VOICES

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Spring 2005Volume XXVIII

Student Publication of Midwestern State University

Editor .................................................................................. Paige DickersonAssistant Editor.......................................................................... Emily OllesAdvisor ...................................................................................... Sue HensonArt Advisor ........................................................................... Gary Goldberg

VOICES

Marianne EidsgaardSilver Print9” x 6”

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Table of Contents

Poetry and ProseJack ....................................................................................... Mandy Cross ........................................................... 5

On Viewing Dali ................................................................... Amber LaSha Beckham .......................................... 6

Earth in Everything ............................................................... Rory Payne ............................................................. 7

I pray ..................................................................................... Lois Marshall .......................................................... 8

Untitled ................................................................................. Lindsay Clark ......................................................... 8

The Rose in the Steel Dust ................................................... Aaron Taber ............................................................ 9

Of Dubious Origin ................................................................ Elizabeth Bourland Hawley .................................. 10

Black ..................................................................................... Lois Marshall ........................................................ 13

Chemo Patient ...................................................................... Elizabeth Bourland Hawley .................................. 17

Chance Encounter ................................................................. Amber LaSha Beckham ........................................ 18

The Night .............................................................................. Thomas Brown ..................................................... 19

The Affair ............................................................................. Natarlie C. Francis ................................................ 20

Monastery ............................................................................. Lindsay Clark ....................................................... 21

Visions of You ...................................................................... Natarlie C. Francis ................................................ 22

Apathy .................................................................................. Allison Statser.. ..................................................... 23

For Fun ................................................................................. Abigail Carter ....................................................... 24

Here it Goes .......................................................................... Joshua Scott Perkins ............................................. 25

2004 Vinson Award WinnerIn a Dead Morning ................................................................ Wendy-Ann Wells ................................................. 16

High School PoetryToday .................................................................................... Amanda Hartford .................................................. 26

Bleak Reminiscence ............................................................. Brian Cole Henson ............................................... 27

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Table of Contents

ArtTyson Arnold ........................................................................ Acrylic ............................................................ Cover

Marianne Eidsgaard .............................................................. Silver Print .............................................................. 1

Carlos Aleman ...................................................................... Ink on Paper ............................................................ 4

Meegan Senkel ..................................................................... Silver Print .............................................................. 6

Lauren Collins ...................................................................... Silver Print .............................................................. 6

Josh Bruno ............................................................................ Silver Print .............................................................. 7

Carlos Aleman ...................................................................... Pen and Ink ............................................................. 8

Marianne Eidsgaard .............................................................. Silver Print .............................................................. 9

William Mitchell ................................................................... Nickel/Silver/Gemstone....................................... 10

Cathy Ghanbari ..................................................................... Sterling Silver/Gemstone ...................................... 10

Sharol Batey ......................................................................... Copper .................................................................. 13

Nick Parker ........................................................................... Solar Print ............................................................. 14

Michael Voigt ........................................................................ Solar Print.... ......................................................... 14

Ashley Gremillion ................................................................ Mono Type ............................................................ 14

Carlos Aleman ...................................................................... Solar Print ............................................................. 14

Rachel Dovel ........................................................................ Mono Type ............................................................ 15

Julia Stormer ......................................................................... Low Fire Ceramics ............................................... 15

Regan Medlinger .................................................................. Solar Print ............................................................. 15

Brittani Harrison ................................................................... Silver Print ............................................................ 17

Jennifer Jackson .................................................................... Brass/Mixed-Media .............................................. 17

Cathy Ghanbari ..................................................................... Brass/Gemstone .................................................... 18

Miguel Lechuga .................................................................... Solar Print ............................................................. 19

Todd Bruno ........................................................................... Bronze ................................................................... 20

Margurite Johnson ................................................................ Pen and Ink ........................................................... 21

Lauren Collins ...................................................................... Silver Print ............................................................ 22

Annette Moore ...................................................................... Pen and Ink ........................................................... 23

Julia Stormer ......................................................................... Wood ..................................................................... 24

Brittani Harrsion ................................................................... Photography .......................................................... 24

Michael Barrera .................................................................... Poplar .................................................................... 25

Johnna Krantz ....................................................................... Bronze ................................................................... 28

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Carlos AlemanInk on Paper28” x 22”

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I was fifteen the first time I met Jack. It was

a Friday. I was at a party with some friends, and we

were introduced. I wasn’t that impressed at first

sight. I knew of Jack; almost everyone did. Jack had

a reputation that was long-brewing.

