Mosaic_II_1979.pdf
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Part of Mosaic II: 1979
content
•
mo~a•e
D
Illarist
college
arts
®,
literary
Illagazine
cover photo
by
Rick Volpe
This year the need for the
student
to
express
himself
was
felt
with
greater intensity than
ever
before.
The Mosaic
once
again
challenged
the Marist community to share their talents in the modes of photography,
graphics, poetry, and prose
.
The response
was
a positive indication that
the arts are alive on the Marist campus.
In this issue we have collected
some
of the works
submitted and
published a cross-section of thought and
expression.
We hope that the
material here will inspire others to
share
with us
in
the next issue.
The
Mosaic
will continue to be a vehicle for the
self expression
of Marist
students.
the
editor
nancy lee
zaccario
marist
college
arts and literary magazine
2
table of cont
ri
butors
art of prose
-
english
10
2
rick volpe
erin
o'neill
mike iantosca
nancy lee zaccario
chris fai I le
stanley punter
mario armando maldonado
william c. nolan
sharon
stevens
marybeth kearney
paul nunziata
kim fylstra
patricia moriarty
leah frisbee
trances b. de nagy
rick abranio
lark
l
ar.don
tom perino
3
4
looking around
I
have been surprised by
the webbed network of cracks
in plaster ceilings
by fish lying on the beach
their eyes sparkling in the sunlight,
by a dead crow frozen amidst
white snow,
by a red ribbon flowing from a cut
in my finger,
by broken bottle-stars on the
sidewalk.
class poem
art of prose -
1978
english
102
.
rick vo!pe
6
al ice?
Like Alice down the
rabbit
hole
,
Emotions have opened up and
Swallowed me.
My heart is falling
ever
so slowly
Past all locked doors.
Endlessly tearing me apart
.
There's no one to catch me
When I reach the
end,
no one
To pick me up and brush me off.
Wish I were Alice with her
Rabbit and her key, then I could
Unlock my falling heart and
Reach out to you.
erin o'nei/1
mike iantosca
7
8
the circle game
The core
of
our
existence
lies in
the center of
river water
moved by
a stone
dropped from the cliffs
.
On impact,
river
rings flow
in
symmetrical
harmony,
outward.
The focal point of the
search
begins
to
spread,
to grow
and flow outward from the
center.
So must
we
with the
sphere
move outward ...
reaching,
searching,
learning,
Ultimately discovering that
our
existence is
the resu It of
taking time to throw
stones
and
watch the circles move toward
revealing our identity
.
nancy lee zaccario
mike iantosca
9
10
prison
the endless specks of sundried
time
the
gleam
of
weathered steel,
peeks
out
and closes in
on
one
left behind,
the walls meet
in
darkness
solitude
moist
,
clammy mortar
and stone
encompassing all
Nothing in, no
one
out
forever
.
erin o'nei/1
j
mike iantosca
11
12
The time of the heart-felt fear,
And love is the dagger
to
turn
To
see if
the lesson is learned,
No
and it
hasn't been
.
The
eyes,
The
eyes well
up
again and
tear;
I tell myself palatable lies
No
and
I don't believe. Its
not
true;
With
"life goes on" they
lie to
you,
Another cold
winter
this year
.
chris
faille
stanley
punter
~
1
3
14
"When
the Mood of the Music Changes"
High
on rhythms that blest my soul,
My mind's possessed so beyond control
.
I
ride the rising, dropping waves,
Now happy ... then blue, but always a slave.
The
beat is fast,
The
beat is slow,
And
while it lasts,
I'm all a glow or feeling low
.
A captive of its many stages,
I
trip along through ups and downs
,
Wearing a smile! or hiding a frown,
When the mood of the music changes
.
maria armando maldonado
rick volpe
16
lisa
More than just the
visage;
Her beauty lies
in
her usual manner, thoughts, and
words:
No
other can see
her
as
I
.
Yes, they can perceive her tentative charm,
her
grace,
even
her
warm embrace
-
at times,
I feel (for) her
as
no other
.
She has
scorned, scolded,
stolen, and protested;
A girl,
my heart or impulse
.
.
.
again tested,
and
I manage with her
and
no
one can.
with an air
of frightened confidence, flavored
with a
liquor of independent
strife;
these
are
all an overcast of
...
a
woman whose
"hidden" ideas, ideals
and warmth
are on the
cusp
of
phenomenal ity.
On this day, I'll know her like others shouldn't
even consider;
Then think of the day when
she
will go her own
way, and
I mine
.
I
empathize,
but
with a
better hand;
for I leave
with
what I have
always
had:
Dreams and empirical ambrosia.
william
c.
no/an
sharon stevens
1
8
The smile, the hug, the focus
Of your
eyes
were
so
familiar.
