Upload
doduong
View
216
Download
0
Embed Size (px)
Citation preview
CERRO COSO COMMUNITY COLLEGE Metamorphoses 1997 Editorial Board Lori Bernard, senior editor Mark Dallachie Natawsha Dawson Thandi Garrett Shauna Mulvihill Haroon Saleem Advisors Carol Hewer Rick Rivera Graphic Arts/Printing Diane Mourton Bill Surgett Funded by the Associated Students of Cerro Coso Community College 3000 College Heights Blvd. Ridgecrest, CA 93555-9571 (760) 384-6100
Page 1
Sestina, Southwestern Romance
You held my face, my cobalt eyes became turquoise
rays behind the sun bowing low and red.
We slept on a wildflower bed of yellow,
funny how love needs no cushion.
Awakening to the fragrance of blossoming peach.
Cool water on our faces tinkled silver
bells. Can't live on love alone. Let's get our own pile of silver
making robin's eggs into bracelets of turquoise
trading eggs at the market, splurging on peach
pies, while you roast the chilies for salsa hot and red.
We'll pile up the pillows on the lawn in one big cushion,
let the neighbors stare at us! Cuddling, under the yellow
moon. Make you a breakfast of eggs, sunny yellow.
I'll set the table while my king counts his silver.
You dress me in silks, put my feet on a cushion.
We run to the ocean dancing in frothy turquoise
waters warm from too much sun makes red
noses. Bring forth a beautiful plump downy peach
of a girl child. Shout the news to baby! Dream job in a peach
city tower, I house hunt a house tall, clean, and yellow.
Get our baby lady a trike in candy apple red.
You'll stay at this job till your hair turns silver
and the cobalt of my eyes fades to cornflower, then turquoise.
We feather our nest with music and love's cushion
Page 2
begetting two more, man-childs, born disrespecting a cushion,
they throw it around till it becomes a lumpy peach.
Boys who dive blindly into wading pools of turquoise,
boys who smear their dinner with yellow
mustard, sparring daily sword fights with aluminum blades, silver
scaly lizards under their beds. Band-Aids hanging on red
shins. Young bucks at the prom disguised in red
cummerbunds. Customizing the perfect cushion
for filly girls who ride between the bucket seats cruising in the silver
Barracuda, intoxicated with their youthful promise of life's peach
bloom. My hands run through our sons' darkened curls, recalling yellow
towheads, my chicks soar into turquoise
clouds, brave red hearts seeking peach
nectar finding life's cushion against the blazing sun's relentless yellow
road to silver riches and their babies’ splash in waves of turquoise.
Martha Cox
A sestina is a poem that has six repeating end words arranged in a proscribed
pattern.
Page 3
Princess Bumbarella
(an Italian Sonnet)
Bees call her The Princess Bumbarella,
Caterpillars nestle on her plump cheeks
'Neath down quilts, see her gossamer wings peek?
This blonding beauty waits for her fella
He sings in the garden, a cappella.
His voice hems her in mid-flight, her nose tweaks,
down she buzzes hiding in the foxglove, sneaks.
Who dares to woo Princess Bumbarella?
She fits her velvet head in Sultan's Cap
He's lifting her snood in the dragon's lair.
Calling her name, will her answer be yes?
A gentleman he'd better be, this chap.
Our princess weaves wings for him of hair.
Bees abuzz, garden wedding is my guess.
Martha Cox
Page 5
Art
awkward shadows
not the art
cling in straight edges
to the squares
why the squares?
if it’s not in the boxes
it’s not art
are you disturbed if it implicates you?
are you impressed if it replicates your reality
which is a destination
of the consensus
of that which all of this is supposedly attempting to make look deeper
more meaningful?
when does it become art
when is it important and why is it collected?
Christie Scott
Page 7
Murder, He Said!
“Kill the TV
Shoot it in the head
And kill it d e d, Ded
But beware, sometimes they come back”
I really did try to kill my (expletive deleted) TV. Why you might ask? It was driving me
totally bananas, that’s why! The inane banality of the vacuous programs which were constantly
assaulting my overloaded sensory input banks with vast warehouses of worthless information was
pushing me right over the edge. What’s even worse was the fact that I couldn’t seem to detach
myself from this electronic vampire and eater of untold hours. No matter what I did to divert my
attention, my eyes kept drifting back to its hypnotic glaze and magnetic attraction. So I
formulated a plan. I deliberately and coldly premeditated murder of this high-tech cable-ready
Cyclops which had become such a parasitical force in my living room.
I didn’t have the resolve to kill it quickly so I settled on a plan that would allow me to
slowly throttle the life from my antagonist. Kind of a corporate downsizing, or maybe more like
diabetics who have their limbs amputated one at a time. I slowly, relentlessly, and mercilessly cut
off the surrounding tentacles of its life support system. First HBO and Showtime met their fate
on the chopping block and were terminated. The Disney channel was severed next. I followed
this by taking back the cable company’s little black boxes and downgraded the number of
channels feeding this cruel drug’s worthless pap into my home. I even traded rooms with my
daughter in order to move out of the room with the extra TV. When I moved into my new house, I
gave away my big TV and canceled the cable. No more addiction by subscription. I was almost
there with my murder plot and had only to drive the stake through the last remaining trace of TV
in my home, the 13-inch set and the VCR. Alas, I did not have the strength to kill my children’s
baby-sitter and I let a vestige of this time-sucking, brain-numbing creature survive in my new
home.
Thirteen inches was not enough, so I soon found myself moving in an old console set
which I spoon-fed from the VCR. It sputtered and fluttered and poured out crackly, hissing snow
which was maddeningly not enough. Next I installed signal-gathering devices as my house began
to bristle like a porcupine with antennas pointing into the sky. Like a recovered addict who has
slipped and fallen off the wagon, I began to crave more of the elixir brought in through this funnel
of channel madness. The decrepit old console could not satisfy my thirst, so in order to quench it
I went to Circuit City and paid a visit to the “dealer.” I needed a fix and I needed it now. Now in
Page 8
my home there is once more perched a one-eyed Cyclops upon center stage in my living room.