I went a few months before I saw Jack

again. I was busy with school and not very

interested in a weekend life like typical teenagers

were. I never really saw myself as someone who

had to have lots of attention. Christmas break my

sophomore year in high school we met again. This

time I didn’t have near as many friends around. I’m

not sure why, but this time I approached Jack. Jack

quickly became a comfort.

Our visits became more frequent. It was the

middle of my senior year. I had been around Jack

for about two years. At this point Jack and I were

together every weekend. Partners in crime. All of

my friends liked Jack. Jack was a big hit around my

crew, not that it mattered much. Jack and I were

inseparable. Every night we were together. I would

pick Jack up after school and after work. Sometimes

I would skip school altogether just to be with Jack.

The closer I grew to Jack, the further away I

grew from my friends and family. I became very

impatient with school, and my skipping was more

frequent. This led my parents to disapprove of Jack.

They didn’t like that I spent so much time with

Jack. They didn’t like that Jack was keeping me

from concentrating on school and starting college.

JackBy Mandy Cross

My friends were trying to hang around me, but I

just wanted to be with Jack. My friends sided with

my parents and thought I needed a break from Jack.

That was fine; I had Jack, and that is all that

mattered.

Slowly, my friends started to disappear. It

didn’t matter. If they couldn’t accept Jack, then they

couldn’t accept me. Jack was my life. I quit my job

to spend time with Jack. We were together all the

time, inseparable.

One night I was playing pool, and Jack was

there. Abby was there too. We had been friends

since seventh grade. She was the only person still

around. We got into a fight about just how much

time Jack and I spent together. She wanted to spend

time with me, and just me, not Jack. She got into

her Mustang and sped off.

I looked up when I heard her screeching

tires and saw the collision that sounded a hundred

times louder than someone throwing a bag of Coke

cans down on the pavement. Another car had

slammed into the driver’s side of Abby’s Mustang.

The driver was drunk. Abby’s a quadriplegic

now. It was sobering, so sobering that Jack and I no

longer see each other anymore. I realized that I was

searching for comfort and acceptance that I had had

the whole time. It has been six months and three

days since I last saw Jack. My name is Maggie, and

I’m an alcoholic.

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On Viewing DaliBy Amber LaSha Beckham

hour thirteen twisted into tomorrow’s today

when Dali ruthlessly melted time’s face

searching for meaning in the sea of gray

reborn shades of night began descending

nothing means all and changes each day

melded with the images there’s no pretending

among scattered hues of blue and green

strokes are twisted if your eyes keep pace

vertigo encapsulates you like a fish in a red bowl

when the sweet grasshopper child sings

ears ringing from a thousand invisible harps

the mind’s eye becomes enthralled with essence

untided vestiges litter perfectly blank canvases

yet confusion is absent only if the brain is bent

realists wrinkle at the interpretation they see

while artists smirk at the genius they achieve

Lauren CollinsSilver Print9” x 6”

Meegan SenkelSilver Print6” x 9”

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Josh BrunoSilver Print9” x 8”

Earth in EverythingBy Rory Payne

Earth—

It holds in place time itself,

No hurry to be had.

It saw the first of all things

And will attend the last.

Each part so small yet stacks so well,

Can even close out air,

With the strength that God bestowed on earth,

Its weight is only fair.

Tiny parts make up its form,

Yet large it seems to stand

As rocks and soil and mountains too

Or tiny grains of sand.

Earth connects the world we share

With those across the globe,

And as our Chinese counterparts

We feel it ‘neath our toes

With wind it blows and makes a wall

That makes the eye go blind.

With water in it plant life grows;

With fire Pompeii has died.

