Terry Parker High School - Chieftain Yearbook (Jacksonville, FL)

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The Common Wecdplant Behold the persistent ubiquitous wccdplant. Observe in what places its ignorance allows it to grow. Note its utilitarian evergreen foliage. See oh what numbers of progeny on Earth it bestow. The wccdplant is progenitor of liveryman's garden. Though later it turns into venomous foe. When elegant tropical ferns do supplant it. Who once could only be grown with a gardener's hoe. Student Poet: Susan White. Student Artist: Sandie Van Dyne. Medium: Mixed. Wind 'rite wind is an intangible thing. It lingers for a moment, then it is gone. Wind's essence can't be deciphered. We seem o think we know it. Then it betrays us And we are bereft. Docs wind really exist? Or is wind only an illusion or dream? Wind's time is so short. Is what we consider wind only a figment of our lonely imaginations? Where dots the wind go when it leaves us? Into the blank void called Hell or If it is good, t leaven? But how could wind lx: good or bad ? What evil or goodness is it possible For simple, innocent wind to have? Student Poet: Susan White. Student Artist: Terry Brown. Medium: Chalk Pastels. Potpourri. 291

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Student Artist: Pat LcCIcrc. Medium: Bluprinting. foxfire Crickets droned ever on and on. while tree cast shadows crossed o'er the grassy floor. Meadows faltered by the edge of the wood, sivaying. as cool winds shifted the afternoon about. Contented fox relaxed beneath the ferns. his tainted red hair glowed in the slanted sunlight. Drowsing eyes saw visions of the hazy far wood as he slipped further and further in rest. Rumbling heavily gainst earth and sky. horses advanced, crossing the meadows like hares. following the hounds in a blaze of horns with riders who thirsted for the maddening hunt. Grasses swayed gently as fear's grip held the fox. cruelly focusing his attention upon his nearing pursuers. Then throwing himself into flight he left seeking the safely of distance through the fields. His wits slowly emerged from the grasp of despair as he instinctively ran a hazardous course through the tangled low underbrush, briars. and thickets which would stumble the steeds and bar the dogs. Yet on came the hunters, ever closer and closer. seeking the bloody death of the fox. who otherwise would l c lying peacefully hidden within the shadowy ferns. Ilis heart quivered madly and distorted his gaze. Panic lay close upon haunches and heart, causing his flight to be no longer carefully chosen. but only a hopeless path to the distant dark wood. The hounds closely approching bayed their lust. O'er fences and thickets the hunter rode on. goading their tired steeds on to still faster gaits. No quarter was given, no mercy was laid out. Dangerous woods filled with black fears before the fox lay offering safety in knit underbrush and peaceful dells. The fox entered into the low-lying brambles leaving the hunters to curse the foul wood. Student Poet: Leigh Armstrong. 290

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Once upon a lime Ihcrc was a great apple tree. They say it has always existed And nobody knows where it is. So the exact time and place don't matter. This apple tree spent all of its time making apples. Apples. Bright, red. round, perfect apples. And the apples it made received praise from everyone who look the time to look at them. But no one ever looked at them. One apple in particular was like every other apple that had ever been on the tree. It was bright, red. round, and perfect. Why it looked good enough to eat. And indeed it was good enough to cat. But everyone knew it was a sin to eat an apple Student Artist: Julie Marchioli. Medium: Pen Ink. Student Poet: Don Nihoul But there was one who didn't know What everyone knew. I ic was a worm. He smelt the perfect fragrance of the apple. And had he thought, he would have thought. There's something good enough to cat.” He crawled out of his hole in the apple tree trunk And inched and inched and inched his way along the apple's branch. He mounted the apple and for a reason he didn't think of He set about to make a dinner of the perfect apple. The worm was long and round and slimy and grimey. An absolutly horrible, miserable beast. And if anyone had taken the time to look They would have wondered how this slimy beast could have come out of the tree that made such beautiful fruit. The worm started his feast and got no protest from tree or apple. He ate into the apple and out of the apple and around and around the apple. By now. the apple was no longer bright, red. round, and perfect as it once was. The apple tree knew this, the apple seemed to know this and the worm didn't think. The apple tree, because it knew this, shunned the apple that it had made. And the apple fell to the ground. The worm, slightly shaken, didn't know anything had happened. He continued his dinner. Now the apple which the apple tree had made and shunned Had a core with many seeds. The seeds had hard shells and were aloof from the rest of the apple. The shells made them inedible to the worm who had no teeth. But the seeds knew what was happening to the rest of the apple. Also, they got their life from the apple tree. And with only the apple they would soon dry up. So they cracked their shells and started to grow. The seeds sprouted tiny, tiny apple trees. Some called them sons of the apple tree. And the tiny apple trees they felt brought them the same life as the big apple tree. And the seeds grew and grew. But the cracking of the shells made the seeds vulnerable And the worm in his ravenous hunger Did not care what he ate of the apple. And he continued his dinner. He ate the seeds and the core of the apple and left the tiny apple trees on the ground to die. And he ate the rest of the apple, he ate and ate and ate until there was no apple to-speak-of left. When there was no apple to-speak-of left to eat. the worm slowly faded away. Meanwhile. The apple tree, of which nobody knew from whence it came Or when it came from whence. Was busy making apples. Apples. Bright, red. round, perfect apples. And the apples it made received praise from everyone who took the time to look at them. But no one looked at them. 297 Potpourri