This new one is even larger than the old, a full 27 inches in girth. Next, I expect I’ll be mainlining
from a satellite system’s syringe. Stephen King was right, “sometimes they come back!” It seems
I am hopelessly addicted, so give me back the channel changer!
Tony Jaime
Page 9
Personal Column
A place for lonely hearts to find each other
Alone but sometimes together
And try to mix and match their heart’s desires
A place to listen as they describe themselves
As they wish others to see them, hear them, touch them, feel them
Somewhat normal woman seeking true happiness
Tall and interesting gal, loves animals, seeking one
College student seeks someone to tell me everything
A funny guy with thinning hair wants a nice lady to maybe go to church
Marriage minded gal with future expectations seeks sensitive man
Focused female with sparkling personality likes to travel
A guy to know who’s never in a hurry seeks a life partner
Social butterfly with deep secrets likes excitement
Really romantic faithful female seeking teddy bears and flowers
Green-eyed blonde seeks the right guy with anything in common
Active lady, long blonde hair, nice eyes, body like an hourglass, seeks same
Spur of the moment, spontaneous guy guarantees good times
Love me for me seeks Mr. Wonderful
A shy guy with hopes and dreams searching for Ms. Right
A little bit crazy and into roller coasters wants someone to just be happy
Mature male with simulated job seeks woman to be honest with me
A mountain man is looking for a Sophia Loren look alike to share his life
New to area and has dimples wants someone to get out and do things with
Page 10
Kind and compassionate caring woman seeks nice guy to baby him
Funny mom with short burgundy hair and package deal wants a soul mate with good job
Not a bad looking guy with one brown/one green eye wants to appreciate a good lady
Open and honest single white female seeks strong willed man to keep me company
Non-smoking career woman/man looking for the anesthetics of life
Adventurous teacher wants someone to make her laugh
Bouncy housecleaning honey wishing for a good man
Are you interested? Compatible? Lonely? Unique?
Place your ad and wait!
Call me! Let’s talk!
Like to go out? Leave your number and message!
Try something new . . . Call
Tony Jaime
Page 11
Winter Wedding
A winter wedding engages the heart
for love.
Encouraged by the promise
of spring.
the new blossom steadies in the long
and faithful summer
yielding only to the celebration
of autumn.
Finally returning to the white, and the wonder,
of a winter wedding.
Colette M. Marks
Page 13
February
My two hands
Enclose
Your kissed face
Your laughs, smiles
Consume me.
Remember February
Throwing you into the air
Catching
You became
Passionately mine.
Light sleeper
With dark brown hair
Thick and shiny
Left scents
On my pillow
My thoughts
My future
Feelings in me
Ache
John Connolly
Page 14
Galactic Journey
My world was without
form and void
and I longed for release
from this terrestrial
nonexistence and began
reaching for the stars.
Determined to not be
suffocated by the atmosphere
I thrust away from
the gravitational pull
that threatened to force
me down into
nothingness. I knew I must fly
as high as I could and though
my destination was unclear
I must not look back.
At last I broke free
and began searching
but what I found
was less than what I sought.
I stumbled on the cold, dark
side of the moon
and was burned by the star
of this solar system.
Page 15
I beheld the Milky Way
and knew it held promise
but I was unprepared
for its nebulous nature.
Disappointment turned me
around and I began
swirling through space
lost and out of control.
Once again I was claimed
by the atmosphere
of my world and it
began to drag me down.
With one last attempt at holding
onto something higher
I grasped a cloud in my descent
but it evaporated in my hand.
The landing was hard
and my heart was broken
I thought I should die but
against my will I took a breath.
Then suddenly something
caught my attention:
an unprecedented
phenomenon in my world.
Page 16
I saw your eyes shining,
shining like stars
and your smile appearing
like a crescent moon in the dark.
At a touch you penetrated
my crust like a cosmic ray
and I began to soar high
enough to see my universe in you.
Jean Bickle
Page 17
My Grandmother
My grandmother was a wonderful person. I remember her as a very beautiful woman who was
still attractive despite her age. At the age of one hundred and two, wrinkles had taken a great toll
on her face. Her cheek bones would slightly protrude outward, and her eyes were sunk within her
orbital cavities. Her hair was receded and completely gray. Her gorgeous light skin now looked
scaly and would rub off like dust, especially when she bathed and did not apply body lotion on her
skin. My grandmother did not think that I was only a grandchild. Instead, she believed that she
was reincarnated in me even when she was still alive.
In my culture, we believe in reincarnation after death. But, when I was only two years old, I
barely knew how to talk. I don’t remember if I knew my grandmother’s name or not by that time.
One afternoon, I asked my mother to call me “uche” (my grandmother’s name). My mother
asked, “Why?” Then I said, “I am grandmother.” Not only was it absurd for one to reincarnate
into another person while still alive, but for a child to come up with this reincarnation
phenomenon made it a little food for thought for my family.
My grandmother, who was then a non-Christian, consulted the oracle, the deity, about this
matter. The oracle then confirmed that she had indeed been reincarnated in me, her
granddaughter. As a result of the confirmation by the oracle, my grandmother treated me as her
favorite grandchild. Best of all, she treated me as her equal.
There was a little family get-together held to celebrate this peculiar ‘reincarnation’ event. After
this celebration, all the immediate family now knew me as Grandmother. I was told that from
that day, I would not answer by my name. Instead, I would jump with great joy and answer
whenever my grandmother’s name was called. I was not only treated as a special person by my
grandmother, but I was also treated as a special person by all her children and grandchildren too.
The memory of the whole family converging together at my grandmother’s house for the feast of
the earth goddess called Nnekeeji is still fresh in my mind today. I was about seven years old then.
