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MARIST COLLEGE
LITERARY JOURNAL
WINTER
1966












EDITORS
ASSO
C
J
A
TE
EDITORS
C
O
N
TRIB
UT
ORS
C
O
VE
R
F
ACU
LTY
A
D
V
I
S
OR
STAFF
P
e
t
e
r Maronge
Willi
a
m
J.
T
ownse
nd
Ri
c
h
a
rd
C
arn
B
ro
.
Mi
c
ha
e
l
G
o
ldri
c
h, f.m.
s
.
Fran Murphy
B
ro
. John Sullivan
,
f.m.
s
.
Jam
es
M. Crot
e
au
B.
Fall
a
cy
Bro. Pat
r
i
c
k F
o
r
s
yth, f.m.
s
.
R.
A
.
Gla
ss
B
ro
. D
o
nald
Hau
g
h
e
y, f.m.
s
.
Bro. G
e
rald Mill
er
, f.m.
s
.
Br
o
.
Th
o
m
as Ng
, f.m
.s
.
P
e
t
e
r P
e
tro
ce
lli
Bru
ce
Ma
g
ner
Mr.
R
o
b
e
rt
P.
L
ew
i
s












J.
MR.
JONES
blue
and
gray blur, brown bat crashes
•
·
i'm down
hollers,
s
cream
s;
jea
ns
,
s
neakers ..
being
beaten
by martian
s
in white mm,ogrammed
helm
e
t
s
who are
under order
s
lik
e
eichmann
and
goebbles
walk
-· we
s
hall
ove
r
come
..
sirens,
two wheeled
monsters
roaring, bumping through
our lin
es.
brot
her,
•· you're frightened •· darn
right.
i'm
frightened but: will not fight
back.
why? a
s
ked
the
judge -· babies having
the
flesh
torn
off
their
c
harred brok
e
n bodies .. my christian
nrighbors by dropping napalm bombs on
s
h
adows
m
e
ltin
g
int
o
a jungle
e
limin
ati
n
g
'<l
whole village
.
ca
t
ca
ll
s
and boos •·
a
gall
e
ry of other christ's?
H
e
ll
-· i wa
s c
arried from the train tracks to
a
sc
um wagon
··
thrown against its meta
l
bench
herr
i
am
no
w
•
·
your
honorless -- and you ask why.
blue
grey
uniform
s
jeering
and
beating peaceful
men
-·
onward
chrstian
so
ldi
e
r
s
marching off
t
o
beat
and
ki
ck crazy
kid
s
who march to
co
urthou
!-es
1 ik
e
thi
s
one all ovrr the
co
untry.
we
s
it,
s
ing
and are
abu
se
d,
arrested.
disturbed
you
s
ay--you don't know what'
s
happrnin
g
Mr.
J
ones o
ur
s
i
s
a war
o
f
peace
not
a
war for
peac
e
Mr.
Jo
n
es
.
P.
MARON
GE









II.
Observe, my
mind
decays in muddied
facts
And fights
to
stay alive above
the mire.
The leaf
of
learning
actually contracts
A
blight that
eat
s
the plastids
of
desire.
Forget
you
monsters
all your methods
new
For they are leprous
as
the
sore
s
of old --
And all
the
soaring
heights
of
mind
con
s
true
Your failure in
fetching
for
a
life
of
mold.
I
bathe in the
cleansing waters of
the lake,
·
The fi
s
h
s
o simple
in theh life of
ease -·
Contrasted
to the webs
of
mud that make
The
stream of
knowledge dam up
and
freeze.
Leave me alone you men who think
A thought,
I feel, is
the chain and not
the )ink.
P.
MARONGE












