Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The North Coast times-eagle. (Wheeler, Oregon) 1971-2007 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 1, 2004)
P A G E 10 TIME TO LIVE This can be the dawn of creation’s children little giants who can lift this earth with their bosoms reshaping their elders' remains from windswept chaos into the wild and verdant paradisical wonders heaven meant for us little giants crushing greedy polluters back into anthills who knows how tall they will grow up to be we’ll all walk with these kids as they see the world who will be known as savior or devil for their lives to come profits and reminders, what is left of a soul to reach land ho land ho the flash of the planet has reached out to the stars and left hot legacy or by whose tenets did you step or stomp with iron treads too often this smokin shithole is what is left to you so clean up what is left or most will die generations come and generations go leaving their wealth behind comely folk ...innocent and wise... unaware the ends of the earth are frayed is America a cancer upon the world, is this flash of glory grisly suicide and whose conscience is going to help love what is left oh lord, oh lord, most love you so...glowing icons speaking freely of America, don't get me wrong, it is not death-hate,..just objections aplenty for I am sick as well and older than young saviors chaos connected until the blood is let but whose bell is rung shouldst thou drink thy dragon’s belly strange and soft lucid and wise hungering not having all for selfish flame love tries to live but wings get old needing childish grief so God save this world for all to be abounding in harmony and peace -CHRISTOPHER KRAEMER DRAWING BY HAYDEN GREELMAN, WHO IS 10 FEBRUARY 18 POETRY WINTER SHIVERS that winter I wore three coats from the goodwill tired shoes fishing tackle for jewelry. SURVIVORS War is painful to those who fight as well ones they leave behind but the greatest honor survivors can give those who fought is to keep going on with their lives I have real respect for those who fight, those who die and those who are left behind because of war. They are survivors alongside us, among us; we are they. the Hl ones Ill Remember those .. . who die as well rjtlj K who ilOSU survive. ■■ -ANNA MYERS BATTLEFIELD PSYCHIATRY ‘Suicide has become such a pressing issue that the Army sent an assessment team to Iraq late last year to see if anything more could be done to prevent troops from killing themselves. ” -M A T T KELLY, AP WRITER, 1/14/2004 How well is it working? asks another press release, to which we in turn must query: How well do we think? Whip people into patriotic killing, then post them as front-and-center "nation-building" targets, follow with (consistently!) unclear or nonexistent aims, along with indeterminate stretches of duty; be sure to make them keep the peace as well as murder innocents. All this in direct opposition to everything learned at home, in church, at school, and even from our country’s formal proclamations, and what do we think might be the outcome, for many of them out there squinting into the sky of another day raid, another night patrol? SWEATLODGE Clean me down in the marrow of my bones. Make my body a place the Great Spirit will roam. Sweat me until my pores pour blood. Purify me till I see, till I be perfect love. Take away my misconceptions. Make me humble, give me grace. Baptize me with your fire that within me understanding will take place. -DANIEL ELEY in bed at night the railroad tracks screamed to me “it’s cold” they said “we’re tight”. when it was light I visited them bringing painted rocks to edge their ties. that winter I wore three coats from the goodwill my hair was a ratted cap and always in my mouth. flies drank cool fountains from my eyelids. that winter I bedded with a screaming man for a lump of coal I’m looking through their words for blame their pictures steal me still the same I know the dreams we make and call them out by name heads full of prosperity and blind eyes to reality I’d like to think they made the sell I like to think they’d broken in that I was pushed down when I fell into this labyrinth of sin (but now I see the picture’s right in front of me) the Sunday skies are turning gray the other eyes just looked away seems no one wants to hear the ugly truth that I found out today I let them out and I let them in to my inner sanctum -TERESA BARNES Finally, of course, it being war, add this: “...the accessibility of weapons in a war zone can quickly turn a passing thought into action.” No need for long investigations or furrowed brows. It is simple, it is elementary. Suicide before or after "engagements” over there, or disconnection once back here needs no study now, if ever it once did — Wars have methodically pummeled children, women and men into the victim’s surprised and final disbelief, and the fatalities of shredded self. -CAROLYN DUNN that winter I ate rice with pepper I stole from denny’s i had crystal balls frozen in my brain a friend Mags who sang songs of russian boatmen, there was no tampax for me that winter i crouched in the bathroom for a week bleeding on newspapers i hung the most artistic splatters on the wall. that winter shivers. -MONICA KOSKEY FRIENDS AT THE RIVER’S EDGE For Paul Jackson, Columbia River Bar Pilot who died at age 57 on October 19, 2003 I used to have a neighbor, a young woman, whose husband was in the Coast Guard until he got cancer and passed away one summer in his own bed. She said it was hard to believe he was gone since he was gone so often. At first, to face the mornings, she told herself he was just out to sea and would be home soon. Then it became a habit she couldn’t break. She moved because she couldn’t look at the river for the rest of the days and I never knew what became of her. I think of her sometimes when I am on the riverwalk watching your men pilot your ships walking where your boots touched until that one day when you crossed your last bar. That poor young wife. How sad to have to give up the lovely habit of scanning the horizon, waiting for a man to return from his voyage. As friends we are unconcerned with curfews, ticking clocks or promises made with altars between. We pour out a pint choose a topic in your honor. Scrabble tiles laid out dogs warming our feet we are waiting for you to come from the sea. DRAWING BY DONNA JOY DEUFEL. AGE 8 -DEBBIE BARENDSE REED
