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

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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

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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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BS 103 by joseph Krakol Hi, Arlene. All set? Yes, I think so. I really appreciate the ride, joe-Babe. I hope I didn't forget anything. You know, It's funny, but I always seem to forget something. As long as what you forget isn't that important - know what I mean?,' Yeah. Oh, well. We should hit Hartford in about 40 minutes. I don't think there'll be any traffic. So how was your week? Tough, really tough. It was a tough week - four tests. Yeah, I had five myself. You know, Arlene, it really ticks me off. It seems that our instructors schedule tests for every fourth week. It's like a conspiracy. Four tests in one day. Now there's no way you can study for four tests in one day. It's ridiculous. Yeah, I hate it when they pile the tests on us. I did pretty good on three of them but I think I flunked one. I just hope he grades them easy. I hope I passed, but I don't know. Fm just glad to get them over with. Yeah, it's a lousy way of looking at it - just getting them over with. It's like thinking of college as getting your whole education over with. Guess what I've got to do this weekend?', Get loaded? I don't know. Well, besides that, I have to prepare a speech for Speech class and I don't know what to do it on. It's got to be five minutes long and I have to be in inanimate object. I don't know what to be. Why don't you just be yourself ?', Thanks a lot, joe-Babef' No, seriously. Do you know that last year I took some personal preference tests down at the Administration build- ing and scored highest in public speaking? But the funny thing is that I hate public speaking. Like to write though. I don't like to write but I like talking to people. I don't like to talk in front of a group though, I get too nervous. Yeah, me too. rt But what am I gonna be? I got it! You can be a tree. A tree? Yeah. You are a beautiful creature deflowered by the rape of winter's frigidity - whatever that means? Gee, that's pretty good. But I couldn't do that. Besides, a tree isn't an inanimate object, is it? It's alive, it moves, right? See the wind blowing that tree over there?v Yeah . . . I got it! You're a radio. People turn you on, and you turn people on. Sure . . . young and old alike turn to you for enjoyment, yet, at times, it's your task to be the bearer of sad news. And when you tum people off, they turn you off. That's pretty good, joe-Babe. I was thinking of being the Statue of Liberty. You know, 'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses? I would enjoy watching immigrants as they catch their first glimpse of America. Not bad, Arlene, but the Statue of Liberty just isn't you. She's green and covered with pigeon crap. Besides, only a catatonic schizophrenic could hold her arm up like that, even for only a five minute speech. Your arm would start drooping. Imagine being the Statue of Liberty and looking like a Nazi. Let me think for a few minutes. Q'o.K.,J0e-Babe' Here you go. You're a hockey puck. . . . No, listen! This is great. Here's your speech: 'I am a hockey puck. Oh, you may laugh, but you don't know anything about my past. You see, I wasn't always a