C
HILD DAY
S
W
h
en
I
was a
boy
I
pa
ss
ed hour
s
Out
in
t
he
hack
a
ll
ey
.
Th
ere
wa
s
n't much t
o
am
u
se
Wh
il
e o
l
der k
id
s
were away a
t
sc
hool.
Ju
s
t tim
e
to pa
ss
.
Of
t
e
n
I
wo
ul
d
pick
th
e
mo
rtar
o
ut
From betw
een
th
e
bri
cks
Of th
e
garage
.
Or
ma
k
e
a
f
or
t
U
nd
e
r
th
e porches
With
o
ld
wood.
Sometim
es co
ll
ect va
l
uab
l
e roc
k
s
And
s
tone
s
from
t
h
e
a
ll
ey
An
d hid
e
them
away
so
m
ew
h
ere
.
A
lwa
ys on
th
e
l
oo
k-
out
for
R
ex,
Th
e German
s
h
ep
h
e
rd
w
h
o
roamed
in
thP
a
ll
ey
.
Th
e
a
ll
ey
wa
s
mo
s
t
l
y
Br
ow
n paint
and grey fenc
es
Di
rty
bro
k
e
n
cement and a
l
ot
of
mud
No
garbage
and
no
c
at
s
.
Onl
y
R
ex
a
r
ound !-Omew
h
er
e
.












At
o
n
e
end my
r
iads
of good
tasting peppermint
p
l
ants
Gre
w
wild in the dirt patches next to the
Gara
ges.
For
s
hort
wee
k
s
in the Spring
Th
e
r
e
was a
l
i
l
ac
bu
s
h-tre
e.
Every Sp
r
ing
it
came
.
lust b
ur
sting a
ll
ove
r
the
p
l
ace
with
Th
e
heavie
s
t bun
c
h
es o
f
g
rap
e
-fl
owe
r
s
.
Ri
ght
across from it
And down a
·
way came
ro
se
When
th
e
lil
acs
we
r
e gone.
Swarm of
roses al
l
over
the
p
l
ace
.
Cl
i
mbers
th
ey
were, b
ea
rl
y
hanging on
To
a once
white
t
rest
l
e
at R
ex's
house
.
On
ce
,
when
I
was a
boy
We
a
ll pl
an
n
e
d a
day
at
th
e ocean
.
.-
\.II
week
l
on
g
we planned
And
waited fo
r
Satu
rday.
L
unches
prep
are
d
th
e
nigh
t
b
efore
Tow
e
l
s
,
Suit
s
,
L
otion,
Blank
ets,
R
adio, Can
opene
r
,
S
t
ove and C
har
coa
l
a
nd
M
a
t
c
h
es
.
Weather
m
en
agreed
:
A perfect day
.
Everyo
n
e
all
se
t.
BRO. MICHAEL GOLDRICK,
F.M.S.
