This feast is celebrated by both Christians and non-Christians in order to thank the earth goddess
for a bountiful harvest. All the family members are supposed to come together and celebrate this
special event. My grandmother would always have food, such as dried meat or fish, to give to her
grandchildren. She would call us one by one to come and get our share of the food. Usually this
roll-call would certainly start with the oldest and end with the youngest. I was supposed to be the
youngest grandchild of my grandmother, but because the entire family knew me as my
grandmother, the roll-call would always start with me. It is a common tradition that when a
person is being given anything by an adult, one has to genuflect and say “Thank you.” This
Page 19
genuflecting is a sign of respect and appreciation; therefore, we would all genuflect one after the
other while receiving the meat or fish and say, “Thank you, Grandma.” Not only did I get the best
part of the meat or fish, but my grandmother would always have a little more by the corner to give
me when the other children were gone. She would call me by my pet name Nnenne, meaning her
mother’s mother, as if I had forgotten something, and then she would give me the extra share.
This extra share of meat or fish was our little secret.
Commonly, I remember playing with the kids and usually assuming the role of Grandmother. A
stick was usually the fish while stones were dried meat. I would call all the children by their
names, and share the “meat” and “fish.” I would always insist that each child say, “Thank you,
Grandma,” while genuflecting. The thought of this has never left me.
While I was growing up, everyone that knew my grandmother said that I talked, walked, and
acted in every manner as she had when she was my age. At times, people marveled at this
complete resemblance. My grandmother would walk with hands akimbo style, balancing one
hand on her hips and swaying the other in the air, with the attitude that nothing else mattered.
This akimbo style always got me into trouble when I was in high school, because I always stood in
this fashion while talking to my teacher who would get offended, because it was disrespectful to
stand in this fashion before an older person. Unfortunately, I never intended to disrespect my
teacher, but instead I was unconsciously acting like my grandmother.
Also, my grandmother would always talk like someone in a great hurry trying to catch a late train.
This part of her attitude has never left me. I always found people telling me to slow down so that
they could hear and understand me whenever I talked. Even when I would consciously try not to
talk fast, I found that I could only succeed with two or three sentences. Isn’t this amazing?
The day my grandmother died, my whole world was shattered. I remember having a weird
feeling. While looking down at her lifeless body, I felt that it was I who was lying helplessly on the
bed instead of her. All I could see were images of my grandmother and memories of her when
she was alive—the memories of the time she and I spent together, memories of all the things we
did together, memories of the way she used to sit in her thatched-mud house in front of the fire
while roasting corn for everyone. My grandmother had lived in this same four-bedroom house
since she had married my grandfather. As you came in through the front door, you entered the V-
shaped living room. Turning to your right was a clutter of things collecting dust. To the left was
her so-called living room, full of outdated and mismatched furniture. The house looked used
because my grandmother had raised four children, all girls, in this same house. To me, the
mismatching furniture, black-mud pots in her kitchen, and all the half-broken mud plates and
cups looked like junk from the early man’s world. But, this “junk” harmoniously matched the
context. Everything had some distinct history to out live. Yet, despite the gloom, due to ancient
Page 20
architectural design, my grandmother’s house felt cool and comfortable—especially during the
harmattan. Her house had an inviting and healthy aroma which always made it impossible for me
to want to go home after every visit.
And I remembered as my grandmother lay helpless on the bed how she used to roast corn. We all
sat together in a circle around the fire with our legs crossed inside and hands folded. As the corns
started to pop, they threw up specks of light. We all giggled at this and tried to catch the specks.
While patiently waiting for the corn, my grandmother told us fairytales. My favorite tale was the
story of Cinderella (I was astonished the first time I saw the Disney version of the Cinderella
story). I sat very close to my grandmother with my head thrown on her lap. As she told the story
and cuddled with me, I often fell asleep without eating my share of the corn. All these memories
and thoughts filled my mind as I viewed my deceased grandmother. I quickly recollected my
thoughts and brought myself back to the present.
While I stood at the foot of her bamboo-bed (now placed in the living room) watching and hoping
for a miracle, my gaze was suddenly caught by all the pictures in the living room. For the first
time, I noticed that all of them were turned facing the wall. The television was covered with one
of my grandmother’s wrappers. The clock had a sheet of paper in front of it, but I could still hear
it ticking…tick tack, tick tack.
At the end of the bed where my grandmother was lying in state, was the bow and arrow that
belonged to her husband—my grandfather, whom I never had the chance to meet. He died before
I was born. My grandmother never stopped talking about him when she was alive. She used to
tell us what a great man and hunter he was. I could still see the tears that usually formed in her
eyes each time she talked about her lost love.
As I continued to look around the room, all I could see were somber but not sad, mourning faces.
Although all the faces had tears streaming down, their eyes had one peculiar expression, a
peculiar expression that made me wonder and exclaim aloud, “Oh, death! Where is thy sting?”
For the expression on their faces seemed to suggest to me that my grandmother was not dead—
but, instead, was still alive in me.
Elizabeth C. Ilechukwu
Page 21
Cocoon
thin skin stretched against time
inside I am, and
light is dimly straining against my eye
urging me to see
and moving air is a soaring song
to my dim hope of wings
inside, I am a surge of strength,
straining to break
these walls of thinning skin
I am a wish
for leaping, but collapse again
time’s pressure to coil
again, me against myself
suspended on moving air,
inside, I am slowed to stop
straining in the stillness where
nothing is happening. Nothing
against the strength of these imaginings
no beating of new wings
and nothing of what used to be
I am breaking this skin
shedding
and falling
new wings free
on moving moments
I will be
floating
flying
Anne Benvenuti
Page 23
Prophet Socrates
cheerfully he drank the poison
calm, awaiting death / jail cell door
cheerfully he drank the poison
to leave this life, the burden un-bore
birth to death
death to life
existence transient
pleasure/strife
life to death
death to birth
from below ascend
soul in chains again
flow like river
river bend
cheerfully he drank the poison
drank cup of fate with knowing grin
cheerfully he drank the poison
cocked his head back & poured it in
Christie Scott
Page 24
Dissection
sickness
perspective
it’s a lump in my throat
no, in my soul
this little piggy went to the Bio lab
because this little piggy’s mom got murdered and eaten
would it be so bad if it weren’t captivity?
