London Central Secondary School - Golden Glimpses Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

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TO NANCY Waiting softly in my memory playing with my mind Coming through with transformation leaving consciousness to find The rippling fading water dabbled upon by someone Seen playing, like a virgin arms wrapped around the sun Won ' t you please tell me why? Cause I want to know the reason she is always there lurking Hidden by the shadows that cross my eyes Rooted deep within her silence I sense the feel of wonder (but her fleeting shadow escapes me) And I ' m lost wonder who she is and shy Obnoxious scenes of turmoil that graced us in the past Waiting, slowly coming then turning on at last To see her golden body resting like a flower But hidden from my view by a timely ageless hour Then it comes into my mind she ' s unreachable forever And I want to draw her to me and touch her but never Never Never hurt her for what ' s lacking is feeling And I see her dimpled softness And what ' s seeing is believing And I love her Doug Agnew And I awake and find myself looking Through the long abandoned thought waves that were spelled out crystal clear upon my wall Waiting for the moment When I realize my conflict and wondering why I waited for the call But it ' s hard to be me As I wander along the railway track hiding from the fears I left in bed And the statue is Apollo And he runs through the graveyard Passing over the long forgotten dead Yes, there are many who have run out of their wits for women and become servants for their sakes. Many have also persisted, have erred, and sinned for women. Oh you men! How can it be but women who are strong, seeing you do this? anonymous

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The sun was starting to set directly in front of her, and the spectacle was greatly enhanced by its fiery rays. As she leaned against the railing of the deck, she happened to cast an eye on the water below. It had taken on a rich ebony colour, deep and dark, as though she were looking down a well. She found this phenomenon equally incredible, as she was used to the clear turquoise of the open sea. Then she noticed a series of objects, that she guessed to be the beginnings of a trail leading into the port. She was fascinated; a number of red and silver tin cans floated by, then a whisky bottle and the remnants of a couple of wooden crates. All looked extremely promising, and sure enough, looking up she found she could make out a vague silhouette of the great mass of land that lay ahead of them . Through the haze, which incidentally had now become quite dense, she could distinguish a seemingly endless row of sky-scrapers and tower-like chimneys, out of which billowed forth brown smoke. Among these buildings there stood one that seemed to dominate the others, being superior in grace and height. It was shaped somewhat like a mammoth church spire, where the crucifix had been replaced by a television-aerial. It was indeed awe-inspiring and Miss Higgins would have gone on admiring it, but she was taken by a fit of coughing and had to search her purse for a handkerchief. It was then that she noticed that the few cans and bottles she had seen earlier on had greatly increased in number: she could see hundreds of them at a glance and they seemed to grow thicker as one approached land. Mingled in among them were various other items, some of which she could distinguish as being pieces of metal or plastic, and others that were undistinguishable and just contributed to the prevailing stench. Fortunately, Miss Higgins had never before seen such a spectacle and was much too surprised to be disgusted. She simply turned away and began to contemplate a large statue that had loomed up ahead of them. Through the smog it had an ominous appearance; brandishing its club, it seemed to threaten those that admired its grandeur. It stood huge and black against the burning orange of the setting sun. Miss Higgins was so enthralled by this majestic idol that she didn ' t notice that the boat had slowed down to almost a standstill. The water had become so dense with refuse as they approached the shore that the boat could move no further. Kate Collie The thing of it is, we must live with the living. Montaigne It is the business of the future to be dangerous. A.N. Whitehead

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Lemming Finally, I am alone. Just my heart pounding and the occasional Cry of the seagull, Circling overhead. My legs are anchors And I fall onto the beach, Embracing the sand and feeling it Squirming free of my grasp On the retreating swell. The tide is impatient and tugs at my heels. It is almost time! the waves whisper As they gather ' round. I am the last one Upon whom they shall Perform their duties. I see nothing in my Last backwards glance. There is probably only the beach, the dunes, The small square of white Where my wristwatch and glasses lie in carefully-concealed Expectation. I turn. With gleeful anticipation the young waters ease me into their midst. I hear the trumpeting screams of my last conspirator As he weaves above me. And 1 begin all over again. -Xenophon AUBREY BEARDSLEY 1 Aubrey Beardsley set himself down on the edge of a cement tree planter outside the London Life monolith. And as the secretaries swarmed by on their pointy high heels he drew quick sketches of certain faces to be immortalized in the quiet ink whips of his art Subscribers to the Yellow Book would delight in 1896. Andrew Davidson