T
H
E
VA
L
UE OF
ID
LENES
S
-
T
H
R
O
UC
H
A
PP
REC
I
A
TIO
N
H
e
wa
s
wa
l
k
i
ng dow
n th
e s
tr
ee
t.
Th
e
day wa
s
go
o
d
-
-
h
e
f
e
h
co
n
t
e
n
t. Hi
s
han
d
s
w
e
r
e
fr
e
e
o
f it
e
ms
and
were fo
un
d
in h
i
s
po
c
k
e
t
s
;
h
e
c
o
uld turn h
is
h
ea
d fro
m
s
id
e
t
o
s
i
d
e w
i
t
h
o
u
t t
h
e
h
ind
ran
ce
o
f a
co
llar t
o
d
i
s
t
r
ac
t hi
s
att
e
nt
io
n
.
T
he
d
ay
wa
s
w
a
rm
, a
s
o
n
e wit
hout t
e
mper
at
ur
e
.
Hi
s
h
ead wa
s
clea
r
--vi
s
i
o
n,
s
ha
rp. Thin
gs
t
oo
k a d
e
finit
e
form a
nd h
e was a
Ll
e
t
o
l
o
o
k a
t d
e
t
a
il
s
a
nd
think
on th
e
m.
Hi
s
mu
s
cl
es
, h
i
s
e
ntir
e
b
o
d
y wa
s
lo
ose-
-hi
s eve
r
y
mo
ve
ment
mo
v
e
m
e
nt e
a
s
y
an
d fl
o
wing
.
Hi
s
h
air wa
s
b
ac
k
-
fr
ee o
n hi
s
h
e
ad
a
nd h
e
f
e
lt
a
s
fr
es
h
a
s
th
e
s
h
o
w
e
r h
e
had ju
s
t t
a
k
e
n
.
Hi
s
fee
t w
e
r
e
li
g
ht
;
w
a
lkin
g
c
am
e
na
t
ural
,
without
ha
v
ing
t
o w
ill
it.
Thi
s
d
ay
h
e wa
s
mea
nt to walk
, as s
ome
d
a
y
s
h
e
wa
s
m
ea
nt t
o s
it
a
n
d
think-
a
n
d
h
e w
a
s
w
alking
.
Th
e s
tre
e
t
wa
s
fr
ee
fr
om
p
e
opl
e
-
so
h
e c
ould
b
e
n
a
tural
a
n
d n
o
t
w
orr
y
ab
o
ut both
e
rin
g o
th
e
r
s o
r b
e
ing b
o
th
e
red them.
Hi
s
dr
ess
wa
s
th
e
u
s
ual--but--cloth
es se
em
e
d t
o
fit th
a
t day
s
o
th
a
t
h
e
didn't
eve
n f
ee
l
th
e
ir wei
g
ht
or
pull
o
n him.
H
e
kn
e
w th
e
h
o
ur wa
s e
arly and th
e
da
y
w
o
uld
be long
a
nd full.
The
s
l
o
w
co
ol br
e
e
ze
th
a
t wa
s
th
e
br
e
ath of the day
brought
o
nl
y
a cl
e
an,
p
ure
s
m
e
ll-
-a
s
m
e
ll th
a
t wa
s
th
e a
b
se
n
ce
of odor
,
and
it
w
as goo
d becau
s
e
it wa
s
n't foul a
s
it
so
metime
s
was.
Th
e
r
e
wa
s
n
'
t
s
omethin
g
m
o
r
e
in th
e e
l
e
m
e
nt
s
of the
day.
It
wa
s o
nly th
a
t
it wa
s
fr
e
e
o
f th
e
thing
s
that
might bother
him.
A
n
o
th
e
r day
h
e
mi
g
ht n
o
t
e
njo
y
th
e
cool br
e
eze because
hi
s
f
e
el hurt a
s s
om
eo
n
e e
l
s
e
t
o
day mi
g
ht n
o
t
e
njoy that
s
ame
coo
l br
e
eze.
But thi
s
da
y
th
e
thin
gs
that ar
e
tak
e
n for grant
e
d weren't
t
a
k
e
n
fo
r grant
e
d. All th
e
s
e
wonderfully
s
impl
e
thin
gs
w
e
re
pr
e
s
e
nt; but
w
h
a
t w
as
m
o
r
e
, he knew
the
y
w
e
re present; he


