Each thing that is, it represents:

The Cosmos as an art.

Each tiny little particle

Could have been the start.

It shifts and moves but never dies

It turns to hot and cold

It holds the newest of the trees

And oldest of the old.

Bind all the vast universe

Did God with tiny things

She mapped out all existence

With tiny, little grains.

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I PrayBy Lois Marshall

I Pray

And when I sit here

Eyes closed

Arms folded

No winds shall bother to utter

Words to hint that your presence is near

No moon shall dare to outline your figure

Not one tree shall feel compelled to point

To you a finger

This be my prayer

Wrapped in blues and greys

And all my cares

My tears so gently wash away

UntitledBy Lindsay Clark

I take a glance out my window

And try to understand the night.

The darkness hides my tears so well

But I’m still tortured in the light.

I get so tired of wanting

Things that I’m not sure I need.

Tell me what’s the point of growing

When death starts at the seed.

So I place my bets in the shadows

And cleanse my hands with tears.

I write poems about the innocence

That I haven’t had in years.

Still, I’ve lived inside my complex mind

Yet wish away the bars.

Have pity for the little girl

Who’s blinded by the stars.

Carlos AlemanPen and Ink8” x 4”

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I see him there in his rust-ruined cage,

face furrowed and hair gray with age,

staring at the barbed, beautiful, Pisan land

glistening like stars, like sun-smashed sand.

“From all this beauty something must come”—

indeed it will, certain as the setting sun.

And on that day he rose with the sun

and tried to stretch in his small rat’s cage.

From Brother Wasp’s nest small vespas come

And descended like Dante into a hellish age.

He recalled days spent upon the Rapallo sand

and thoughts stopped by the beauty of the land.

At his typewriter he saw a wasteland

Not unreal, Possum, all-too-real, where the sun

shines upon the skulls half-hidden in sand,

where children are found dead in a cage,

where all seems lost in such a lost age,

And this poet, prophet, tells of things to come.

Beauty so difficult, but in his work it will come

as naturally as wildflowers bloom from land.

The Rose in the Steel Dust: A SestinelegyBy Aaron Taber

He defined a time and forged an age—

Now, old and half-mad, he can’t make the sun

stand still, nor escape from his small cage,

and go to those beaches of golden sand.

But he still dreams, dreams of the sea, the sand

the beauty and poetry still to come,

of an old gray poet freed from his cage,

and allowed to walk free from the war-torn land,

of windows from which to watch the dawning sun,

dreams of poetry and a peaceful age.

They call him Uncle Ez, because of his age

and he tells them he’s writing poetry in the sand,

to be taken by the sea. The red sun

sets and he wonders what dreams may come

once freed from his small, barred earthly cage,

once freed from Pisa and the barb-crowned land.

In a vile, cruel age he made beauty come—

as stars from sand, lilacs from the wasteland,

He shone like a sun in that rusty cage.

Marianne EidsgaardSilver Print6” x 9”

Dedicated to Dr. Lansing Smith

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Isabel slowly crawled out of her Jaguar,

while Maria hopped out of the passenger’s seat in a

flurry of satin, silk and pearls. Even at her most

energetic, Isabel could not keep up with her frisky

cousin.

In the wed darkness of the parking lot they

made their way toward the restaurant, which,

according to its owner Fabio, served the best Italian

dishes in all of Connecticut. Maria’s fiancé Axel,

seemed to agree with Fabio and often made

reservations there.

The maitre d’ led them to a table that sat in

front of a lively gas fireplace. Isabel welcomed its

warmth. She took the chair closest to the fire feeling

very pleased about the seating arrangement; the fire

would warm her toes after having just come in from

a wet evening outside.

As they sat down, Maria whispered to

Isabel: “I made a date with a man I met online.”

Upon hearing Maria’s words, visions of

shady men using the Internet to take advantage of

innocent people suddenly swirled in Isabel’s head.

She gasped at the thought.

“What?”

Of Dubious OriginBy Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

Maria did not answer. She had caught sight

of Axel’s impressive figure as he emerged from

within the subdued lighting of the room. He had a

big smile on his Bavarian face.

