The Delivery The sapphire night caused me to shiver I have ajob, I must deliver-this parcel post no time to waste-post haste My mind begins to unravel, down the irksome street that I must travel The silent houses amidst screaming trees frighten me even more-this parcel post that I deplore For I know not what it contains but the fact remains, it must be delivered notimetowaste-poste haste This brown paper package with the oblong shape bewilders me but I mustn't wait I continue my trek at a faster pace notimetOwaste-post haste I see in the yonder a house which I ponder to be that ofmy final stop the place of the parcel post, a stop that/ fear the most For this brown paper package confuses me still its oblong shape seemingly evil I enter the gate of this dwelling I dread My mind comes alive, but my thoughts remain dead I must deliver this parcel and be on my way no time to stay I rap on the door of this house I abhor even more than before A scent I detect, like the rotting offlesh ''/t'sjust your mind,'' I say as I sense footsteps coming my way The door opens wide and wanting to hide I stay to confront this Jekyll or Hyde It was darďż˝ and dim, but this man I could see was quite slim and missing a limb HE smiled and spoke as ifsome kind of joke ''That parcel you hold has been madefrom a mold. A mold you see made especially for me. There's no need for alarm, it's only my arm.'' The stink I behold was this thingfrom the mold I gave the parcel, the parcel post and fled the surroundings as ifseeing a ghost for it was time to go home notimetowaste-post haste -Tim Wilbourne
-Don Buchwach
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My life has been patterns of experience. Loves lost and found; Some through growth, Some through chance, Some not at all. I've built a high wall, for those who don't accept me to hide behind. Through experiencelfind That what one wants Jsn 't always being offered, And that one may have to bleed for what one needs. I don't want to be hurt again. But who can say I'll win through experience?
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-Tate Swecker
When I was little and it was cold, we usta sit aroun' the fire. Well, I usta fall in cause I'd get too close and that'd burn me good so mama' d call the ole woman down the road t' come and take the fire out. She'd come and sit me down holding my hands and prayin' t' herself and blow on my burns and in less than five minutes-the pain'd be gone-she'd leave then and my burns'd be better and not even leave a mark. The skin'd be jes as soft as before, we usta have to call that woman two or three times a winter. Thrush or thrash is a disease caused by unsanitary conditions that is especially prevalent in infants. It is also treated in many different ways. Some healers must be out of sight of the diseased or their own cure will not work while others must hold the sick child. Another quilter furnished a story on thrush: Daddy could take out thrush but he couldn't teach me or any of us kids for that matter, l'da loved ta learn but he said he'd lose his power if he was ta teach me since 1 was kin. He taught the girl down the road though. People'd come to him from all over with their sick babies and say, ' Can ya help me?' and Daddy'd take a look at the child and dependin' on how bad he had it, he'd either cure them right then or sometimes they'd have to come back a second time. A woman brought a baby to him once that was about ta die and she was cryin' up a storm and she askt daddy what he could do and he took one look at the child and saw it was the yellow thrash-that's the kind that blisters. He askt her when the baby ate last cause there were blisters all over his mouth and she said he couldn't eat so daddy took the baby and held it and blew in hfs mouth. Then he went outside and said some prayers I guess and came back and tole the woman to take the baby home but if he wasn't all better to bring him around in a day or two. Well, two days later, up comes this woman and baby and she look! right much happier but she said the baby was still sick but he could eat so daddy took him and fixt him up agin. Never saw her after that day but she went away in tears thankin' daddy for savin' her baby. Boy! He had the thrush bad, that was one of the oilly times daddy had to do it twice.