wa
s
aware
of
th
em
and
h
e
appr
e
ciated
th
e
m.
H
e
lift
ed
hi
s
h
ea
d,
lo
o
k
e
d up, hi
s
hand
s st
ill
i
n
hi
s
p
oc
kets
and just
s
aid thank
s
,
l
a
u
g
hed
,
and
th
en
walked
on
.
Thanks
b
o
th
for
th
e
day
wit
h
it
s
beauty, but
a
l
s
o and
even
more for
th
e
abi
li
ty
to
se
e
and
f
ee
l
and
know
thi
s
b
ea
uty. He wa
s
very
h
ap
py t
o
b
e
a
li
ve.
So
h
e
w
as
wa
lki
ng then,
enjoyi
n
g
him
s
elf
a
s
w
e
ll
a
s
en-
joy
in
g
th
e
d
ay.
H
e
was walki
n
g,
o
n
o
n
e si
de
of
the
s
tr
eet
,
an
d th
e
n
s
t
o
pp
e
d.
It
wa
s
n't
a
s
udden
s
t
op;
he
j
u
s
t
stopped
walking, a
s
h
e
h
a
d been walking, without
any
th
o
u
g
ht of
wa
lki
ng. So
h
e stood
th
ere
without an
y
thou
g
ht
of
s
topping.
Th
en
h
e
de
c
id
ed
t
o cross
th
e
s
tre
e
. Th
e o
th
er
s
ide wa
s
the
sa
me, had
nothing
mo
r
e
t
o
off er, there wa
s
no
lo
gica
l
r
e
ason
to
c
ro
ss,
but then ther
e
wa
s
no
l
og
i
c
a
l
r
eason
t
o
be walking
e
ither.
So
he
crossed
the
s
tre
e
t.
H
e
cou
ldn
't
tell
him
self
why
h
e crosse
d.
H
e
only knew that h
e
felt
like it.
Th
e
n h
e
wa
s
glad h
e
wa
s
able
t
o
do what he had
felt
like
doing.
Then
h
e
wa
s
very
g
l
ad.
And
h
e
k
ept
on walking.
W
e
are the
s
on
s
of
s
moke and fire,
W
e
s
hun
o
ur blackened
co
gnomens,
We hav
e o
nly thi
s
moment,
a
n in
s
tant
Trapped between
a
s
he
s
and the
s
tar
s
Lik
e a
wi
s
p
o
f
s
m
o
k
e
li
ngering
Be
s
id
e
a
half
•ope
n
e
d
window.
Ours may b
e
the rare glimmering
o
f day
to
pi
e
r
ce
the
ve
lvet
mask,
T
he first
ray of v
e
rnal
s
unli
g
h
t
T
o
nutur
e
fallow pa
s
ture
s
,
The
l
as
t
s
un
se
t to paint th
e s
ky.
RICHARD
J.
CARN
PETER PETROCELLI










TWO ONCE LOVE
The
soft Autumn
s
un
Cast
it
s
go
ld
en
drops
Through the yellowed
Leave
s
of Summer's
lif
e,
And
so
ftly made
li
ght
Of two once love.
Touched by the honied rays,
Shadowed
by
the fa ding
trees,
They
see
med unreal,
Captured in a
dream,
Two hearts
On a
velvet carpet,
With
Summer's
l
ast
flower
The
on
l
y eye
To
s
ee.
They
l
ifted a
so
ng
Both
sad
and sweet,
That
faded into
the
J
.
i
ght
coo
l
breeze,
Caught
in th
e
breath
Of
Summer
'
s
waning.
But
s
l
ow
l
y
Th
e s
hadow
s
grew
longer,
And
the
s
un
Began
to
s
li
p











Beh
.
ind
the darkened trees;
Summer's
last flower
Fading into the
s
hadow
Of a passing cloud.
·
They
stopped
And
l
oo
k
ed
up;
And a co
ld
wind
Touched their face,
Ch
ill
ed
deep
Two heart
s
,
Who had
once
love,
JAMES
M.
CROTEAU
MY
L
AS
T
FALLA CY
Lord, let
me
say
thi
s
be
th
e
la
st
fallacy
This in
since
rity,
That uncharity,
My b
ana
lit
y
.
But
L
ord,
let
me
say
this
be
The
La
s
t...
.
For
s
u
ch
i
s
to
co
nquer
in
def eat.
B.
FALLACY



