nothing would be
but it doesn’t make a difference
Christie Scott
Page 25
In the Library
that which you see
written by me
is not for enshrinement in history
that which I pour upon these pages
is catharsis (not prophecy) as passion rages
all fates collide
weave chaos bride
as all which radiates past my eye spied
focuses/point lucid
growth root as acute id
tiny I within own sphere
with every nexus
path more clear
falling into traps of men
thought invalid
only of then
that which evolves to my paradigm
has withstood ravages
test of time
disregard all you’ve been told
some are wise but most just old
Christie Scott
Page 27
Minerals Are The Answer
deficiency
of
Chlorine & Sodium
causes apathy
it’s proven
found it in my biology book
let’s put it in the water supply
and then
everyone would care
Christie Scott
Page 29
Make it Back Alive
“Hey, Medic! Medic! I’m hit!” This is how Dennis Olson describes the calls for help from
wounded GI’s. He heard these calls a lot as an aidman, commonly called a medic, during World
War II. Private Olson served in the 35th Division and saw action in France, Belgium, Holland and
Germany.
When asked how he became an aidman, he started his reply, “It’s kinda funny.” He went
on to say that in 1942, at age nineteen, he enlisted. He was trained as a truck driver and was
assigned to the Signal Corps, the unit that provided communications. “Two days before we
shipped out for England, they transferred twenty of us to the Medical Corps. When we got to
England, my sergeant tossed me an aidman’s manual and told me to read it. I was now a member
of a company of thirty aidmen.”
Olson’s next stop was Omaha Beach in Normandy, France on “D-day plus three (days).”
A landing craft, looking like a giant floating gray shoe box without a lid, was his and the forty or
so other GI’s transportation across the English Channel. To limit strafing by German aircraft, all
the landing craft on this trip were towing a large gray barrage balloon, looking like a quarter-sized
Goodyear blimp. The balloons hung back and jerked from side to side because of the motion of
the craft and the wind currents. These balloons gave an almost human-like impression of not
wanting to make this trip. The sea was full of these craft, and the sky above was a huge, gray
cloud of balloons. Though the GI’s may have identified with the feeling of not wanting to make
the trip, at this point they all had the same goal: make it to the French shore in one piece.
The crossing was slow, and occasionally a German aircraft would make a strafing pass.
Olson felt lucky that they never chose the craft he was in as a target. As the landing craft hit
ground, the large ramp at the bow slammed open, and they quickly made their way through the
surf and up the beach. “It was no where near as bad as D-day on the beach, but German aircraft
were strafing, so you had to watch out.”
That night, Olson was to see his first wounded GI. He was assigned to the 135th
Battalion, Medical Company B, located about five miles from where he landed, and he arrived
there about sundown. The Germans had been shelling the area all afternoon, and it continued
into the night. My sergeant told me to make my way up the line. He said, “There’s a guy hit in the
leg, dress his wound, and get back.” It was very dark. The sky and surroundings were lit by the
quick flashes from the shelling and the antiaircraft fire. The noise was intense. “I was scared to
death! It was my first time really under fire.” Olson found the guy and proceeded to go to work.
“Looking back, his wound wasn’t that bad, but I wasn’t prepared for it. The only training I had
was that book (the aidman’s manual). I used everything in my kit.” The kit had bandages and
Page 31
supplies that could take care of up to ten men, depending on the damage. “The sergeant knew
something was wrong when I came back looking for more bandages.” During the next few days,
Olson was given “on-the-job training” until he got the hang of it. At that point he was put in the
rotation.
During World War II, aidmen would rotate with litter bearers on two-month cycles. The
aidman was to remain on the front line. Locating and “patching up” the wounded was his main
duty. The litter bearer’s job, on the other hand, was to transport the wounded on stretchers to the
aid station that was within one mile of the front line. “The litter bearer got a break by not being
right in the action all the time.” The problem with both jobs was that at some point you had to go
to where someone was hit. “Most of the time the guy was in the open or you had to cross a lot of
open ground. The red cross on your helmet and arm band wasn’t much protection.”
All the allied field medical personnel advertised the fact that they were unarmed by
displaying the red cross symbol: a white square with a centered red cross. The problem was some
German troops honored the symbol and some, the SS and paratroopers, used it as a target.
“Depending on the information we got on who we were up against, we either displayed the red
cross or not. This included painting over the big version on the ambulances.” In one case, a
sniper, hidden in a group of five two-story buildings, was shooting at the aid-station personnel.
“We couldn’t see him, but from the direction the bullets were coming in, we knew he was in one
of the buildings.” Someone from his unit was able to make it over to a group of tanks in the
distance. “Those tanks leveled each building, one at a time, until they got the sniper.”
About the time Company B was to cross from France into Belgium, there was a need for
an aidman to drive an ambulance. Private Olson was assigned. “I was glad to be an ambulance
driver. Aidmen didn’t last long. By the time I made ambulance driver, only three of my original
group of thirty aidmen were still around! The others were either dead or wounded badly enough
to be sent home.”
The mission of the ambulance crew was to transfer the wounded between the aid station
and the collection station: a larger medical station where basic surgery was done. However, this
mission was secondary to the mission of getting the wounded off the battlefield. So even though
Olson drove an ambulance, he was still an aidman and would often be back on the front line
bandaging someone that had taken a hit. “If you got the wounded at least to the aid station where
there was a doctor, they had a much greater chance of making it. The wounded at the aid station
could wait, and the guys laying out in the field couldn’t.” Even so, the mission of the ambulance
crew was important.
Page 32
There were two men assigned to each ambulance. This was done for two reasons. First, it
required two men to get the stretchers into the ambulance. Second, they shared the driving.