-Photo by Rodney Ratcliffe
Faith Healing
• Ill
Franklin County
- Janet Diakon Faith-healing or white witchcraft is the art of non-medical healing passed down through the centuries in Franklin County that involves sincere belief in the Bible and the Lord. Thrush, burns, bleeding and warts are the maladies most commonly remedied. Treatment varies within the circle of faith healers. Some healers require a person's presence in order to stop blood or draw the fire out of burns while others need only to know the injured person's full name and age in order to perform their magic. A healer cannot teach a person of the same sex or someone who is 'kin'' to them how to heal or they will lose their own power. If one does not believe in the power, he cannot become a healer although he can be healed. Most faith healers are devout Christians who rely on the Lord and the Bible to cure people. They believe so strongly in this process that they feel if man knew the correct Biblical verses to recite, there would be a cure for every human ailment. One of the quilters at the Ferrum Craft Shop summed this idea up well, ''Just as Christ healed so can we if we have sincere faith and know the right verses." Firm belief in faith healing is held more by the elderly than the young who tend to regard it as superstition. One morning I went to the Ferrum Craft Shop to ask the quilters if they had heard of faith healing or if anyone had ever been healed. Almost every quilter knew someone who could heal or they had been healed themselves when they were younger. In the foilowing pages I will include a description of the four main ailments and a story of a cure to go along with each. It is believed that when one is burned the fire continues down into the body until it is drawn out. When a doctor heals a burn he nurses it from the bone out because he has driven the fire to the bone by placing ointments or water on it. A faith healer draws the fire out of the burn instead of driving it further inside so no scar is left. The owner of the beauty parlor in Ferrum told a few stories that were interesting on taking the fire out of burns. The following is one of her tales:
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I think the most amazing story was told to me by one of the elder women of the group and had to do with stopping blood. Stopping blood is probably the most mysterious cure and not everyone is familiar with the process involved. My mama usta stop blood. I remember one day a man came busting into the house aII excited and upset, claiming his wife was bleedin' ta death and askin' mama to come and fix it. All mama did was ta ask how old she was, her full name and how she cut herself. Well, the man was excited but he tole mama all this and before long she tole him to go home and when he got there his wife would be okay. Mama wa,s real quiet for a while-dido' say nothin'. I think she was prayin'. The next day we heard the man's wife was okay from a neighbor and that she'd stopped bleeding when he got home. A lot of people usta come ta mama when they was hurt.
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My final interview was with a faith-healer living in Ferrum who takes the fire out of burns. Tom and Hilda Wade live in a comfortable white house about a half mile from town. They've raised a family, have four grandchildren and are good ¡ Christian people. Mrs. Wade is modest about her power and considers it a gift from God. She says she was not taught to take the fire out by a Christian but that she recites prayers and some Bible verses after she performs her ritual or whatever it is she does to heal burns. Mrs. Wade could not tell me what it is she does for fear of losing her power to heal. She did tell me that she relies more on prayer and God than on the act she performs. She could teach someone who was an unrelated male how to stop fire if she thought they had the desire to become a healer with no ill effects on her power. The faith of the person being healed does not matter as far as Mrs. Wade can judge and all that she must know in order to cure a burn is the full name and age of the injured person. It is not necessary for her to see them. Mrs. Wade told me her mother could stop blood but could not teach her. I asked, "When was the last time you healed a burn?" She replied, "Last night Mrs. Peters called me because her granddaughter had been burned and she asked me to fix it. I asked her name and age, and then I did what I do."
Removing warts is simpler and more common. Practically everyone I talked to had warts removed at some time in their life by a healer. One of the ladies remembered a girl she went to school with who removed warts. Yep, I remember now, Mary Anne Underwood was her name and did I ever thank her. I had all these ugly warts on my hands and she askt to see my hands one day at school. I was awful embarrasst, thought she was bein' mean or somethin' and then she askt me if I'd like her to fix 'em. I said I would and she took my hands and rubbed them for a bit and seemed to be talking to herself. Well, a little while later my warts went away and they never did come back!
"Do you know if it's all right?" "Well, I haven't heard from Mrs. Peters so I guess so." "Do many people call you?" ''Yes, there are right many. Mostly older people for their grandchildren or my son for his children. The younger people don't believe so much anymore. When Christ was on earth he healed. He healed all sorts of things even palsey. I believe in Christ and if we call on him to help us, he still can heal. All 1 do is call on the Lord to help us and he does. Don't you believe in that?"
