiral stairxvays in the Louvre, she is all the evaporated thoughts that have con- densed on the roof of the world. My piano is my soul, my treatise on each sculp- ture and syndrome I fancy or profane. A cynic of cynics do I become when I mount her lap and pat her head. My piano is more than a friend. She senses my moods and releases my dreams, she bickers and pouts when I doubt my esteem: she echoes the songs of my flesh into the prolonged nights which I know as daysg she consoles my laughter and sighs at my despondency. I cannot see into me without her eyes. I cannot curl my fingers around eternity and dangle my arms off this scaffold of reality without having her as a lifeline to shore. XfVhen I touch her, flesh against flesh, there can be no tomorrow, there can be no forever, and there can be no darkness. She cries out in my anger, whis- pers to my passion, and lavishes herself upon my moments of delight, my hours of creation, and my songs to the very brashness of the gods that gave me a woman I could enslave in the timeless void of unimaginable words.