OCR Text |
Show Page 6 Signpost Supplement Spring 1976 Third Place Poetry My Antique Piano by Donna Ann Willis I painted it gold Which failed to set well with my Grandmother, It IS pretty, though But very old Like my Grandmother. She has gone many miles and Had many operations But now she is very ill She may never get to see her old piano again. It had been promised to me upon her death However I received it many years ago anyway; But surely she will die soon now. Not so for the piano Plans are to buy new parts for it and Make it work and look like new. Wish I could do the same for my Grandmother. First of the Month What is a Game? by Donna Ann Willis What is a game? Is it hiding discontent furbelow, Pretending. Determined to let no one know, Yet stalking about always ready to blow Isn't that agame? What is a game? Is it attending a big Church to learn, How you'd better do right or bum, When it 's love you long to give and earn I've played that game. Wha t is a game ? Is it sighing out a common excuse Like, "Who cares, "or "What's the use?" As vindication for someone's abuse I've observed that game. What is agame? Is it working relentlessly everyday, Just itching and craving to spend your pay; Yet secretly longing and wanting to say "Who else tires of this game?" What is agame? Is it lifelong taking more than you give, Laughing and shouting, "Just trying to live I" Yet expecting God to condone and forgive That's a lie, not agame ... Hon. Mention Poetry Survival Guilt by Mary Wilbert You lumbered down the dim hall toward me, Lazarus, Ixoking so much like him that my eyes blurred for who you aren't. My life stopped in mid-moment,The memories swirling up around me Uke storm-tossed sea spray. How dare you wrench loose the hard won scars And resurrect the smell of pain and death? I turn to see him, his name already in my mouth, And am amazed a hundred times to see His voice rumbling at me from your throat, Unbrother. How can you be so cruel, Ghostman, to look at me with his eyes. Brown-eyed baby, brown-eyed boy. Those eyes sought help from me. I am furious and ashamed, far at the end I had none to give. What right have you to be alive and make me wonder What right have I? Cont. from Page 5 At about fifteen minutes to twelve the intercom on his desk buzzed. He pressed the response button. "What is it Cindy?" he asked in a slightly irritated tone. "I'm sorry to bother you Mr. Kinsey, but your wife is on the visiphone. She seems upset about something." "Oh, it's probably that stupid programming unit on the food dispenser. You would think she would know how to get in touch with the repair service by herself." "Shall I put her on, sir?" "Oh, all right! I'll talk to her." He punched another button on the intercom console and the small screen sitting on top came to life. Theface on the screen was that of a middle-aged woman with brown hair. She was noticeably upset. "What is it honey? You know how busy I've been lately." "I know Alex," she answered in a tense voice. She held up a sheet of paper so he could see it on the screen. "What's that?" "It's a notice that we are delinquent in our monthly payments." . "How could we be delinquent!-1 just paid two weeks ago!" "Don't you remember? They rearranged all of the payment schedules for our sector." "Oh yes, now I remember." "Oh Alex, you're so forgetful!" "C'mon now Sara, don't start nagging." He was starting to show his irritation again. "I'll go down to the Control Center Building tomorrow and get it all straightened out." "But that's just it Alex! This notice is the second one! They must have sent the first one to your office!""Hold on a minute." He reached across his desk and shuffled through the stack of letters. The familiar green envelope appeared half-way through the pile. "Here it is, it arrived the day before yesterday." "Oh Alex!" "Now don't start that again Sara! When is the final payment due?" "At noon today, you have ten minutes to get down there." "Ten minutes! Why did you wait until now to tell me?" "The letter just arrived, I tried to get in touch with you as soon as I could, but your secretary kept putting me off." "All right, now don't worry dear, the building is only two blocks away. I can make it in plenty of time." "Hurry." "I will honey, now don't worry. Goodbye now." He switched off the visiphone, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "I'll be gone for a few minutes Cindy, I'll be back soon." "Yes sir." Alex emerged from the lobby and began running towards the Central Control Building. It towered over the city with a kind of monolithic austerity. He entered the lobby and was immediately stopped by a guard. He searched through his pockets and