Home
-
a
place
In the heart
Where one can rest;
The familarity of your mind
When i know what you are thinking.
Exhausted talk of
exterior
thoughts
i desire the wonderment
Created by the brush of a rose
Across your face
Inhaling its'
solitude
Releasing
a
breath of inspiration
With the thoughts
spoken
Untransposed from your mind.
Now i watch as you
slide
The
razor
through the white powder
Like the blade of a skate
On ice through the birth of
snow
Your
eyes
became hypnotized
A faint smile parted to whisper
That your mind was only
A yellow,
sticky
liquid
swirling
Like
a
pinwheel
.
My lips
were crying
And my
eyes
could not
speak
For i was fearful they
would
devulge
The agony of
a
helpless body
So frozen
The only movement
was
the
Soft
rhythm
of my chest
Revealing the pounding of my heart.
i
slipped away
Knowing words
would
be useless to
Your
chemical
mind
The
search
began
again
For home.
marybeth kearney
paul nunziata
19
20
vw
listen, it rumbles along
like my hungry stomach.
It's a motorized insect, creeping
up hills like a slug.
It's a malfunctioning wind-up toy,
A
petrol-nursing baby,
A
pregnant roller-skate,
A
smoothly polished egg balanced
On four morning Cherrios
.
Some giant left his derby
On a child's huge skateboard.
kim fylstra
timepiece
My face is marked by sixty spots -
Twelve are dashes and forty-eight
are dots
.
You've never enough of what I keep.
You follow my movement like
simple sheep.
You curse me in the early hours
When my metal ic scream shatters
your dream.
patricia moriarty
paul nunziata
21
22
opiate
I walk alone
in a field
of poppies,
red Ii ke the traffic! ight
on the corner
you never pass.
I walk alone
amongst the poppies,
red I ike priest's vestments
on martyrs' days.
I walk alone,
poppies all around
red like my blood
pulsing in vain.
I dream about a dream.
frances b. de nagy
paul nunziata
23
2
4
I feel as majestic as the mountains before me
To stand so high
Their peaks just seem to stretch as though they
were trying to break through the heavens
The solitude of a mountain offers truth,
a peace
The mountain whispers to me, then
it cries forth, come stand upon my highest peak
See all the horizons I offer you
How my soul longs to find its highest peak
To see all there is and all there isn't
I want to know the truth, your turth mountain
You have seen the history of man come and go
Somehow I feel that a secret to the universe is
locked up inside of you waiting to escape, screaming
for fre
e
dom
.
But no man has ever heard those screams,
There hasn't been as awakening and so there
you stand alone in your solitude
Waiting to be sought out
Mountain D
e
ar, I'm coming soon, I am
coming to you to find your truth.
/eah frisbee
paul nunziata
25
26
I am trembling in anticipation
shaking with excitement
shuffling in expectation
yet
My feet are planted
firmly on the ground
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
nancy lee zaccario
rick albranio
27
28
images
In waves of time
Reflections at sunrise
of my thoughts.
The softly molded transcripts
of misty, lingering days
each a grain of sand
falling silently
in my life's hourglass
.
The past
forming a majestic mountain
by the sea
for me to climb
and look out upon
the endless, placid blueness
.
Sti 11 my eyes can not see
where my destiny I ies.
But with in the haze
dancing mysteriously
around the sun
I focus my eyes on you
for the goal of my I ife
lies in the fulfillment of yours.
marybeth kearney
sharon stevens
29
30
egg
As bald as Cousin Donny's head,
minus his mustache,
it sits heavier on my palm
than toughts on his shoulders.
A
s
white as Grandma's hair
as frail as her hands
this little moon.
It cracks as swifly as her small
smile and looks
like the hat with the yellow daisys
My Great Aunt Dotty wore
on Easter Sunday, when she got
caught in the rain
.
lark landon
tom perino
31
32
photography editor
Mike lantosca
faculty advisor
Mr.
Robert Lewis
staff credits
editor-in-chief
Nancy
Lee
Zaccario
literary editors
Melinda Bowen
Marybeth Kearney
Joan
Seergy
Mosaic_II_1979_001
Mosaic_II_1979_002
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Mosaic_II_1979_036
Mosaic_II_1979_037
Mosaic_II_1979_038
mo~a•e
D
Illarist
college
arts
®,
literary
Illagazine
cover photo
by
Rick Volpe
This year the need for the
student
to
express
himself
was
felt
with
greater intensity than
ever
before.
The Mosaic
once
again
challenged
the Marist community to share their talents in the modes of photography,
graphics, poetry, and prose
.
The response
was
a positive indication that
the arts are alive on the Marist campus.
In this issue we have collected
some
of the works
submitted and
published a cross-section of thought and
expression.