“How’s my girl?”

He leaned down toward Maria and planted a

big kiss on her lips.

As Isabel tried to compose herself, having

felt shaken by the idea of her cousin dabbling

dangerously with strangers from the Net, she

pretended to look pleased as she shook the hand of

the man she thought Maria would marry. Axel

ordered a bottle of champagne as Isabel pretended

to peruse the menu, her mind racing. She could

hardly wait to hear Maria’s new story, but first, she

would have to politely and patiently endure the

dinner hour at fabulous Fabio’s.

For now, Maria patiently endured the dinner

also, looking forward to logging back on to check

her e-mail for any messages from her newly-found

online lover. Isabel began to wonder if dinner would

ever end, which seemed a torturous thing to think

about since it hadn’t even begun. A date with a

strange man found online? She felt intensely

William MitchellNickel/Silver/Gemstone3” x 9” x 15”

Cathy GhanbariSterling Silver Gemstone15” x 1” x 1”

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protective of Maria and thoroughly disapproved of

her going on a date with someone of dubious origin.

She wanted Maria to tell her everything she needed

to know about the new development in her life, or

had Maria surfed online a time or two before?

“So tell me about something new!” Axel

said. His voice boomed from his large thick neck.

His eyes twinkled at Maria. Maria twinkled back at

him. Isabel looked away. Dinner may never end.

By noon the next day, Isabel’s champagne

headache had become a simple occasional throb at

her temple. She lounged in one of Maria’s large

chairs, holding a bag of ice against her forehead.

Maria looked serious and nervous as she combed

her silky and abundant hair. Soon she would meet

the man.

“Do you know his real name?” asked Isabel

as she watched Maria preen before the mirror.

Isabel admired her cousin’s ability to preen, and

often emulated her, whenever she brushed her long

brown hair.

“Yes. Bond.”

“Let me guess: James?”

“Yes. James Bond.”

“No. Really, I don’t feel up to kidding about

this. Tell me his real name.”

“Bond. James. Bond.”

Isabel glared.

“Which one? Do you at least know what this

nutcase looks like?” she asked as Maria bounded

out the door.

“I’ll phone you later!” Maria replied, as she

friskily hopped over the driver door and into the

seat of her Audi convertible.

Isabel frowned. She lingered at the door. Her

foot prevented the eager cat from dashing outside.

She watched Maria drive down the hill through the

evergreen forest. A feeling deep inside her welled

up and shook her. She looked at the cat, and the cat

in turn looked up at her expectantly. She flipped

open her cell phone and dialed Axel’s number. In

minutes he zipped into the driveway in his BMW,

top down.

“Get in!” he said. “I know where to find

her!”

“He knows where to find her?” Isabel asked

herself just before she realized Axel posed as 007!

He lied to Maria in the chat room about his identity.

“No, I did not lie. I see it as the truth, by my

design. I played me, a ‘me’ she just only

met...online.”

Isabel tried to see the reasoning behind his

explanation. She looked up to the sky.

“Don’t you think you should put the top up?

It looks like another storm,” she asked him. At that

very moment, Axel accelerated, sent the back of her

head against the headrest, and caused more pain and

the throbbing to return.

Speeding toward the city, Axel confided in

Isabel. It had started one eveing, innocently enough,

when he saw her screen name online. He invented a

new screen name for himself. By reading what she

wrote in response to his attention to her in the chat

room, he had become aware and more open to her

needs and more aware of his own capabilities as a

lover, companion and friend.

“Yes. But, Bond? James? Bond?”

During his surreptitious online tryst with her

as he posed as a mysterious and alluring 007, he had

become the man she sought, a romantic—a hopeless

romantic—active, handsome, tall—of course—with

great musculature, dripping with masculine

sexuality.

The cat at the Algonquin Hotel stared at

Axel. She sat on the lobby desk, nose to his

considerable nose. Axel found it difficult to ignore

cats—he enjoyed cats—especially this one, with its

sleek, dry, warm coat. He envied this cat. He wished

to feel warm and dry himself, and to find himself at

home, not in the city, chasing after the love of his

life and who, he now realized, may not seem to

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concur with him about having become, at whatever

point, his one and only. Apparently she did not

reciprocate and consider him the same.