THE
COC
O
NU
T
P
J
\LM
] la
ve> you
ever s
e
e
n a
coco
nut
tn
·c,
H
e
r
s
l
e
nder arms
Embra
c
ing th
e ge
ntle
breeze?
Lo!
Th
e
lofty
height
s
a
tt
a
in
e
d,
Th
e
o
ce
an wind whistle
s
pa
s
t
lfor
wai
s
t.
lla
ve yo
u
eve
r
see
n
a
coco
nut
tr
ee
,
B
end
ing h
er s
lim
body
T
owa
rd
s
the rocky
sea
Where
the
s
urgin
g
foam
Ki
sses
the
s
andy bea
c
h.
Start
l
ed
Wh
e
n
a
fi
s
hmon
ger
<lrop
s
by
With
a
flurry
s
queak?
l
l
,w1
•
yo
u
se
en,
to,
a
coconu
t tr
ee
,
Cas
tin
g
h
er
roving
g
l
ance
Upon
th
e
kid
s
Th
a
t
dan
c
e
aro
und
her with
Tlw
n
w
rry
beat
s
:
"Cce-0-Ce
e
-O-eN-U-Tcc"'?



-







T
o
iling under the roa
s
t
ing heat
,
Grimming
when offered the
cool
and delicious
Coco
-jui
ce.
Of these
th
ey s
in
g
a
n
d
mor
e
.
B
e
h
o
l
d
th
e greedy
littl
e
pi
ggies,
We
ll
-fed and
health
y,
Grunt
in
j
oyous
content
And
s
niff for more
c
oconut food!
Th
ey
s
ing, too, in tones m
e
l
anc
holi
c,
Of
th
ings
di
s
tre
ss
ful and unhappy.
Of naughty monkey
s
jo
un
c
in
g
up
and
down their arm
s
R
e
nding off
their littl
e ones
t
o
da
s
h them to
th
e gro
un
d.
And
finally,
o
f hi
s
tory pa
s
t,
Wh
e
n Fran
c
i
s
Xav
i
er c
ur
se
d
the
tip
s
y
Indi
ans
Who drank
o
f
the
arrack,
Th
e
toddy
made
from coco-
s
ap,
And cas
t
away
th
e co
mmand
s
, a
ll
ten!









Night is
nigh
and fast
blow
s
the wind,
In
ceaseless gossips and multiple gestures;
The coconu
t
palms
Stand
Their ground.
BRO. THOMAS
NG
TE DEUM
The
twig and
the
acorn
*
Prai
se
You.
The
s
tone
s
and oceans
*
Praise
You.
Two human being
s
In lo
ve
too.
But
that
man with a gun-
Who makes
blood
run red
-
Who
re
ce
iv
es
hi
s
worship?
I
s
it
a
s
ilver eag
l
e and
E Pluribus Unum?-Whose
Banner to
o
run
s
red-
Striped with
the blood
of
men.
Up then twigs, acorns, stones,
Oceans and
l
overs
- s
ave
him
From
an unworthy god.
BRO.
PATRICK
FORSYTH
,
F.M.S.






RAIN
The dull roll of thunder, the cloudburst-
Pe
lt
ing rain
And
I am driven back,
And
I
remember
When thunder and lightn
i
ng,
And
rain and rushing torrent
s
S
ee
med the most powerfu
l
Forces in the wor
l
d.
And
I remember t
h
e
Victorian armchairs
and the
Upright
piano, and that box
Of playthings-companions m
Those
ear
l
y
years, those
L
one
l
y years bu
t
bea
u
ty--
Filled, when each new day
Spoke
of
new
life
And every
object in
sight
Shone
l
ike a
l
ea
f
of
ivy,
Still
wet
with
drop
s
from the
storm,
O
r
g
l
owed
like a
Rainbow,
stretched over
the
Hou
s
etops.
And
I remember others
Who
l
oved the
r
ain;
Who
s
hared with me