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-Paint1'ng bY Don Th omas
-Photoby Rodney Ratcliffe
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-Painting by Drew DeNeal -Painting by J. D. Wells
-Painting by Billy Holliday
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-Painting by Carolyn Hart
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-Painting by K aren Peterson -Photos b y Rodney Ratcliffe
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-Vicky Strat
The Wino - Steve Bennett Old winos like the summer because it's easily warm enough for them to fall asleep anywhere they want and not wake up freezing and aching. It was August and two o'clock in the morning, and as usual in small cities like Salem, Virginia the only things still about were teenagers and police. Andy lay flagrantly drunk in the milkweed that grew beside the trash bin behind Kroger's Supermarket. The trash bin was sitting against the loading dock, in the dirtiest corner of the huge parking lot, and smelled of soggy cardboard boxes and rotten oranges. No one had bought any oranges lately it seemed to Andy, but other smells kept him awake, for he was used to garbage. The sour vapor of wine curling from the bottles around him and the fresh green smells of crushed milkweed were sucked into separate nostrils, and kissed alongside of each other until they interlaced at the bridge of Andy's red nose. The odd mixture kept his soggy brain thoroughly confused, sensing first one and then the other; recognition of each came in little jerks of his neck and this kept Andy awake, his eyes open and glistening. He was looking down his nose in the general direction of the ?wll Store, which sat across the street at the north end of the parking lot directly in front of him. His nose made little circles in the air and he hardly noticed as the 7w11 drifted in and out of focus. He heard the truck pull in on the west side of the parking lot though, and if Andy had bought only two bottles of wine at the 7wll instead of three he probably would have realized that the mammoth bumping and rubbing sounds he heard meant that the driver had missed the ramp way and had rolled over the concrete abutments at the end of the lot, and that the driver was obviously crashing off something. He had bought three bottles though, and he didn't even notice that the driver scraped two gears coming across the parking lot. The tractor trailer lumbered into Andy's vision and seemed like it would head straight out the other side of the parking lot, when the cab pivoted suddenly, the tractor swinging around behind and headed straight for the weeds where Andy lay.
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The massive head beams scalded him in 100,000 candlepower; his hands flung up in front of his face; and his feet pedaled furiously in a useless bicycle motion across the ground. The weeds bunched at his back and held him stationary. Air whistled through the pitifuIIy small hole his mouth made, his jaws too heavy to open. The head lights held him in their pincer beams, pressing him harder and harder against the weeds as the truck rolled nearer, his legs pumping faster and faster, his breath whistling louder and louder until air brakes gushed all at once and the huge tractor trailer glided to a halt twenty feet in front of him. The brilliant head beams switched off, but the smaller amber lights still glowed and the truck sat poised indifferently on its gigantic tires, its great engine rumbling. Andy's feet finally wound down and stopped pedaling; he lay against the milkweed, chest heaving from the effort of extracting air from the pitifully small hole his mouth stilI made. Adrenalin cleared his head, and as his eyes adjusted once more to the dark, he saw and heard the truck door open with a sharp metallic click. The door swung heavily on its hinges and a figure stepped down from the cab in an exaggerated motion, like an astronaut on the moon, and turned to the rear of the cab. Wine flowed strongly in Andy's veins, and his eyes began to cloud as he tried to keep them focused on the figure sitting against the wheel. Shadow seemed to creep and hid the cab behind the fuzzy amber lights, and the liquid form of the figure was lost in the stealthy blackness. Suddenly, Andy heard a giggle, a small piping sound under the bass rumble of the engine, and then another, and another coming faster and faster until the small lilting bursts wildly collided with each other in the dark for one long insane moment and then abruptly stopped. "Hey old man ... " Andy was jolted by the electriw fying voice above the engine that he knew came from the shadow; he squinted at the blackness surrounding the cab. "Hey old man ... " It came again, clearly as if the rumble of the engine was no more than a sea breeze. "You're a wino aintcha? I can smell you from here!" The shadow giggled again. "Hey ...wanna bennie?" the shadow giggled. Andy moved stiffly in the weeds; his head was too soaked with alcohol to tell him exactly what the shadow meant, but .certain halfwremembered warnings made him squirm. Then incredibly a blob divested itself from the shadow surrounding the cab and moved towards Andy, hulking, taking shape in front of the amber lights, and in a few quick strides the silhouette was standing over him in the weeds. Andy's lips drew up in a tight rim, as they were prone to do when he was drunk and afraid, and he heard the figure say as one speaks to a frightened child, "Don't you want any? Awww c'mon ... " And Andy's eyes almost split from their lids as they saw a meaty finger shove three tablets through the small hole his lips made. The tablets were dry and bitter on his tongue, and he swallowed them quickly, his adam's apple working like a sledge hammer to pound them down as they scrap�d his throat. The black shape roared at the old man's predicaw men!; stumbling and giggling all the way back to the cab, the shape disappeared into the shadow and Andy heard the door open and shut in one motion. The