Wet and drenched, dripping water in the

lobby, he had felt so determined to reach New York

City that he had not taken the time to stop and to put

the top up of his BMW during the rainstorm, in

spite of Isabel’s pleas to do so.

The cat had a faraway, unsympathetic stare,

as if it did not care that Axel felt cold and that water

dripped from the tips of his hat down his nose and

onto the carpet of the lobby. This cat had seen much

worse, and it had a kind of look that showed it knew

it would see much worse in the future.

While they waited for Maria, Axel touched

quietly and softly the surface of the round table at

which they sat, as if its feel could help him visualize

what went on there over fifty years ago. He could

almost see and hear the regular visitors to the

Algonquin, such as Dorothy Parker and her

contemporaries, who sat at that very table, chatting,

bantering, riposting and cleverly cutting each other

to pieces.

“If you had a tenth of their intellect, perhaps

you would not have gotten yourself into this mess

with your girlfriend, boyfriend,” Isabel had said

testily. She felt wet, cold and slightly hung over.

Isabel suspected Maria’s reaction to Axel’s

little game. She would first feel stunned and

silenced by the shock of the realization that she fell

for a game, that Axel himself had fooled her, and

that she did not have a striking new boyfriend after

all—she had Axel, with his big nose and wild hair

and his paunchy belly, and all the love for her that

he could ever feel.

Maria’s stylish figure finally emerged from

the dark elevator to join them in the dark dining

room.

“Have I no peace?” she asked as she sat next

to Axel.

“I said I’d meet you here on Saturday, not

today!”

“What do you mean? You never want to

come down to the city with me. You never want to

do anything!” Maria blasted back at Axel, oblivious

of the allusion to their online chatting.

“Now that I know what you want to do, I

will do it for you—and with you.

Isabel watched them ask they slouched and

looked sheepishly at one another.

“Tell her, Axel,” she whispered.

“No.”

The dim lights nevertheless made the golden

strands in his hair glow and dance.

“Tell her now...about 007.”

Axel lowered his eyes in deep thought and

embarrassment. Maria looked at him, at a large man

with a big nose, freckles and unruly blond hair.

He felt thoughtful and embarrassed, unable

to utter the words of love that bounced in his mind,

that bounced messily and unruly like his hair, and

just as exuberantly like his love for her.

Later that afternoon, outside the Algonquin,

the sky had cleared. Inside, the storm of Maria’s

realization of what Axel had done had passed.

Finally she gave Axel a loving look, then a big

sloppy kiss on his lips.

Afterwards, in front of the hotel, Isabel sat

behind the wheel of Maria’s roadster. She put the

engine in gear, but before she began her drive back

to Connecticut, she looked through the rear view

mirror at a red sun, low in the horizon, framing Axel

and Maria sitting in his BMW. Axel’s head leaned

toward Maria, and they kissed tenderly.

His car had soggy seats still, but the couple

did not seem to mind. They drove into the sunset, to

live happily ever after.

Isabel rolled her eyes, put the pedal to the

metal, and drove north.

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BlackBy Lois Marshall

The cloud that hovers over me

The way I like my coffee

My waiter’s skin

Your soft, loose curls that devour my fingers

The rose stuck behind my ear

My cocktail dress

A cherry in my martini

The ink chiseled across your chest

Your twisted hemp and nylon umbilical cord from the ceiling

The distant, quieted eyes I found looking down on me

The bag that stripped you away

The pitch I trod upon after you

My mother’s veil

The crows wandering around the cemetery

The paint on my lips

The lines outlining my sister’s eyes

The leather cover of the priest’s Bible

The centre of a rotting fruit

The space between grey and white

The night I closed my eyes and went away

Sharol BateyCopper2.5” x 5” x 2.5”

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Nick ParkerSolar Print9” x 7”

Carlos AlemanSolar Print7” x 5”

Ashley GremillionMono Type11” x 8”

Michael VoigtSolar Print7” x 5”

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Rachel DovelMono Type11” x 8”

Julia StormerLow Fire Ceramics12” x 10” x 5”

Regan MedlingerSolar Print5” x 8”

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In a Dead MorningWendy-Ann Wells

The old man hears a sea tossing

In the sky, aye, he thinks,

angels are at war again;

the thunder rages in terrestrial wars,

a primal cry of souls lost across the ages

in a heart of winter,

and the sages mourn

in musty robes of fading scarlet.