“When you got real tired, you swapped driving. You had to remain alert.” While the ambulance
crew was on the road, the front line could easily move forward or worse move back. “If you took a
wrong road, you could quickly end up on the German side.” In one case, an ambulance crew
disappeared after heading out to pick up some wounded. The next information received about
them was from the International Red Cross. The report stated that they were captured by the
Germans and were in a forced work crew near the Russian Front.
In one respect, their ambulance shared something with a civilian ambulance. The
majority of vehicles moved out of the way to let the ambulance pass. “Most of the guys knew they
could be one of our next passengers, but sometimes you had to remind them.” While trying to get
through to an aid station in Belgium, Olson’s ambulance was blocked trying to go in the opposite
direction of a convoy. “It was a small town with narrow streets.” A major waved them off the
road and told them that they were going to have to wait until the convoy passed. “I told that
major ‘We’ve got wounded in the back, and I hope you end up in the back of my ambulance
sometime when we’re told to wait!’” The major ordered a way cleared for them. “We drove on the
sidewalk, but we got through that town.”
Besides the obvious reason of getting the wounded to medical care, the ambulance was
considered a lifesaver for another reason. “Not many people realize this today, but the ambulance
was the only vehicle in World War II that had a heater.” During the winter of 1944-45, the troops
in Belgium were subjected to temperatures that dropped below zero and were constantly in snow.
“We would pull in somewhere empty (not carrying wounded), and leave the engine running.
We’d get out. Then the half -frozen guys would pile in and try to thaw out until we had to make a
run.”
As Olson’s division entered Germany in early 1945, a completely different task was added
to the mission of Medical Company B. It was assigned to provide initial medical support at a
recently liberated forced-labor camp. Olson was one of the twenty-five men given the job. “We
weren’t prepared for what we saw. I don’t think anybody in charge knew what was waiting for us
at that camp.”
When the aidmen arrived at the camp, the gates were open, and they could see small
groups of US Infantry throughout the massive crowd of prisoners. Olson found out later that
there were over five thousand prisoners in that camp, and they were from all over Europe: France,
Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Russia. “They (the prisoners) all looked starved. Their clothes were
just filthy torn rags. I’ve never seen people so thin, and there was just so many of them. Most of
them looked like stick people with rags hanging off them. There were just so many.”
Page 33
When the prisoners saw the red cross on their uniforms, they began to crowd around the
aidmen. “They thought we were doctors. They were all talking and pointing at different parts of
their bodies. Even though you couldn’t understand the languages, you knew they were asking for
medicine, but all that we carried for illness was aspirin. Our kits were set up to help the wounded,
not people in that kind of shape. It didn’t seem to matter that we didn’t have much to give them
that first day. Even if it was just a couple of aspirins, they were real happy. You could tell that no
one had given them anything in a real long time.”
For the next three days, Company B continued to do what they could for the prisoners.
“The problem was that we just didn’t have the supplies to help those people. We had to go back
to the Collection Station and try to talk the cooks out of food to take back to the camp. It’s not
that the cooks didn’t want to help, but they had a responsibility to feed the guys in the company.”
Finally, on the third day, the rear-echelon units arrived at the camp. “It was a sight to
see: four of those big trailers that the army uses when it feeds a large number of troops coming
into the camp.” Each trailer was a self-contained kitchen with at least two cooks and quite a few
support personnel. One side of the trailer would be opened up to reveal a large counter where the
food trays could be filled. “I still remember the first meal they made, beef stew. Boy, did those
people eat.” At that point, Olson and the rest of Company B returned to their mission at the front
lines.
The last place Olson saw a wounded GI was on the banks of the Elbe River in Germany.
This is the place where he and his company received the word that the war was over. “It took us
almost a year to make it from that Normandy Beach to the Elbe River. If you were to drive it
today, it would probably only take a couple days.” He was sent home in August of 1945. “I saw a
lot of wounded guys, but they were just faces. There was no time to get names, and too many to
remember anyway. I’ve always felt good about what I did in the war. I helped a lot of guys make
it back alive.”
Dale Olguin
Page 34
Bodie
There is a land.
A barren land.
Where many stories told
of badman’s bullets and devil’s gold.
Timeless.
Wasting.
Footsteps in the sand
echo grief of death in this land.
Waiting.
Perishing.
An old house stands
awaiting the tempest and his demands.
Wind.
Rain.
An open window to the east,
a rider approaches on his black beast.
Tired.
Worn.
Struggling as he must,
then spinning back into the dust.
Gone.
Forgotten.
Dawn Kirby
Page 36
Rough, Tough, and Ready
On a Saturday morning in late September last year, my wife and I were awakened by the radio
alarm at 4:00 AM. It was time to wake our four kids and one of their friends who has stayed
overnight. Stumbling down the hallway, I called out, “Rise and shine, it's football time—Hey you,
Marcum, get a move on 'cause we're gonna need our #40 today. Come on guys, fire up!” As the
defensive coordinator for the IWV Eagles sophomore team, I was anxiously anticipating the
outcome of today's game.
Our opponent for today was the Big Bear Youth Football team, and although we had
competed against them numerous times in previous seasons, IWV had never been able to win a
game at the sophomore level. My excitement and nervousness was further compounded by the
fact that two of my kids play for IWV, one on the junior level and the other as a sophomore. By
5:00 AM, five sleepy-eyed, yawning, grumbling youngsters had been packed into the two-tone
brown Ford van like sardines in a can.
Upon our arrival at the high school in Apple Valley, Marcum and the other kids began
carrying equipment toward the visitor side of the field. Carrying the green mesh football bag, a
black equipment and first aid bag, two huge orange water containers, helmets and shoulder pads,
the green and white lawn chairs, and a big chalkboard, the kids looked more like pack mules than
football players.