These moment
s
;
And
,
perhaps, they
still
Love the rain,
And,
perhaps,
they see
And
hear and fee
l
it
As
I
do
now
.
The clouds pass,
The
sun
emerges
And
drie
s
the
earth
.
"And
what
i
s
so rare as a
day in J
u
ne?"
What
i
s so
rare,
what
is
so
rare?
Perhaps
a yellow-red
day in October,
Or
a
b
l
ue-gray day
in
November?
What
is
so
rare as the
l
onging
For
l
eisure
and re
s
t
and for
-
for
what?
For
you, or for someone
who knows
What it is about October
and
November,
when the world dies
and
Leaves
me
with
only -
Cruel
remembrance
s
of summer p
l
easures
Shared with
those
who
knew?
With those who knew,
With
you
.
BRO.
J.
SULLIVAN,
F.M.S.



r
















he may express will in th
e
course of
tim
e
be reject
e
d
.
A
work
of ar
l
mu
s
t be
a genuine product of
th
e
c
reator'
s
soul.
Only
then will
our
arti
s
tic awarene
ss
be activated.
We r
espond
to
the spiritual
quality
of
1h
e
work,
it
s
forms,
it
s
s
trokes
and its
ge
nuin
e
rea
son
for
bein
g.
1t
i
s
thi
s
inter
s
ubj
ec
livity
of the
ar
li
s
t that r
e
l
ates
t
o
th
e
v
i
e
w
e
r.
Each man
po
sse~sees
thi
s
"inner
)if
e
"
,
and
a
s
man
c
omes int
o con
ta
c
t
with
th
e
expres
s
ion
o
f
a
n inn
e
r
!if
e in
visib
l
e
form
,
h
e
re
s
ponds in
an
e
motional way.
Often
when
the arti
s
t h
ears
s
omeone
s
ay,
"I
c
annot relate
to any abstrac
t
paintin
g",
h
e ex
p
er
ience
s g
ri
e
f
for
that i~di
-
v
idual. F
o
r thi
s
individual ha
s
never
tak
en
tim
e
out
to
lo
ok
into hi
s ow
n b
e
in
g,
l
o see
k kn
o
wl
e
dge
o
f
him
se
lf.
A
man
s
ensitive
to his
own
being, lo realit
y
around him
and to
the
experience
o
f
others,
ha
s
l
itt
l
e,
if
any
diffi
c
ulty,
in r
ela
tin
g
t
o
abstract
art.
"Nothing
c
an
contain
more
clari
t
y,
harmony, and
u
n
ity
than a work that i
s
th
e
o
ut
co
me
of
co
ntemplation,
for
co
ntem•
plation i
s
not
in
extricab
ly
b
o
und to tp
e
physi
ca
l
a
s
pects
of
thin
gs.
"
A
work of
art
i
s
the fu
s
in
g
of sen
s
iti
v
ity t
o
phy
s
ical r
e
ality
and
the involm
e
nt-
-co
nt
e
mplati
on of
the "image-within
-him
o
f
t
h
e C
reativ
e
Cod." Thu
s
: the
sp
lendor of truth.
The tru
e
arti
s
t
i
s
frt>e! He ha
s
mad
e
him
se
lf
free
,
not
b
o
und by
conven
ti
ons a
nd
preferences
o
f
th
e
world,
but
by
truth and him
se
lf.
H
e
rein lie
s
hi
s
fre
e
dom
•·
truth to
self
!
He
li
ve~
to thi
s
point. Hi
s
inn
e
r world ha
s
lib
erated
him from
mythi
c
al notion
s o
f r
ea
lit
y
, tho
se
noti
ons
th
a
t ha
ve
b
een
d
e
fined,
delineat
e
d
and
died. H
e
g
i
ve
s
th
e
world a
s
piritual-p
e
r
so
nal
v
i
s
ion through
hi
s
art.
It
i
s
h
e
re, in th
e
dept
h
s
of
hi
s
_ being that th
e
artist is able
t
o
balance
th
e
i
nner
world
of ex
perien
ce
with
the out
e
r
world
of
reality
;
it i
s
th
ro
u
g
h thi
s
my
s
tical
ex
p
e
rience
that
the arti
s
t
ex
pl
odes on
c
anva
s
, to
e
xpo
se
him
se
lf
to the world, in
order
that hi
s
work
may in
time
exper
ience truth.
BRO. OONAl.0
HA
UGHEY,
F.M.S
,


