The lightning comes quietly,

like a thief in the morning,

leaving nothing

stealing a love lost a thousand times before.

The night lasts forever in his memory

the sun never stays

it runs away guiltily,

to a place he can’t see.

The old man sits in his old rocking chair,

in an old house, listening to an old voice

speaking new words, remembering an old love.

the heart, discontent, roves across regrets,

he can no longer see

the face of his summer temptress.

The Bougainvillea has no flowers,

refusing to mourn, no purple petals,

only thorns.

The man misses not missing anything

but the past.

memory pierces deep, deep

like a shoemaker’s needle stuck in the brain,

dimensions blurring day by day, narrowing,

closing in with blinding light;

meshing all times to this time.

And the wind creeps inside taunting

like a mischievous child,

whispering seductively

a silken promise turned lie,

right things now wrong.

the old man sits in a dead morning

regretting regret;

and the thunder’s cry is a plaintive sigh

of pity.

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Chemo PatientBy Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

In my running shoes I was standing under the banner

listening to heartbeats mine and other runners’

when the start gun surprised me thrillingly

I started running and did not hear their hearts

anymore only my own with the foot stomps

I made with each strode down Lamar Street

alongside runners old young talking and singing

trying to pass the woman ahead of the pain

my heart yearning for speed I ran up to the woman

ahead who was living on chemo for months now

still she sped up the hill and finally I was thanking

whomever for my super heart that kept going

out to the woman ahead of me until back on

Lamar Street now she slowed and wavered

in her footsteps as if she could not go on

you are hard to keep up with I said and sped

past her listening to her heart and her foot falls

as I jogged down Lamar I heard her keeping up

with me staying even with me as I urged her

to finish the race for that she gave me

a sweet sweaty hug breathless at the finish line

Brittani HarrisonSilver Print9” x 6”

Jennifer JacksonBrass, Mixed-Media16” x 2” x 1”

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Cathy GhanbariBrass, Gemstone5” x 7” x 3”

Chance EncounterBy Amber LaSha Beckham

Perfection engendered through the maestro’s hand

David should be touched by no mortal man

I was aware of this unwritten law

yet violated the oaths—dismissed them all

light reflected upon that white stone

and my eyes could not leave the statue alone

for in all my life I have never felt as complete

as when I caressed the stones of his hands and feet

had Ovid viewed this magical gift

Pygmalion’s fate would have involved quite a shift

I was fortunate to have touched this stone

and will not forget when beneath my hand it turned to bone

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The NightBy Thomas Brown

A smoke tinged moon veiled by the night’s innocence.

Like a child’s mind, having not knowledge of forthcoming day.

Bearer of fallen brick and broken body.

A duration of lost soul and kin.

Evening’s lantern lighting the way for a child’s play.

Only the night’s breeze blows the laughter into the sullen light of the following day.

Unseen sunlight and pervading hope eclipsed by the dust of my brother.

Syllables of a silent prayer amidst the deafening cry of Heaven.

Nurtured by the cradle of night, that child, in his mind, waders among the stars.

For these nightly walks be the womb of innocence.

Alas, rising early Dawn is met by sorrowful and pitiable company.

On the trails of Gabriel’s tears and lamentations,

Dawn hears of the passing of night.

Miguel LechugaSolar Print6” x 9”

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Todd BrunoBronze3” x 5” x 8”

The AffairBy Natarlie C. Francis

I am having an affair with Mr. High Society. Mr. High Society is having an affair with

me. I hide in the shadows of his trophy wife. I stay clear of the flickering lights of his

high society life. At his lectures I stand latent, way at the back, as photographers snap

pictures of him with her and his plaques. In the papers, the headline in bold reads: “The

woman behind the man of gold,” and indeed, somewhere in there lies a picture of her

with her trophy smile and her perfect hairstyle. But I smirk content in the knowledge I

have.