We hope that the
material here will inspire others to
share
with us
in
the next issue.
The
Mosaic
will continue to be a vehicle for the
self expression
of Marist
students.
the
editor
nancy lee
zaccario
marist
college
arts and literary magazine
2
table of cont
ri
butors
art of prose
-
english
10
2
rick volpe
erin
o'neill
mike iantosca
nancy lee zaccario
chris fai I le
stanley punter
mario armando maldonado
william c. nolan
sharon
stevens
marybeth kearney
paul nunziata
kim fylstra
patricia moriarty
leah frisbee
trances b. de nagy
rick abranio
lark
l
ar.don
tom perino
3
4
looking around
I
have been surprised by
the webbed network of cracks
in plaster ceilings
by fish lying on the beach
their eyes sparkling in the sunlight,
by a dead crow frozen amidst
white snow,
by a red ribbon flowing from a cut
in my finger,
by broken bottle-stars on the
sidewalk.
class poem
art of prose -
1978
english
102
.
rick vo!pe
6
al ice?
Like Alice down the
rabbit
hole
,
Emotions have opened up and
Swallowed me.
My heart is falling
ever
so slowly
Past all locked doors.
Endlessly tearing me apart
.
There's no one to catch me
When I reach the
end,
no one
To pick me up and brush me off.
Wish I were Alice with her
Rabbit and her key, then I could
Unlock my falling heart and
Reach out to you.
erin o'nei/1
mike iantosca
7
8
the circle game
The core
of
our
existence
lies in
the center of
river water
moved by
a stone
dropped from the cliffs
.
On impact,
river
rings flow
in
symmetrical
harmony,
outward.
The focal point of the
search
begins
to
spread,
to grow
and flow outward from the
center.
So must
we
with the
sphere
move outward ...
reaching,
searching,
learning,
Ultimately discovering that
our
existence is
the resu It of
taking time to throw
stones
and
watch the circles move toward
revealing our identity
.
nancy lee zaccario
mike iantosca
9
10
prison
the endless specks of sundried
time
the
gleam
of
weathered steel,
peeks
out
and closes in
on
one
left behind,
the walls meet
in
darkness
solitude
moist
,
clammy mortar
and stone
encompassing all
Nothing in, no
one
out
forever
.
erin o'nei/1
j
mike iantosca
11
12
The time of the heart-felt fear,
And love is the dagger
to
turn
To
see if
the lesson is learned,
No
and it
hasn't been
.
The
eyes,
The
eyes well
up
again and
tear;
I tell myself palatable lies
No
and
I don't believe. Its
not
true;
With
"life goes on" they
lie to
you,
Another cold
winter
this year
.
chris
faille
stanley
punter
~
1
3
14
"When
the Mood of the Music Changes"
High
on rhythms that blest my soul,
My mind's possessed so beyond control
.
I
ride the rising, dropping waves,
Now happy ... then blue, but always a slave.
The
beat is fast,
The
beat is slow,
And
while it lasts,
I'm all a glow or feeling low
.
A captive of its many stages,
I
trip along through ups and downs
,
Wearing a smile! or hiding a frown,
When the mood of the music changes
.
maria armando maldonado
rick volpe
16
lisa
More than just the
visage;
Her beauty lies
in
her usual manner, thoughts, and
words:
No
other can see
her
as
I
.
Yes, they can perceive her tentative charm,
her
grace,
even
her
warm embrace
-
at times,
I feel (for) her
as
no other
.
She has
scorned, scolded,
stolen, and protested;
A girl,
my heart or impulse
.
.
.
again tested,
and
I manage with her
and
no
one can.
with an air
of frightened confidence, flavored
with a
liquor of independent
strife;
these
are
all an overcast of
...
a
woman whose
"hidden" ideas, ideals
and warmth
are on the
cusp
of
phenomenal ity.
On this day, I'll know her like others shouldn't
even consider;
Then think of the day when
she
will go her own
way, and
I mine
.
I
empathize,
but
with a
better hand;
for I leave
with
what I have
always
had:
Dreams and empirical ambrosia.
william
c.
no/an
sharon stevens
1
8
The smile, the hug, the focus
Of your
eyes
were
so
familiar.
Home
-
a
place
In the heart
Where one can rest;
The familarity of your mind
When i know what you are thinking.
Exhausted talk of
exterior
thoughts
i desire the wonderment
Created by the brush of a rose
Across your face
Inhaling its'
solitude
Releasing
a
breath of inspiration
With the thoughts
spoken
Untransposed from your mind.
Now i watch as you
slide
The
razor
through the white powder
Like the blade of a skate
On ice through the birth of
snow
Your
eyes
became hypnotized
A faint smile parted to whisper
That your mind was only
A yellow,
sticky
liquid
swirling
Like
a
pinwheel
.