A
C
HILD
My
dream
s
are
pi
e
r
ce
d
by
a
crying
c
h
i
ld,
and
I in
terror,
wonder
if
I
am that
child,
A
lo
s
t
c
hild,
trapped between
th
e ear
th
a
nd
s
ky,
ca
u
g
ht b
e
t
ween
th
e
night and
day,
touching
both,
ye
t
tou
ching
n
e
ither.
C
ry not
c
hild!
Leave
t
o
me my
pea
ce.
I
f
ea
r
you,
fo
r
yo
ur
c
ryin
g
s
tir
s
me
.
You
are
I
-
a
nd
yo
u
vo
ice
my
fears:
th
e
fear
of
tou
c
hing
o
ther
s
a
nd
o
f
reach
ing
none;
and
that
of
b
e
ing trapped
-
ca
ught within my
s
elf
-
alone.
I
hear
yo
u
ch
ild.
I
h
ea
r
your
crie
s
.
But
I
impl
ore yo
ur
pity.
L
ea
ve m
e
be,
l
est
I
cry a
l
o
ud
th
e
torment that i
s
you
-
for
you are
I.
R.
A. Guss






REFLECTIONS
I.
We sit and talk
Of
nothing.
Time passes.
Years pass.
Now
I walk
a
l
ong
t
he river--
And
think
Of
that nothing.
So
important now
.
II.
Security is
something
That tells
you
Peace is within
you
.
And peace
is nothing
More
or
le
ss
Than
going
in the right direction.
III.
Vermont
s
umm
e
r
s co
me by in my mind
again
.
They
always seem
to pop up when I'm happy
('
s
funny
.
.I
always seem to
be happy when they pop in)














An
yway,
I
j
u
s
t
wanted
to
say
H
o
w nic
e
are
Vermont
s
um
mer
aftetnoons
.
Why?
Fo
r
no
saya
ble thin
g
.
Somet
hi
ng
there i
s
that doe
sn
't
l
ove
a wa
ll.
That want
s
it down.
It
i
s
tru
e
.
An
d
good
wa
ll
s
,
as every
b
ody
kn
ows,
r
ea
lly,
D
o
n't make
goo
d
neighbors.
Ce
rtainly.
But
so
m
e
thing th
ere
i
s
about
th
e
o
l
d, old stone
Ne
w
Eng
l
and
wal
ss
Tha
t
wants
th
em ju
t
the
way
th
ey are.
No
t
as
barriers
to th
e
meldin
g ex
peri
e
n
ce
But, well, ju
s
t a
s
crazy
lin
es
drawn a
l
o
n
g
a
s
urfa
ce
o
f
ground.
Lines
o
f individuality.
ot a
fen
c
ing in
or
a
fen
c
in
g
out;
n
o
division
s
h
e
re.
Ju
s
t
lin
e
s
.
H
e
lt
er-s
k
elter,
wandering
lin
es
.
Line
s
of
s
pontaneity.
(Not p
l
aced
thu
s
wi
se
but
rediscovered
so
.)
Bno. 11
CHAEL
GoLDRICK
,
F.M.s.






