Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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The Gray Man by Kathy Waltz A gray man sits in a soft cushioned chair, leaning his elbows on the window sill. As he gazes out his window on the second floor, you're sitting in the sun across the street. You watch as he turns his head from one direction to the other. Then he notices you. He stands up and leaves his watching post. You see the curtain, shaken by a breeze. Then you ask yourself, Why am I here? Here standing on the soot-cov- ered steps. Here to live? Here to grow old and wait for my death, or here to enjoy every minute of my short life? You think of all the many sights the old man has seen, and all he has learned. All the hearts he has broken, and all the love he has earned. But the gray old man comes back to his window and rests his back softly against the chair. He takes notice of your gaze again. He remembers his days of life and vigor. The time he was the star on the basketball team and every girl swooned at his sight. He remembers growing up. All the things done: alone and with friends. Then he recalls the day of his marriageg and the day of his wife's death. His head falls back, and you think he's fallen asleep. A sudden breeze shakes the window closed, and the curtains are left silent. You turn your head and see the kids at the park. Then your mother callsg and you turn around and go upstairs for dinner. THE PARADOX OF DREAMS Through life, men weep, as dreams come crashing to their feet, And then they wonder why they cry. I sometimes think men reach too high. And all men know that pies in skies And castles in air disappear. They vanish in the atmosphere of memories. And yet, the dreams of men ring through the halls of conquests and fulfillment. They are loud and clear for men who didn't have to cry Because they didn't let dreams die. While we scar ourselves with hope- lessness and cunning schemes Stars shine upon the dreaming man Who stumbles as he goes his way. His dream will be his life someday. Doraine Riley

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It will be easy to make them think I'm still only stupid. Mom and Dad keep saying I'm just a slow leamer and that I'm as smart as anyone else. But thatis just because they're ashamed to admit they have a stupid daughter. They are smart, Mike is smart, so they want me to be smart. So all I have to do is make sure I don't act crazy. That way they wonit have to be any more ashamed of me than they already are. Mike's the one I have to be careful about. He was the first one to know I was stupid. If he finds out that I'm retarded, his big mouth will tell everyone. I'll have to stay away from Mike as much as possible. Cathy, are you going to swim or aren't you? Yeah, Mom. Right now? Cathy stood at the end of the diving board. She concentrated on the water ahead. At least I can dive better than anyone else. I may be a second-rate person, but I'm a first-rate diver. With carefully measured strides, she ran to the edge of the board, leaped off and entered the water head first in perfect formation. She plunged downward until she reached the bottom. Voodoo He bared to show his needle marks, I sipped another beer, And though the foam Soon filled my mind The marks were still too clear. Soft stuff, soft stuff. . . We need something To take away the pain, And cushion All the needles, Now stabbing at our veins. by Glenn R. Turgeon PENMANSHIP With every and each word scratched by his pointless pen man errr etches a dull despairing doodle: the err dictation of a thumb-sucking mouth. by Glenn R. Turgeon

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The Hunt How can I know you my moon-mannered friend? A napkin of night covers all of your lap. The table is round, yet you eat at the endg The bottle is empty, so you put on a cap. You stand at the fire with your front to the flameg The dark side before me: A piece of pure art? ,You turn, yet my vision is always the sameg The wood holds the light side -I do not. How can I know you my moon-mannered friend? I hunt for the day when our sleep will blend. Glenn R. Turgeon With only life I live this song. And with this prayer Am I as mild and high As he himself. Without given thougt I am the expressed. Robert D. Tourelle HAIKU The moon is jealous Of her sister the sun who Lends her light with love. Patricia J. Eldridge