My lips
were crying
And my
eyes
could not
speak
For i was fearful they
would
devulge
The agony of
a
helpless body
So frozen
The only movement
was
the
Soft
rhythm
of my chest
Revealing the pounding of my heart.
i
slipped away
Knowing words
would
be useless to
Your
chemical
mind
The
search
began
again
For home.
marybeth kearney
paul nunziata
19
20
vw
listen, it rumbles along
like my hungry stomach.
It's a motorized insect, creeping
up hills like a slug.
It's a malfunctioning wind-up toy,
A
petrol-nursing baby,
A
pregnant roller-skate,
A
smoothly polished egg balanced
On four morning Cherrios
.
Some giant left his derby
On a child's huge skateboard.
kim fylstra
timepiece
My face is marked by sixty spots -
Twelve are dashes and forty-eight
are dots
.
You've never enough of what I keep.
You follow my movement like
simple sheep.
You curse me in the early hours
When my metal ic scream shatters
your dream.
patricia moriarty
paul nunziata
21
22
opiate
I walk alone
in a field
of poppies,
red Ii ke the traffic! ight
on the corner
you never pass.
I walk alone
amongst the poppies,
red I ike priest's vestments
on martyrs' days.
I walk alone,
poppies all around
red like my blood
pulsing in vain.
I dream about a dream.
frances b. de nagy
paul nunziata
23
2
4
I feel as majestic as the mountains before me
To stand so high
Their peaks just seem to stretch as though they
were trying to break through the heavens
The solitude of a mountain offers truth,
a peace
The mountain whispers to me, then
it cries forth, come stand upon my highest peak
See all the horizons I offer you
How my soul longs to find its highest peak
To see all there is and all there isn't
I want to know the truth, your turth mountain
You have seen the history of man come and go
Somehow I feel that a secret to the universe is
locked up inside of you waiting to escape, screaming
for fre
e
dom
.
But no man has ever heard those screams,
There hasn't been as awakening and so there
you stand alone in your solitude
Waiting to be sought out
Mountain D
e
ar, I'm coming soon, I am
coming to you to find your truth.
/eah frisbee
paul nunziata
25
26
I am trembling in anticipation
shaking with excitement
shuffling in expectation
yet
My feet are planted
firmly on the ground
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
nancy lee zaccario
rick albranio
27
28
images
In waves of time
Reflections at sunrise
of my thoughts.
The softly molded transcripts
of misty, lingering days
each a grain of sand
falling silently
in my life's hourglass
.
The past
forming a majestic mountain
by the sea
for me to climb
and look out upon
the endless, placid blueness
.
Sti 11 my eyes can not see
where my destiny I ies.
But with in the haze
dancing mysteriously
around the sun
I focus my eyes on you
for the goal of my I ife
lies in the fulfillment of yours.
marybeth kearney
sharon stevens
29
30
egg
As bald as Cousin Donny's head,
minus his mustache,
it sits heavier on my palm
than toughts on his shoulders.
A
s
white as Grandma's hair
as frail as her hands
this little moon.
It cracks as swifly as her small
smile and looks
like the hat with the yellow daisys
My Great Aunt Dotty wore
on Easter Sunday, when she got
caught in the rain
.
lark landon
tom perino
31
32
photography editor
Mike lantosca
faculty advisor
Mr.
Robert Lewis
staff credits
editor-in-chief
Nancy
Lee
Zaccario
literary editors
Melinda Bowen
Marybeth Kearney
Joan
Seergy
Mosaic_II_1979_001
Mosaic_II_1979_002
Mosaic_II_1979_003
Mosaic_II_1979_004
Mosaic_II_1979_005
Mosaic_II_1979_006
Mosaic_II_1979_007
Mosaic_II_1979_008
Mosaic_II_1979_009
Mosaic_II_1979_011
Mosaic_II_1979_012
Mosaic_II_1979_013
Mosaic_II_1979_014
Mosaic_II_1979_015
Mosaic_II_1979_016
Mosaic_II_1979_017
Mosaic_II_1979_018
Mosaic_II_1979_019
Mosaic_II_1979_020
Mosaic_II_1979_021
Mosaic_II_1979_022
Mosaic_II_1979_023
Mosaic_II_1979_024
Mosaic_II_1979_026
Mosaic_II_1979_027
Mosaic_II_1979_028
Mosaic_II_1979_029
Mosaic_II_1979_030
Mosaic_II_1979_031
Mosaic_II_1979_032
Mosaic_II_1979_033
Mosaic_II_1979_034
Mosaic_II_1979_035
Mosaic_II_1979_036
Mosaic_II_1979_037
Mosaic_II_1979_038