When the banquets are over and the lectures are done, he carries her home; then to me

he runs. He tells me his secrets and all of his cares as I lay laconic afraid of admitting

my fears. I fear that he will leave me. I fear that he will stay. I fear that none of this may

be enough for me someday, that all of a sudden I may not feel so content anymore, and

it will please me to see him walk out of the door.

I hurt so badly. I am so disappointed in me, for I have now become everything I once

swore I would never be. I am torn between wanting him to leave and wishing he would

stay. And so the affair continues for yet another day.

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MonasteryBy Lindsay Clark

Ninety days as clear as foggy afterthoughts

from a restless fit of dreaming.

A brisk night of worrying about nothing

else but the wetness of my shoes is the

simplicity I need.

The cold grey winding marble sees

through my elegance, but lets me continue

And the echoing corridors are scrapbooks

from ancient studies and songs.

The baritone changing soothes me as peace

is willed all around

But I still feel like running from the battle

through the passages underground.

Margurite JohnsonPen and Ink5” x 4”

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Lauren CollinsSilver Print9” x 6”

Visions of You (The Ninth Day in the Falls)By Natarlie C. Francis

It has been nine whole days since I saw you last,

And though we have been apart for much longer, this time is different.

This time there is no return date on my ticket. This time I cannot count the number of

days until I will be back.

It has been nine whole days that I have been grieving for you, Craving your warm kisses

on my skin, Longing to get lost in your sweet aroma, Longing to lick your salty waters

from my lips.

It has been nine whole days. Already I am beginning to believe the lies he tells me. He

says that I will out-grow you, that I will become too educated. He says that you will have

little to offer me by the time he gets through with me. Forgive me my love.

For I must confess he sways me with his cunning gaze and promises of prosperity, all of

which he swears you cannot fulfill

It has been nine whole days. Yet he remains cold—barren. His is breath like blocks of ice

against my neck, his eyes and smiles so empty that the hairs on my skin stand on end.

Yet he intrigues me.

It has been nine whole days, but the vision of you from the airplane’s window is still etched

in my mind. Everyday I close my eyes and I see you in all your glory; your blues, your

greens, your yellows, all the colors of the rainbow, and I smile.

I smile because I remember. I remember you; I remember us.

It has been nine whole days, but I have not forgotten. I know there are nine more to

come, and there will be nine more after that. But I will never forget you, nor will I ever

stop loving you sweet, sweet Grenada, no matter what Texas has to offer.

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ApathyBy Allison Statser

Sparkle motion, magenta glam

Why do girls fall for stupid scams?

Mountain peaks or sunset beaches

Grasses blue, red lanterns greet us

Bridges black and yellow wait

Don’t slow down, can’t be late

Chimneys rise on black roofs sloping

How’s he doing? Well, he’s coping

Chocolate syrup on periwinkle ice cream

What’s his name hates the balance beam

Silky sheets or flannel cases

Ceiling mirrors of sweaty faces

Curly clouds with jagged roadblocks

Dali loved so many big clocks

She had the baby

He called it maybe

White lights smile down

And watch her ugly frown

The mayor cries, his people snicker

She smashes the lamp and watches it flicker

She stands and cries, “just remember,

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

Annette MoorePen and Ink16” x 22”

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Julia StormerWood17” x 5” x 10”

Brittani HarrisonPhotography9” x 6”

For FunBy Abigail Carter

A sliver of moon like the mouth of the

Looking-Glass cat, arcs over me in my mad

hatter’s hat hopping through red-spattered

white roses lying in beds as the Queen of

Hearts yells “Off with her head!”

Flamingoes scatter in panicked haste; Jacks

topple in their race. Into my hand jumps the

King of Spades suggesting I dig a royal

grave.

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A spark swirls, flitting across the sky.

