Fairfield Community High School - Reflector Yearbook (Fairfield, IL)

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' ,. . LA. L Aa WW THE REFLECTOR SENIOR POETRY Donald Medler's a regular guy Tho' he never knows when, where, or why. When he's called on to speak Theres not even a squeakg He says nothing lor fear it's a lie. I really wish lI'm sure you dol There were mole girls like Mariloup Her wit and charm, her ease and grace, Make this dull world a brighter place. I can see, can you not, too, What makes the sky such glowing blue? It's Judith's radiant beaming light, Reflecting like the moon at night. Wandas cute, I must admit, She has that undefinable it g She chatters on from morn to night. And seems to think the world's all right! -Leatrice Lemons. OUR SENIOR CLASS So in our modern Senior Class We dream about our future years, Our li'e we know it's not just fun And yet, we think not of its fears. 0-ir classmates we shall not forget When we are old and drink our tea, But even then, to tell the truth, We cannot know just what will be. The first, a girl named Robie Ann, She sure is fun and knows the way To get the grades we make our goal, And still has time to joke and play. Another girl is cute and short, She waves and calls to each and all: Her name we know you've guessed by now, Naomi, smallest of the small. A boy with hair as red as fire, Fe Weds fo' love, he's just plain Bill: Miss Marlin has no patience left When he is through with English drlfl. We must not overlook the tall, Elizabeth. with queenlv grace, She'll always have that quiet air Though she wear lavender and lace. The last, but not the least. by far, A Senior boy with eyes of blue. His name is common but not he. Young men like him are very few. -Dorothy Hollinger. THE DEFEAT OF A POET The melancholy day: have come, The saddest of the year, Miss Mazlin picked her pencil up- For there's no rhythm here. Stacked in her basket dry and cold, The poets dreams lie deadg They are the solitary thoughts Of some poor senior's head. He was a. worker, long and hard, His theme it was sublime, Mifs Mazlin poisoned all his hopes- I-lis poem wouldn't rhyme. I-le used the dictionary, the text, The encyclopedia, too, But even then he was aware- His poem wouldn't do. But then ,alasl He missed the thought! It should have been in rhyme, No matter how much we work or try, Miss Marlin doesn't mind. We work and work and get no rhyme. Nor do we get the feetg But as lou read, you'1l surely see Our educations not complete. -Betty Eiuozn. SCHOOL Though I have toiled all night and day And worked my fingers to the bone, I've miszed a Louis-Nova fight To study English all alone. Though I have stood out in the rain, Walked through the cold and snow and sleet, To find when I arrived at school Icicles frozen on my seat. Though teachers scowl from time to time, That is, from morning until night, Though I've been cooped up in spring' When the sun outside was so bright. Do you think I'd have this changed? Do you think I would if I could? Think you I'd want to leave this school? You can just bet your life I would. -Russell Wilson.

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' ez THE REFLECTOR E'-'-1-' SENIOR POETRY ENGLISH IV Onoe upon a morning dreary, while I studied, worn and weary, Over composing poetry in our English IV. As I Wrote, erased, and rewrote While I frowned, and thought, and fretted, fretted o'er my English IV. T' is some poem, I muttered-for I had my English IV. Just a poem and nothing more. Ah, faintly I remember, it was getting near November, And each and every Senior, wrote a poem as before. For in vain I had tried to borrow fzcm my classmates of tomorrow Prose, blank verse, or poetry, poems for my English IV, For I found no rhyme or rhythm, in my poem for English IV. Only words and nothing more. -Jean Miller. THE MAN OF TOMORROVV A parody on The Man With the Hoe . Bowed by the weight of self pity he 188115 His head upon his hand and gazes down, The brilliance of all lmowledge in his face. On his imagination he believes, The burd of the world is on his back. Who made him dumb to problems that are real? A thing that leams not and never be- lieves? Who has designed and molded this weak spine? Whose were the hands that made his life easy? Whose was the brain that has done his thinking? Is this the Man the Lord God made and gave To build and lead our great and free colmtry? There is no shape on earth more wrong than this And none more useless to the human race. He is slave to little pleasures of life, And he is foe to all that means labor. Awake! O parents of America, How will the future reckon with this boy? How answer his futile questions that day. When he is forced to think and work alone? --Edythe Rheay. A HIDDEN TALEN T I think if God had meant for me To be a. gushing poet, I-Ie surely would arrange to see That I at least might know it. It seems that I would have an urge To write about things lovelyg But I don't want to write a dirge Or talk of stars above me. The stars are slivery, bright, and clear, I love to watch them shining, But alter that I sadly fear, The picture starts declining. Due to these facts, I think it best That I should not endeavor To put my thought in anapest, But leave them mute forever. -Wanda WHtErS. LEISURE With apologies to W. H. Davis What is this school, if full of care, We have no time to sit and stare. No time to sit within our class, To stare at the trees, sky, and grass No time to see the airplanes pass, Os see the dog-fight on the grass. No time to think in broad daylight Of the swell time we had last night. No time to watch the clock until It's time to leaveg so say we still- A poor school this, if full of care, We have no time to sit and stare. -GIHC8 M8.yET. A

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- '- -' THE REFLECTOR -ll' SENIOR POETRY DREAMS Whatreasonwuldtherebe? Aslhavesaid, I'd rather dream than think. And though I've thought It did no good because I gained but nought. And then, as lively fancies through my head Insist on madly wandering, instead Of stately, staid, serene thoughts, I'm wrought To find I'm rather pleased. And I have sought, However much in vain it seems, to stead My flight of common sense, as does the night With great determination try to hide The stars' uneven journey from our sight, Thus all we mortals to our dreams confide What really lies beneath. I cannot write, But only dream, of things that lie inside. -Dorothy Brown. THE THREE SENIORS Three Seniors were writing their poems one day, Writing and working when their week had begun, Each hoped his poem would pass Ma.rlin's way But on Friday they wrote stillg no poem was done. for Seniors must write and Seniors must weep, Though there be no harvwt worth-while to reap, And Miss Marlinis warnings be coming! 'Shree poets kept writing till the lights w t out: They scribbled and marked the verse as they scanned, 13117. the rhyme was all wrong or the rhythm in doubt. Somehow those poems wouldn't work as they'd planned. For Seniors must write, and Seniors must weep Though iambic pentameter disturb a night's sleep, And Mis Marlins warning be numbing. 'Ih'ee semi-ghosts tumed in stories in verse The Judge took them, looked over the meter, The Freshmen oou1dn't do any worse, Or 'Ihere's one or two too many feet here. For Seniors must write and Seniors must weep, The pcor things died softly and fell in a heap, And Miss Marlin's warning kept humming. -Judith Zimmerman.