Well, it
was
a horrible day, that day,
Except for
counting
the
r
abbit
s
along the parkway
And
save
for
t
he unexoe
c
ted thunderstorm
l
ate
in the day
That threw
a
ll
our preparations to the
wind
,
And
sent u
s
fleeing from frothy breaker
s
Grabbing out at
our
little
squa
r
e
plot
of
picnic.
When
I
was a
boy,
1
saw
T
wo
rain
drops
Racing
each other
Down a window pane.
H
alted
by dust
The
left lagged behind.
As the right merged with another
And
ru
s
hed
on down
to the
finish
line.
And became a drop
l
et no
more.
But now a puddle.
COUP
D'ETAT
When
I
was a
boy,
I
saw a
broom
stick
stand
ing
in
th
e
snow
.
A now man's scepter.
It
wasn't
doing
anything,












It wa
s
ju
s
t
s
tanding th
e
re.
I kicked it o
v
er.
Why,
because
it
was
n't doing anything,
I
t was just standing
there.
KNOCKING
Along Broadway,
milli
o
n
s
of apartm
e
nt
w
ind
ow
s
light,
And
I
wonder ....
How
does each
man
know
which
door
to
go
to
-
How doe
s
he
k
n
ow
there
will
be
room
once
open?
BRO. MICHAEL GOLDRICK
,
F.M.S.
GERALD MILLER










PRAYER
FOR
AN
UNBORN
SON
One of u
s
,
God
willing,
W
ill liv
e
t
o
see
The
year two
th
ou
s
and,
\'X
1
ith capsu
l
e food
And
pla
s
ti
c
tr
ees
,
Metalli
c
wom
b
s,
And synt
h
etic
god
s
.
One
of us, God wi
llin
g
,
Will
die
t
oday.
SCHOOL BUS
Ye
llo
w
Cate
rpillar
C
r
aw
l
ing on yo
ur
way
Mu
s
t
you
s
lop
t
o gobb
l
e
kid
s
For
s
u
c
h
times as th
i
s,
we who
ru
s
h to punch
Th
e
do
c
k,
mu
s
t
s
top.
LO
VF. -
Our
l
o\'e
i
s
not
a gent
l
e
l
oYc,
Fawn-like
in it
s
capaci
t
y
F«-,r tenderne
ss
, a
lt
hough
thi
s
is.
It
'
s
rath
e
r,
rock-
l
i
k
e
in
its
s
trength.
It'
s
h
onest as the farme
r'
s swe
at
,
And
fre
e
as
o
nl
y
fr
ee can
be,
And d1,manding
nothing,
it
gives
a
ll.











BEAUTY
-
Man, the moral
cripp
l
e searc
h
es
blindly.
Endless hours in
searc
h
of go
ld
e
n l
adders
.
A
lone
a blind man
s
p
ea
k
s,
"It
i
s
not
good
that man
s
hould be
a
lon
e
.
"
And a
le
g
l
ess
l
eper
rolled
over
t
o
him
I
n
clum
s
y
e
l
oquence
-tr.e
y
clamor upward
For only they
can
walk
and see.
I
NTROSPECTION
-
I
l
ooked within myself
And
th
e
carniva
l
stopped
l
n
the
m
i
dd
l
e of a
rid
e.
-
GENES
I
S
A
boy
P
l
aying with a g
un,
In
wartorn
Normandy
.
Surprise! a
s
kull
, s
till
th
ere!
H
ow
hollow
was
his
yo
uth.
H
ow rea
l
his
tears
b
ecame
Through
t
ears, a
joy
un
kn
own
to him.
Throug
h
joy
God
pr
ofo
und.
From Cod, through joy
throu
g
h
tear
s,
A
man.
FR
AN
MUR
PHY







STILLNESS
-
When
you
lose the
sense of
time,
Yet,
there is
no
dread,
Just
an
unknowing
.
ll,ssimilation
Into
all
live
s
and
die
s,
Place soon disintegrates too.
You
miss a
po
sition
le
ss
,
As you
s
lip in
a si
lv
er of
breeze
To land
encased
in
greeness.
Then,
comes a song from the distance,
But no one
is
near
And
yet
you
hear
The
throated melody.
You sigh and
realize
That
your
place
and
time
are now
But no longer
Here.
WILUAM
J.
TOWNSE
ND










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