engine gave a couple of quick revs, the head lights switched on and the rig swung around and rumbled straight over the north end ramp way, the gear changes swift and sure as the exhaust rushed evenly from the stack in powerful notes somewhere between the blat of a bus and the trumpet of a horn. The notes faded in the .early morning sky as the truck went down the street, rattling windows in their frames as it went by. Andy stared at the ramp way where the truck had just been, yellow, red and blue flashes pulsing before his eyes where the head lights had hit him full in the face. He sealed his lips, as if to keep anyone else from taking advantage of his mannerism and folded his arms, for quite suddenly he was very cold. He sat shivering, waiting for the tablets to take hold and do whatever they were supposed to do-he couldn't think of what and that was what scared him; his eyes squeezed tight and his fists balled into knots, waiting. But after what must have been fifteen minutes, nothing happened. Andy stopped shivering, his eyes came open and the first thing he saw was the Mother Vineyard bottle by his ankle. He looked around and there were two other bottles on either side of him. His body began to loosen and unfold like a blossom from its packed bud as the realization stole upon him slowly. "Thas it ... "he mumbled aloud, "I drank so much wine them pills just can't get to me!" Andy laughed drunkenly; that damn truck driver was gone and he was safe and . . . Andy stopped laughing. He felt the smallest vibration, the gentlest ¡rippling motion in the back of his head. He sat quietly to see if it would go away but it didn't, so softly, so persistently, like someone drumming their fingers on his skull. It didn't get any stronger as the minutes went by and the rhythmical drumming made him sleepy; his eyes ached to be closed and he closed them. He rolled over on his side and curled into a prenatal position, the rhythmical drumming soothed and coaxed and lulled his nerves and he dozed. Fingertips pattered on his head like soft rain, steady, easy, but then stopped as if shut off. His skull began to tingle and he realized that his ears were ringing louder and louder with each passing second when the fingers started drumming again, but faltered. The fingers stiffened and stopped and started, stopped and started, the fingertips snapping down harder with each frustration, poking at Andy's wine softened brain. His eyes came open and his lids jerked spasmodically with each false start and stop of the cruel fingers, the hard nails biting and scraping inside his head; then the fingers seemed to gnarl into a fist and pound at the walls of his skull with each pulse. War drums beat in his ears and he was suddenly conscious of his throat being dry, parched, scorched, it seemed; his lips worked from side to side to keep from fusing together. Andy scrambled up as best he could and his head flung about on his neck, looking for something to drink, something wet, anything liquid. His eyes sprang in all directions and then locked on a hose spigot used for cleaning the loading dock behind the trash bin. He staggered toward it and fell on his knees, crawling the rest of the way. His hands clawed the small iron wheel and wrenched the valve open, but nothing came out, no
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too hard and his teeth only loosened in their gums against the neck of the bottle. "Halt!" sh�uted the lawman in a strained voice; Andy spun and whipped the bottle toward the voice, but it shot high and burst into mist against the ceiling. Andy grabbed up bottles from the floor and started throwing them as fast as he could and the bottles exploded in all directions. "Stop! Halt! Stop! Stop!" yelled the cop between the bursts, the shouting and the bursting indisting�ishable from eac_h other in Andy's ears, the sounds commg as blows to his head, pounding it from side to side, left, right, l�ft. "Stop'!" tl_le bottles flying and the cop shoutmg "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Andy saw the cop yelling behind the small side door off to the left and charged blindly down an aisle that led to the door, brandishing a bottle, and he never saw the yellow flash erupt from the gun behind the door and he never saw the glass explode in his face and he hardly felt the pieces lay his throat open as he was blown backwards. Andy landed on the tile and lay there, making small gurgling noises as the blood swelled out over the floor; he moved his head slightly and the glass slivers imbedded in his cheek squeeked across the tile. The blood eddied around his nose and Andy blew a shower of red flicks over his shoulder once, twice .... The alarm was still ringing as the cop scrunched gingerly through the broken glass. He kept the long barrel of his 38 Police Service revolver pointed at Andy, but there was so much blood that he knew he was dead. He looked at the blood, and then looked around the store; there were transparent red, purple, and yellow splotches on the walls where the bottles had smashed, and the air hung heavy with wine. He looked over by the refrigerator section and saw the bloody smears Andy's legs had left as he bled while he flung the bottles. He looked at the old wino again. Andy lay in blood and broken glass. Down Interstate 81, the cab of a tractor trailer reverberated with the driver's loud, rough singing, a song he had corrupted from "Then Cam� Bronson": "Going down that looong lonesome h1ghwayeeee! Rollin' along, I'm gonna live life my wayeee! Yeeeehaaaaa! ''