As we began warm-up practice, the sun glowed brilliantly in the clear blue sky. The air was
fragrant as the smell of freshly cut grass filled our nostrils. Gigantic green cottonwood trees
offered shade for the players as they responded to Coach Works, who was shouting out orders like
an Army drill sergeant. A shiny new stainless steel chain-link fence separated the actual football
field from the practice area. I quickly noticed that the home side of the field had heavy gray metal
bleachers, but on the visitors’ side, there were only two very small sets of bleachers made of old
splintering wooden boards. The field itself was lush and green with parallel white lines painted
every five yards apart and it resembled a giant ladder.
Page 38
As the day wore on and kickoff time drew closer, I began to feel butterflies fluttering in my
stomach. Concerned because I was worried about how my kid would perform in today's game, I
began pacing up and down the sideline. The smell of hot-dogs, hamburgers, and chili cheese
nachos made me feel nauseous as I inhaled the aroma coming from the snack-bar. During the
final two minutes of the previous game, the kids on our team were weighed-in, dressed in their
green helmets and full pads. For a few minutes, we huddled as a team for the last time before
marching to the edge of the battlefield. The team looked very professional in their black, green,
and white uniforms. At the signal, they charged through the goal posts like a thunderous herd of
buffalo in a full-fledged stampede. Marcum was one of the first players onto the field.
Marcum, Irwin, Goodwin, and Windish were chosen as team captains for the IWV Eagles. Big
Bear won the coin toss and received the ball on kickoff. During their possession of the ball, which
comprised most of the first quarter, our team was physically manhandled, and Big Bear was able
to score a touchdown by running the ball right up the middle of the field. They pounded on our
kids hard and the pain was evident by the grimacing expression on their hot, sweaty faces;
Marcum, #40, was no exception. By this time, the sun was directly above us and the heat was
taking its toll on all the players as the temperature exceeded the 100-degree mark.
Now it was IWV's turn with the ball. We opted to try running the ball up the right sideline of
the field. IWV's center, Suarez, snapped the ball to Cox, the quarterback, who then took one step
backward and pitched the ball to Windish, IWV's running back. As he ran toward the right, the
opponent's cornerback closed in to tackle him. Suddenly from nowhere, Marcum appeared, and
viciously buried the helmet into the opposing player's number, knocking him five yards out of
bounds. The air gushed from his body upon the impact, and he groaned pitifully as he writhed on
the ground, trying to suck in oxygen. Marcum looked my way, smiling, and winked
mischievously. Because of the great blocking by Marcum, Windish was able to rip off a thirty-
yard run. We successfully continued moving the ball toward our end-zone with the next two
plays. Coach Works called for a “time-out” with the ball on Big Bear's two-yard line and only
Page 39
thirty seconds remaining in the second quarter. The score was 6-0 in Big Bear's favor. We
desperately needed to put some points on the scoreboard!
After a brief consultation, the coaching staff decided to run the “X-Y quick-pass” play toward
Marcum's side. As the game resumed, the opposing coaches were shouting, “The play is going to
the right, stop #40!” Again the ball was snapped, and a hush fell over the fans as they anxiously
waited the outcome of this play. Marcum leaped into the end-zone, looking back for the ball. As
Cox released the ball, #40 jumped up and plucked it from midair, making it look easy and
graceful. As Marcum's feet touched the ground again, two players dressed in red and black drilled
our receiver so hard that I felt sure the ball would pop out, killing our chances for a touchdown.
Like a true Eagle, #40 clutched the ball tightly and scored our first touchdown of the day. The
sounds of the cheering crowd, screaming parents, filled the quiet desert. I shivered with a
mixture of emotions as I heard the announcer's voice booming through the loud speakers,
declaring, “ The touchdown is good!” On the subsequent play, IWV scored the extra point; it had
taken the Eagles nearly a full quarter to secure the lead. We went to half-time with the score at 7-
6 in favor of IWV.
During half time, we once again huddled together inside the North end-zone. Head-coach
Paul Works congratulated several of the offensive players, one of whom was Marcum, on their
outstanding performance. I was bursting with pride as I hugged #40, my daughter Candice
Marcum. This very pretty, petite, young lady with long, blond hair and bright blue eyes had
successfully caught passes, provided great offensive blocking, received many vicious hits, and
scored a touchdown while playing wide-receiver for the sophomore Eagles. She had also played
right cornerback on the defensive side, and had successfully covered receivers and aided in
containing the runs of the opposing team. Number 40 had racked up five vicious unassisted
tackles and numerous assisted tackles. This had been her best performance of the season so far,
and it was also the first season she had ever played full contact football on an all-boys' team.
When the game resumed, Candice continued to torment Big Bear's offensive players. She
caused a major disruption in both their running and passing attempts at moving the ball down
Page 40
field toward the seemingly evasive end-zone. Throughout the remainder of the game, the Big
Bear coaches continued to loudly plead, “Somebody please pick up #40; he’s killing us.” Candice
also made one fumble recovery. At the end of the fourth quarter, the score was 14 to 12, and IWV
had won its first victory at the sophomore-level against the mighty Big Bear team. As customary,
the coaches and players marched along the 50-yard line, shaking hands with the defeated players
and coaches, and congratulating them on a well-played game. I overheard the opposing coaches
remark to #40, “Great playin' today, guy. You're one of the hardest hitting players our team has
ever faced.”
A few minutes later, at the van in the parking lot, one of the opposing coaches, a running
back, and the star quarterback for Big Bear, approached me to talk about the upcoming game they
would have against Barstow. During this discussion, the other players were suddenly stunned to
realize that #40, who had wreaked such havoc on their team was, in fact, a girl— not a boy with
long hair as they had thought. Candice had removed her helmet and shoulder pads and come
over to stand with her arm draped around my waist. The other coach's face turned a sickly green
color and he swallowed hard as he commented about the hitting power she had demonstrated.
He was very impressed at her natural capability to catch a football and her physical ability to play
such a rough and tough sport. As they turned to walk away still with stunned expressions of
disbelief on their faces, I overheard the quarterback remark, “And she's cute too!”