found his identification credit card and the guard nodded in acknowledgement. He raced to the turbo-elevator and rode it to the 37th floor, where the Payment Control was located. As he approched the door to the offices it did not open as usual. He pressed the buzzer and the small sign lit up over the button: OUT TO LUNCH , , BE BACK AT 1:00 Fear surged through Alex Kinsey. "No! No! You've got to let me in!" he screamed, and began banging on the door. ' "You can't do this to me!" He looked at his watch. It was twelve o'clock exactly. He was perspiring profusely. He continued to bang on the door. "In God's name please open this door!" He was crying now. He looked up to see a man standing across the hall watching him. "What are you staring at?" sobbed Alex turning towards him. The man smiled, "You missed your payment didn't you?" Alex stepped towards him. "Help me. Please help m ." His words were cut short as he felt the butterfly valve in his trachea snap shut. Soon he was grasping for air and tried to brace himself against the wall. He reached out a hand towards the man. He stepped back as Alex slumped to the floor. The man stood smiling for a moment, then shook his head and walked on down the hall. First Place Poetry canon by Christopher Hicks she was picking up baskets and bundles awry in the road some scattered some broken and rice all around like warm snow she revealed no emotions her face and her movements the same just one of so many no feelings no pain and no name she fell with her pannier when struck by the blare of a horn her garments were covered with mudand with dust and were torn thedriverin green screamedhis curses without any thought but then most guests do for the temperature's always too hot her countenance silent she hurried not nor did she sway no passersby stopped they just stared and rode on their way insensitive travelers de toured around a bent frame impatient intolerant each quite alone in their shame but she said not a word as she went on her way once again not really so patient just resolute in her disdain jx the grass under boots f:W:W::K:::::::S always yellow cannot tell you why., fire pierces no darkness unless you have opened your eyes Sagebrush Second Place Poetry by Dorothy Little Sagebrush is earthy. See the twisted gnarled root forced between splitting rock. See the prolific branches decked in barks of gray hanging, reaching up toward the sky. Patched with moss and fungi with sage-smelling leaves of palest green, See it growing where dust and wind prevail to help tie down the earth. Honorable Mention Fiction Sweet Baby James by Christina Carrillo "There is a young cowboy He lives on the Range His horse and his cattle are his only companions He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons Waiting for summer, his pastures to change" "God! Would it ever be summer?" The stabbing wind pierced through his jacket and he turned the collar up higher round his neck. Drawing his hat closer to his frostbitten ears, he slouched further down in the saddle; his eyes and nose running. "Use to be able to stand it," he thought. "Hell, it's part of my bones the constant ache, stiffness. Jesus! I use to like the quiet and stillness of winter, but now I can hardly wait till summer to feel warm again." He shivered slightly and urged the horse into motion dislodging thoughts of growing old as resolutely as the horse dislodged clods of dirt from its hooves. . The embers were glowing faintly when he returned to the cold, cheerless shack. Stirring the coals up, they crackled, sputtered into life. James placed the blackened, dented coffee pot to a side as he warmed the beans; a piece of sowbelly bubbling greasily from side to side. "Got to make some more sourdoughs tonight," he reminded himself as he sprinkled some water over the three left from morning. ' "Sure beats the hell out of waiting for chuck in the rain listenin' to ole Cookie's cussin'," he smiled faintly; reels of reflection unrolling in his mind. A series of scenes surfaced: a constant drone of falling rain against his yellow slicker running off his hat hurrying to join the already existing puddles. The sound of complaining steers echoing in his dreams, boots too tight to take off without a good deal of tuggin', sweatin', and cursin', finally falling asleep in his soaked bedding; face and hands muddy. The next day was merely a repeat of the day before: the taste, smell, feel of mud from the splashing of the herd, the movement of horses and men. The black sea pervading everything until it seemed as if God had forgotten his covenant with Noah and was determined to cleanse man from his sins if not wash him away entirely. Cont. on Page 7 |