Ocean Township High School - Sandpiper Yearbook (Oakhurst, NJ)

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TEARS, FROM A WOODGODlS SOUL In a secret place, a place that was never meant to be secret, a place that could have been shared by all, if not for jealousy and lust and greed, the woodgod stirred. At peace with the land he adored, his veins now thick with stagnant blood, both spirit and springworid would soon be apart. Along the banks of a healthy green meadow the wind stroked the surface of the lake, making it wrinkle. The lake it- self was deep, its waters a solemn green, murky, almost grim. It was fed by a small brook, which moved like cool liquid glass over smoothing stones and featureless sediment. Its move- ments were serpentine, as it slithered around sandy clearings and over the roots of thirsty trees. The sun shone brightly, as it always did, since there was never any night, just as the season was always spring. The air was comfortably cool. As the brook emptied into the lake, its waters swirled about a hard, solid mass. The water frothed and splashed gingerly over cloven hooves. Hands, as dark as fresh-tilled soil, formed a cup in the water and brought refreshment to an eager mouth. Wearily, the woodgod turned his head, as if touched by an un- seen something. His eyes were sad and unrested. His eyebrows were like fallen arches; his beard was straight and thick, and failed to hide his bleached lips. From a thatch of thick, curly hair, finely sculpted horns rose majestically from a troubled brow. All around him there was an air of frantic calm. Once more, the woodgod turned his head, his neck tight and cramped. But there was nothing around to warrant his cautious behavior. Enough. It was time for him to go. He rose painfully from the shallowness of the brook on trem- bling legs. He had thick, bushy thighs with dense, soggy fur. His calves were slim and sinewy, once fleeter than those of a wild stallion; but no more. Weak legs carried him towards the waiting meadow, while his hooves clupped softly on the fine green mattress of grass. The meadow was conversing with itself. Daisies whispered secretively to daffodils. Sequoias mumbled with disinterest. The violets ignored them all. The sun pampered the tall trees as they groped for the sky, and beneath one such tree the woodgod found himself a bed of grass. Mosses hung lazily from the branches of the tree, while some rested on the roots. He lowered himself to his knees, physically exhausted. A breeze brushed his back, and for a moment his stress was gone. lt returned once the wind withdrew its gentle touch. Stricken once more, the woodgod settled against the tree, his back to the bark. He lay on a cushion of grass, examining his handsome fur. He found fleas. Biting fleas. Fleas that had made a home in his flesh, fleasithat had made a meal of his blood. He buried his fingers in his chest and scratched furiously at the dried scabs and caked flesh, where the fleas had made their feast. The madness ceased, but only for a moment. It would soon return. The woodgod turned on his side and winced. He reached behind the tree, his fingers falling stiffly on his pipes. He placed them to his dry, withered lips. Exhausted lungs inflated the 15 Copyright 1980 by Jim Herbert pipes, and the air was filled with music, as the woodg played. He played with the gentle caress of a fawn for its mother. played with the sweet odor of daffodils wetted by morning de He played with the warmth and care of a shaft of sunlight. played with the succulence of honeysuckle. He played for lo and he played for life, and he played for the beauty that co be found in all things. When he finished playing, he bent his head in solemn co templation. He removed the pipes from his fevered lips a stroked his cheek with them fondly. He set the pipes very g : tly on the ground beside him - for the last time. From acro the rolling hills and waving grasses, a breeze washed over h and kissed his forehead. He leaned back and looked up i the branches of the tree. He saw the dark green leaves and t outstretched arms, the welcoming embrace. And the woodg felt grief. And he cried. He cried for the harshness of ingratitude for the ache of loneliness for the decay of neglect and for the affliction that was hatred. The tears streamed from his eyes; not like the crystal-cl- waters of some freshwater stream, but like a broken wat main. The tears had always been there; they were nothing n But the stress had become too great a thing to bear, and so . tears forced themselves free, wrenched from the woodgo soul, spilling like sour milk or rancid honey. There was noth very lovely about the sight. Nothing at all. At last, the well of tears ran dry. A rasping cough rose fr the woodgod's tortured throat, tightening his chest lik- clenched fist. And there was pain: pain from the thickenin- phlegm and corrupt mucus in his trachea, denying him bre pain from the vile juices that poisoned his insides . squeezed his intestines. Pain from the sickness that infecI his soul. He carried on that way for some time, writhing on the gro i like a worm in a frying pan. At length the spasms subsided, - as always, the pain remained. He settled back against thet once more, the mosses pillowing his head. Dimly, through a colorless haze, the woodgod knew that was dying. The knot in his abdomen felt like it was rippin was. The sores on his hands and feet discharged an obsc yellowishness. He did not know these things, for he could ' very little now. His head felt light, as if it were drifting. He co hear the trickling of the brook, even as his sight failed, : everything went black. The moist sweetness of honeysu lingered in his nostrils, then slowly faded, as his heart stop- beating. A relaxation he had never before known slipped i his body, as the cancer smothered his lungs and the deep ll of pain faded from his face. And he was dead. The wind shrieked mindlessly over its precious loss . struggled vainly to stir the lifeless form. Then the sun fled : the darkness came, and all was terribly quiet. The woodgod wept for many things. He did not weep for death. Jim Herbert l81

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Sassoon jeans, Bass shoes, 14 karat gold. Going out with John Smith, t21 years oldi. Feathered hair, C'naturally blond i, designer framed glasses. Strutting down the hall to her level 1 classes. Oh hi Jim! Hi Joe! she says, tquite phoneyi, I'm having a super party tonight. tinvitation onlyi. Oh Sally! Sally! Did you hear? You're really going to flip! , she says and then goes on with her detailed gossip. Her diamonds glisten brilliantly as she walks on, This girl who we all envy, the girl who's never wrong. Oh what shall I wear tonight? is what she's thinking of, This girl the guys are always after, This girl who Is above . all the other low life in their faded jeans and shoes, and other such clothing which is far from being news. And we all try our hardest to get up there . But we know we'll never make it. so we just try not to care. Lori Huntowski '82 THE FO HGOTTEN WOMAN She sat there . . . The old lady. Her hair no longer golden, Her skin like dirt, Dried from the sun, Thirsty for moisture, It once possessed. Years have stolen her youth. Even the chair In which she rocks, shows signs of constant use. She is reaching out to God, So heaven may swallow her. For being alive and lonely. ls worse than being dead. No one cares or remembers- The happiness she brought . . . The smiles she smiled . . . The sacrifices she made . . . They do not remember- And as she rises to heaven She peers down on her chair, In which she rocked, And she remembers. Robin Slutsky '80 Love- a game two pawns in a struggle to win the prize of peace and contentment. Kathy Basso '80 337

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Jeffrey Fish man '82 As the gray gull soars Upward, his beseeching cry Echoes his lone-ness. Loretha Blank '80 Eternity A lone butterfly Winds its never-ceasing path Among the daisies. Loretha Blank '80 339 Alice Madden '80