Although Candice continued to play well throughout the remainder of the season, the game
against Big Bear was one of her most dominating performances. She earned the respect of her
teammates, coaches, parents, and opposing players. Her reputation as a wicked player proceeded
her to the other games of the season. She was dubbed “the Bulldogger” by opposing coaches in
the league because of her method of tackling. I continue to call her “Sweetpea,” a nickname I
bestowed on her years ago. ”Don't worry guys, she'll be back rough, tough, ready, and cute again
next season!"
Ward Salisbury
Page 41
In Memory of Serendipity
ceremony is lacking from modern culture
created my own
blood, wine, and Artemisia
sage spontaneous combust
Serendipity
Funeral for a ‘79 Nova
dried roses, feathers, and shells
from travels
eclectic
beautiful
wore black today
3HDV580
RIP
my sweet Serendipity
Christie Scott
Page 43
Cars
A humpty dumpty mobile in black pants
and maroon vest.
The Chevy had a high clearance
so we could take, and we did,
every meandering two-lane trail
fording the waters intrepidly.
The silver tiger teeth grinned at me
whenever it returned to our driveway.
Turquoise Gaudy swirls embellished our ‘58
that could hold five children,
one old enough to drive and the youngest
still bringing his flesh-pink plastic potty-seat along on long trips.
It lay on top of the baggage,
bringing out groans of utter humiliation because
we siblings were positive that it somehow
smiled its buttocks at strangers
whenever our mom retrieved it
from the gaping jaws of the trunk.
Next, a silver blue stationwagon with automatic
transmission and the best radio.
The firstborn's red and black stallion,
El Camino, is stabled ready to consume every penny
of a young man's earnings.
Next, a red-orange horse with customized fiberglass hood,
now a black jalopy
with a rumble seat for stowaway kid sisters and brothers
purring through the evening streets
quietly peeking out.
A green and white finned '57 fish
so souped up, tucked and rolled,
deafening vibrations from big tires.
A first date car, the white marshmallow Malibu
with sky blue seats
irreverently replaced by a convertible British toy.
Mine, a German bug invading the family garage
Page 44
too foreign for the menfolk to fix
the blue turtle with its engine in the back.
Coasting downhill at top speeds
still under the limit.
Fickle brothers bringing home new loves,
now trucks, being passed from one brother
to the next after the first had done all the work on it.
A green horse for stock car races.
Maturity brings no release from the addiction:
family cars, wives’ cars, four-wheel drives
and matching campers in tow;
always paying payments until
it’s time to trade in on something
whiter, cleaner, more leg roomier
as offspring grow, chafing to get at
our steering wheels while
lusting after a car of their own.
Martha Cox
Page 45
North Door to Nature
The student center is buzzing with activity. The smells from the kitchen permeate the air. The
line at the cash register is long with many people ordering their noon meal or snack. As they step
away from the register clutching their lunch tickets, they are anxiously searching for places to sit
down. The tables all appear to be full, some with plates of food and yet others piled high with
books. Students as diverse as the landscape outdoors are clustered around the tables, sitting or
standing as space allows. Some are totally engrossed in reading books for their next classes or
studying diligently. Others are trying to loudly outtalk their neighbors, creating a disturbance for
the easily distracted students. The atmosphere inside is claustrophobic. As I chance to glance
outside at the empty patio, the sky looks wintry. Perhaps outdoors it is serene.
As I stroll out the north exit of the student center, it is quite apparent why the student center
is so crowded. I am immediately confronted with a bone-chilling breeze. The cool, crisp air
almost sears my lungs with every breath. As I glance up at the dark, threatening sky and feel the
sharpness of the air, it is quite obvious why winter keeps everyone else indoors.
As I walk beyond the concrete tables and stools, the grass seems to be alive. Even though the
warmth of the sun is hidden, I can see the blades of grass straining toward the sky for the tiniest
hint of sunlight. Each blade sways ever so slightly in the breeze, as if rhythmically dancing to the
Sun God, begging for the warmth of His caress.
Petite birds dot the grassy area just below the concrete tables. They investigate each blade of
grass in search of their midday meal. Forever searching for the elusive insect or juicy worm, they
hop around, or take a short flight, often landing only a few inches away. Most of the birds have
light grey bodies with dark grey or black hoods. They fluff their feathers, in defense of the brutal
cold, giving them the appearance of much larger birds. The black hoods appear to be silky
smooth with the hint of sunshine playing on the feather tips. I can almost feel the silkiness, just by
observing.
As I study one of the black-hooded birds, it is easy to imagine his pride. His ruffled satin
hood appears to magnify his stature. His proud stance sets him apart from the other birds; he is
constantly watchful, strutting from rock, to twig, to bush. As he carefully searches for the
exceptional morsel for his repast, he is mindful of his surroundings, never permitting the other
birds to startle him into flight.
Amidst the whispering sound of the cool breeze and the frequent chirping of the multitude of
birds, there is a persistent sound that grabs my attention. I can hear a popping or crackling
Page 46
sound. Listening very carefully to determine where the sound originates, I realize it appears to be
coming from the pine tree to my left. It takes a few minutes of intense scrutiny to isolate the exact
cause of the peculiar sound. The tree is filled with many different types and colors of birds—grey
birds with green hoods, dark grey birds with vermilion hoods, and light grey birds with dark
silvery hoods. A few birds are inconspicuously located along each branch, perched on or near a
pine cone.
With further observation, I determine that the peculiar sound is coming from the pine cones
that the birds are cracking open with their beaks. Each bird is sitting almost on top of a pine
cone, pecking and twisting until it cracks. This same process is repeated with unwavering
dedication, each bird pecking and twisting until I hear the crack again.
A grey bird with the green hood is carefully scrutinizing me, trying to determine if I am a
threat to his lunch. Since I am just watching him, he decides that it is safe to continue his feast.
He goes back to the task at hand, his pine cone, pecking and twisting until it cracks again and
again.
This is not only a midday feast for the many different birds, but is also a natural process of
pollination for the pine trees. The birds fly from tree to tree, taking pollen and pitch as they go,
searching for insects. As the winds begins to blow, the remaining pollen take flight on little wings
of their own. This is Mother Nature's insurance that all species enhance their chance of survival.
