August evening,
and the swallows are hunting the dahlia fields,
flying the evening's warm winds upward,
feasting on an array of creatures,
thrips, western cucumber beetles, green flies,
leafhoppers, moths.
The grace of the birds in flight
is nearly unimaginable WS
a magic theater of color, light, and movement,
a troupe of aerialiSts mad with the pure joy of flying,
circling up from the symmetrical rows of flowers
in a living gyre.
and yes, I dance with wind and leaves
I dance with butterflies and sleep with fog
I hear the whispering secrets riding the breeze
frogs kiss me and flowers smell me
and yes, stars
tell me things .
... . . ... .
I bathe in dirt and lick moss
pumpkins greet me
trees keep me
weather purifies me
is,
and yes, rain creates me with crystal drops to my skin
and yes, I crave hollow city streets
I tease vampires and taunt death
I listen to nothing and hear emptiness
gargoyles haunt me and poison seduces me
and yes; gutter-punks trap me
I like to be bit and beaten
depression soothes me
sludge fascinates me
and yes, cement destroys nature, I don't mind
In my dreams .
I fly with the swallbws.
I see beyond the westward hills,'
where the sun is setting,
its edge still protruding from the great Pacific.
— Jim Manuel
— ali miller
(For my father)
The wet sand underneath his feet
Remember when we built the deck
flows out from under him but he’s quick,
‘mid doubt and disagreement
too quick to get caught going down.
and finished, both stood back and grinned
Light on his feet, he lifts off the shifting surface of the
proud, and pleased, and spent
sand. Ahead to firmer footing, he makes a game of it,
jumps at the last second. Just as the sand" sinks away he
We were amazed, the two of us
lands in the elusive sand of promise.
to find it strong and willing
Finally, he-lets his bare feet,settle intojioles filling with icy
to hold our weight for ten-plus years
water.
through winters wet and chilling
Back to the ocean, he sinks the small, short-handled shovel
Now, nails screech in protest.
in front of the slight hole indentation with an intent and
crowbars wrest them from their home
force that stuns the unsuspecting razor clam.
Lumber thumps against the ground
One, two, three tiny shovek-fulls of sand fly from the Water-
and causes me to moan
filled hole. He buries his quick hand up to mid-arm in the
‘numbing water and grabs the fleeing clam
Progress holds the sound of pain
as it head toward the ocean.
The clam loses, he wins.
as old makes way for new
This time.
We begin to build again
•I’m readynow, are yoh?,^
There are other indentations
with no prize at the bottom of the hole.
But slowly
■
. — Anna Phillips
slowly the bucket fills
with the allotted number of razors.
They process theibiicket water: doing much of their own
cleaning their pulsating necks stick out from wet, golden
shells.
& -
M ■
He counts and counts again:
the number is accurate.
Stepping just ahead of his long shadow, he heads across
the wide white beach towards the Blue Gull Motel. “Some
of the biggest’on the coast,” he’s told at the motel’s
crowded cleaning station,
A Cheshire smile spreads over his bumished-brown face as
'
he dumps the razors into the cleaning sink.
r . Excerpt from
n "Enter My Dreams, Love"
after a ,line by Czeslaw Milosz
Ip our slow-growing year,
with frost in every month,
I left the grass unmowed,
let the narrow forage build,
moon by moon, watched
seedheads form. Refuges
are few in this cold light,
our history, the close, of sky
with low, blue cloud, a storm
that wil not stay. Thin flakes
hold the air, hide mountains,
senseless, repetitious power.
He precisely severs the shell from the tender white meat
and lays them open with his scissors.
— Jean Marshall
Writers' Club Award Ceremony
Tuesday, May 13 from 2-4 p.m. in CC
127
Poet
C.W.
Rawlins
Poetry
Reading
11 a.m.
Skylight
Dining
Room*
Free
event
Open to
the public
Call Diane
Averill at
ext. 2370
for informa-