More less a bold flickering substance

even arriving to bully all conscience,

such realized as more subtle nuances aside

From the commotion of disillusion spurred

by the continually layered past which spawns

into a monster uncontrollably feigning, dawns.

must be! reality, sought, receive, not merely perceived.

Fleeting as It may or is to be, two worlds grasp

me in immobile ecstacy, conforming at last

to the realms of the learned modeling my past;

delve i shall, amongst the greats for truth. Alas,

arrived in this state of uncertainty, clouds brood

overhead with no hope of clearing, clearly searing

my soul that seeks to be satisfied from the overbearing

demands transforming me to that ghost, hollow shell of mood.

Michael BarreraPoplar17” x 6” x 17”

Here It goes, (before it ever came)By Joshua Scott Perkins

Dedicated to Angeles Corona

lately being as though i was and or am

there before conceived and knew this,

troubled by that sure to be again, a sham

veiled, viced, vexed, evolving an eternal bliss.

had you then seen what would realize, FUSION!

Cognized a predestined junction, union of souls

so profound even words fumble in confusion

attempting an order and uttering us lulls.

are we so proud to mask our true sight

crossing paths once again never looking back,

an essence elevating me, illuminating light!

Together we will follow, forever, on the same track.

Here It Goes, (before it ever came)

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TodayBy Amanda Hartford

Today I watched the clouds roll by.

I sat there swinging in the sunshine

And guess what, I didn’t think of you.

What I thought would be impossible was now real.

What is real I didn’t know I’d be able to comprehend.

I did not cry

I did not mope

Instead I laughed at things that were funny.

I had something in my life called joy.

Where did this feeling come?

I realized my life had changed

I didn’t change yesterday but today.

The day that I knew for myself that I no longer needed you,

Where now I’m free and able to live in peace without knowing that any second I’d be hurt.

I no longer let you hurt me.

Only now do I look at you as a joke because you made the joke out of me.

You say forgive me.

I say how?

I don’t know forgiveness like you don’t know love.

Today I laid on a blanket in the grass.

Today I watched the clouds roll by just like my sorrow.

Each year, Voices sponsors a poetry contest open to students at regional high schools. Our deepestthanks to all the poets who submitted original work this year and their teachers for the most excellentcontinued support of this contest by organizing submissions. The following two poems are thisyear’s winners.

2005 High School Poetry Contest Winners

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Bleak ReminiscenceBy Brian Cole Henson

They battered our figures with no remorse

Our bodies frail and harshly forced

No wrong we had done yet hated we were

By Nazi soldiers inflicting a stir

One-by-one we were blasted down

Helpless victims struck the ground

Children were crippled and trampled by feet

Dismantled Jews laden the street

Families ran to escape the wrath

But the tyrants surged to halt their path

Around our arms we bore a star

That doomed our fate and left us scarred

Screams of mercy at the carnage done

Hope was naught in the dawning sun

Hours of suffering did not subside

We reckoned a dreadful genocide

Six million murdered in the Endlosung

Horrific judgment the days had hung

Yet death ne’er satisfied their cruel desire

Bodies were stacked then scorched by fire

Ashes fell with a morbid glow

Mocking the sense of a winter snow

Our prayers do lament the souls of our lost

As we reminisce the tragic Holocaust

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Johnna KrantzBronze8” x 6” x 4”

In Appreciation

The Editors would like to thank all the writers and artists who submitted work to Voices. A specialthank you goes to the judges who graciously took the time to evaluate submitted works and to thefaculty who spent time publicizing and encouraging students to submit to the magazine. Thank youto Sue Henson and Gary Goldberg for their tireless efforts in assisting the Editorial staff throughoutthe process of putting Voices together. Thank you to Angie Lewis and Andy Martinez at the UniversityPrint Shop; Janus Buss at MSU; Humphrey Printing; and to the Student Allocations Committee,whose members continue to recognize that students deserve the opportunity to express themselvesand their talents. Without your efforts, Voices would not have been possible.

Paige G. Dickerson, EditorEmily S. Olles, Assistant EditorVoices, Spring 2005