Since the majority of the landscaping on campus has been donated by different people or specific
groups, most of the trees are not indigenous to the natural desert terrain. Without humans it
would only be through the persistence of the birds in the area, flitting from tree to tree, that the
pine trees would survive. My mind shifts for a moment back to the student center. In recalling
the ethnic diversity, I can see clearly that even we students are not indigenous to this
environment. And yet we survive in harmony with nature in spite of our genesis.
As my thoughts and appreciation return to the rest of the petite song birds, I realize that
many of these birds are related to the sparrow family. Sparrow is the common name for this
quarrel of birds; they are properly named English sparrows or house sparrows. The English
sparrows are an imported species that were introduced into the United States in the nineteenth
century. As I discreetly watch these small wonders diligently foraging in their frosty paradise, I
realize that these nonmigratory birds are also not indigenous to this desert habitat. They were
brought over from Europe but had the ability to adapt and procreate prolifically in their new
environment. I watch in awe of these adaptable little birds. The only indication of the chilly
winter air is their fluffed out plumage.
Page 47
A quick survey of the immediate vicinity reveals shrubs and plants that are not native to this
region thriving with the native sagebrush and creosote bushes. The grass, pines and shrubs have
been planted, carefully cultivated and nurtured, by the college staff to create a more comforting,
pleasant environment. The harmonious balance between the natural and the indigenous plants
strikes me. This botanical paradise has created an ideal breeding ground for these little birds with
an abundance of tender morsels for their daily sustenance.
As my lungs burn from the intensity of the crisp air, I am reminded of my human frailties. I
must take refuge inside with my fellow students. Returning to the chaos and warmth of the
student center, I smell the fresh, hot buttered popcorn. I welcome the contrast between the
wintry patio and the warm cafeteria. Still as I reflect on my journey through of the north door, I
am struck by the similarities of the activities outdoors and indoors. People are pecking at their
popcorn and searching their plates for any morsels they may have missed. Some of the students
strut from table to table, checking the plates of their friends for any remaining tidbits of food. It’s
as if the humans are imitating their feathered counterparts.
Liza Farrington
Page 48
Writer’s Reflect on Their Writing
Jean Bickle
“Galactic Journey” Writing poetry has been amazingly therapeutic for me. Sometimes we think we have dealt with events or circumstances, but sore spots still remain. Often, when I sit down to write, what comes out is not what I intended and my words become a method of self-help. I don’t expect my writing to mean as much as someone else, but it has been very encouraging when others appreciate it. I would like to eventually expand my writing experience and perfect my raw skills.
John Connolly
“February” I keep a collection of short stories, sonnets, and poems. Writing is a way for me to record a special day or events that happen in my life.
Martha Cox
“Cars,” “Princess Bumbarella,” “Sestina Southwest” Writing is a neurotic activity that increases one’s introspection to the brink of depression and I have been unable to stop it. It is a pursuit in vanity. It is humbling to find out that anyone else wants to read what you’ve written. It is a human need to record one’s perception of one’s world. Remember, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.” Therefore, God originated writing.
Elizabeth Ilechukwu
“My Grandmother” To me, writing is a way of describing certain issues in life that are hard to express in words.
Liza A. Farrington
“North Door to Nature” This is a profile of a part of Cerro Coso campus. I found this a unique experience.
Tony Jaime
“Murder, He Said!” and “Personal Column” I think that all my work is a reflection of the many ways in which I tend to view life, sometimes sober, sometimes comically. While I feel that life is a very serious business, I also feel that if we can’t take the time to laugh at ourselves or poke fun at some of the more tragic aspects of our lives then we are in grave trouble. I try to reflect in my writings different viewpoints which range from solemn and sedate to the sublimely ridiculous, thereby ranging through the course of human emotions. I also tend to try and do this with a rhythm and tempo which reflects my musical background.
Page 49
“Personal Column” This is what I would describe as basically a found poem, arising from my reading the personals in the paper.
Dawn Kirby
“Bodie” I love the old west. I love to ride my horse and dream of how things used to be. I have seen many ghost towns and researched some of the history of Inyo, Mono, and Alpine counties. I have lived in the Owens Valley all my life.
Colette M. Marks
This poem “Winter Wedding” was readily available because I copied it into my personally journal. I wrote it prior to my marriage to Mitchell and we used it on our handwritten wedding invitations. Mitchell asked that I submit it as it holds a special place in his heart.
Christina Robin Scott
poetry is life is art is life is poetry is the absolute is ever changing is life is art is poetry. there are no distinctions between them and i don’t believe there should be. i write in stream of consciousness (as i live) and have no rules concerning the sequence or frame but let the work evolve as it does. i subscribe to a theory of natural creation, which is guided instinctively and is not “good” or “bad” pieces. i believe that poetry, as an art form (as any art form), is essential to the consciousness of humanity due to its emphasis upon individual expression transcending into the universal experience. poetry is therapy. poetry is commentary. poetry is everything and nothing, it’s talking to God and dancing with the devil. poetry is the absolute is ever changing is life is art is poetry is my soul.
“In the Library” I was in the library reading a book on Emerson and I realized that all of his information was dated; I don’t date anything I create and thinking upon this difference I began to ponder what makes greatness. The poem is a stream of consciousness of a keen awareness concerning the unfolding of life and how one must exist without (or despite) the thought of potential greatness because the time and place determine whether your contemporaries view you as an insane poet or a genius. (Recognition does not go to the most inherently brilliant (fate is real).)
“Prophet Socrates”: Inspired by a line from Plato’s Crito. Referring to how Socrates drank the poison (took the decision from his people). It just struck me.
“Art”: Written at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art while staring at the shadows cast by the art.
“Minerals are the Answer”: Just thought it was funny.
“In Memory of Serendipity”: Ode to my first car which recently went to vehicle heaven (a.k.a. Junkyard).
Page 50