G Ray Bodley High School - Fultonian Yearbook (Fulton, NY)

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. f 1 f QFOHGEHQJJ ,yj . . . A ! ' A daisy growing wild in a field of tall IE, A N An empty desert with only a few cacti growing .4 K ' here or there. I-V Lx-'J 'fl' , A dark, silent night with only one star that can be ' f f 'ibn W . seen. The waves crashing against the rocks making music no one hears. A leafless tree in that barren time between fall and winter. A deserted bird's nest blowing aimlessly in the wind. Me, sitting here, writing this, and thinking of you. fb. A X! Terry Zahler ,r 1-J X ,W -- - 42 i . N l l 5 ff! 7, i ,qw A N if ' f fl l. 64 'QA f QS f Y f Q ll f , I . -X . it Z i X ,J-f,1 lf 2 1 4 yo.. um am.. You walk along the streets, Or through an alley way. You walk along the beaches, With the sand beneath your feet. You walk the towns and cities, And wander from place to place. But yet you walk alone, With no one at your side. The one you cared the most about, The one you really loved, The one that said: I'll never leave you hun. Now all the lights are turned down low, And will never light again. For the one you loved has come and gone, And now you walk alone. By: ANNIE ARCADI

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On gbwfinafion What of all time is this piece that we live, to waddle and squabble, to crawl and draw and endless drain of nohow, nothing for those then to continue. Where meaning, who's screening the purpose of this and the endpoint for millions of billions of no ones headed no where by no way with nothing to say or give away. Cro-Magnon? Thru those then to we here, Chivalric, dominic, dictoric, Attila, Caesar, Hitler and George Never did leave any answers to what place to where now, to how come, to why? Must by they weren't all those billions those masses, not clever, not knowing, to where they were going-left nothing to work on or even a hint as to how us here now are to face it. All time has now passes and that vast unapproachable, even untangible, not very understandable haven of heaven called space in not conquered and not even death has been cracked. How. now are we to perceive, believe, that no one has never bothered to leave The answers to those most inquired questions, where to, how come, and by what means and why are we placed here to go where, - and now as we sit here, never to know just those questions, unanswered, to keep those inquisitive, nosey, aggressives from directing themselves the right way. The answers are there but they're drifting away On their long, mind bending, death sending ascension to the base of my mind which is blowing, not knowing. Daryl Wiltsie ij .Y .ix. QdKS-x 405. tru? , r4fl1Xff,.f :vs 'ur A f 1 'Qqf fish vi iwiirl, f-f3'41f'iEf'2bi.jSr?i. ,,?'i3'f11, i4.1'3iiff?T.?2 if l 4 ,f 73.5353 'gyabb , i ha 'A M Wk fcffff' ' I .-Iffifyi ' ff , - ff ,- Q 'Wy u ex 'm 1 W'1'f-'ew a--- '-ram.. ' f I , 1 W I - f Ilif f IQ! T , it PA' , ,ii I . I f I 'JU , f 1: Mlliw if I , i I 1 fu lil H Wg J. . R , I V , l M0 1 f fl '-Exif, 1' liillfllwi ,f f 'NUT' f , I ff f -Qulwlll. 1 I All ' I ' ff f wiiif-ill 'xl f ff f H X f XX 5 xx 1 ff f y RX X X x. X ff . -X

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jo .xg jeacher, ja .14 .grienac jz you To a teacher- This is what I write- He tried to keep fourth bell From raising hell. He never succeeded. He was only defeated. There was Becky- proud and short And Robin- what a sport. And Darick- with pizza on mind And good old Dugan- basement time. But despite the things we did And the teacher's book we hid. And the headaches we gave We always tried to behave! On the fourth of September Do you remember? That's when we first met What a sweat. You did more than teach You did more than preach. You made us learn But on your term. You taught- We bought- You cared- We feared- To a friend- This is what I write- In the one before I constantly rhymed HClzri.4fma5 gefegrafion H Snowflakes softly sailing silently to earth, Touching mountains with icy fingers, Marking the beginning of the Christmas season. People hustle-bustling through shopping centers Like five o'clock thruway traffic Or buzzing bees at a honey comb. Fireflies decorate ornament covered fake trees, Blinking from beneath the tinsel, Representing false symbols of Christmas. Christ didn't climb down from His cross yetg Annual trips to church are made, And joy is spelled P-R-E-S-E-N-T-S. Snowflakes softly sailing silently to earth To celebrate another bogus Christmas. By David Johnson But not this time. I write on this paper of white To tell the story of you. By the way I saw it By the way I know it. You were a teacher and a friend Never one or the other. You honestly cared About the students you taught. You were willing to give of your time To someone who needed it. You never said no To a question of help. You were kind and polite Always wanting to help. You made learning fun More than chewing gum. To you- This is what I write- I write this poem to you And hope you will understand. For all that I write is true It will only turn you red, not blue. What I'm really trying to say- is this You're the first of your race And the first to first base And you never failed to make a homerun. BY: ANNIE ARCADI E: alfif gk I lk ,ir it ,L o ,qt-gf lr: IE ,Q 2 ly, 9 y J gif Lili , XL ily' 5 . fx , , M.-f-:Y-N. A If jg' X l 1 fp 5 5' is M x C. . ,- 1 sm llllfw, lf, I I, Vw . ,, , 1 1 'l pl 1 l J lv IN ji ffl