water. He wrenched it clockwise and counter-clockwise and nothing happened; he pushed and pulled the little iron wfleel tearing skin from his palms, but it was no use: the store manager had turned off the water to the spigot at closing time so that kids couldn't find it and leave it running. Andy swung a fist at it and pain shot up his arm; he felt blood come through his fingers. He rose up on his knees and saw the 7-11 sitting across the parking lot at the north end; he remembered the rows of wine bottles standing briskly at attention in the refrigerator section. Pushing himself on his feet he careened full tilt across the parking lot, a broad expanse that only lengthened as he plunged headlong, on all fours at times as the blood pounded in his head, blackening his vision until the store was no more than a neon blur. He closed his eyes as his feet smacked the pavement, one after the other, until he tripped and sprawled across the cement apron at 7-11. Lying on his back, chest heaving like a bellows and air burning deep in his lungs, he couldn't think of how he entered the store the first time that evening, when he bought the wine. Thinking enraged the fists in his skull, smashing and clawing inside his head, and Andy screamed and rolled on his back kicking his feet at the large sliding glass door. It shattered witl;t a colossal explosion, the larger pieces slicing down and cutting deep into Andy's legs, the deep cuts running blood over the tile inside. He had breath only for a groan as he cradled his legs with his arms and rolled on his side crying. An alarm was clanging shrilly, and it wasn't a full minute before a police cruiser whooshed around the corner and squalled in front of the store. Andy uncoiled and scampered through the broken glass up an aisle to the refrigerator compartment. He flung open the glass door and thrust his whole arm in among the bottles, and they toppled from the shelf and onto the floor; most of them didn't break and just rolled against things. He bent down and grasped one that had rolled against the glass door next to him and a fleeting smile of triumph cracked his face, but his hands shook so that he couldn't grip the cap. Whimp ering, he stuck the cap between his teeth; he bit down
-Photo by Kathleen Bailey
Conversion She lay on the grassy green hillside And could feel the warm wet sand of the beach Soothing her bare body. She inhaled the aroma of the wild roses And could smell the warm wind blowing across The salty, blue ocean. She absorbed the sweetness of the air about her And could taste the bitter salt from the Water of the sea. She listened to the rustling trees in the breeze And could hear the rolling waves of the ocean Crashing upon the shore. She visioned the hand of God reaching out And carrying her Home, And could see a lone seagulljlyingfreely Across the beach and sea. -Connie Lee Dallas --Photo by David Ahrend
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Trains
Ode for M.; 1000 Vacation Miles Away
I sat there silently, waiting for the train to come by. loved watching trains - everyone on them seemed so happy and safe - they were my one comfort. It must be near 3:00 I thought, as I listened to the predawn sounds, seemingly muffled in the distance. I had had to get out of that house and in my hasty retreat I had forgotten a coat or sweater - I shivered ever so slightly-they'd look for me eventually but they'd never find me here, near the trains, in the peaceful land near the tracks, the trains would never betray me. I remembered the trains from long ago-from the days when we had all been happy together. We often rode the trains from time to time, with father nearest the window, me in the middle and mother on the aisle-oh how jubilant times were in the sanctuary of the trains .. then, the time came when mother had to leave, I never really understood why-there had been some talk of an operation but I never could comprehend what for-it was an expensive operation, that much I did know. Father had often lectured about the tightness of money when he would return from work, maudlin and yet still very kind, it was only after mother returned that his intoxication was shown violently, but it was her fault-she provoked him by berating him so. He would then come into my room, sit down and we would talk for hours-he was so good. Finally mother's scoldings became more frequent and she threatened to leave, anon, father ceased to drink and they were happy together, once again-I despised them both-they had forgotten about me-I no longer mattered but I would get back at them-these are the thoughts that rushed through my head. I returned home-still in my nightclothes only to find that they had not even noticed my departure. Upon realizing this I became infuriated but I quickly regained my senses,-quietly, oh so quietly I walked down to the cellar and picked up the ax which was always left by the stairway. Silently, I stepped back up the stairs and crept to the bedroom door which had been left open. Proceeding to the bedside, I leaned over and the sight of them sleeping in one another's arms sent me into a rage. As I was about to drop the ax-my mother's eyes half-opened and in a drowsy voice, she began to say "Honey, is something wrong?" but it was too late-I let the ax fall and swiftly brought it up again and again and again-across their faces and over their bodies-when I finally stopped, I stared at the mutilated, blood splattered forms lying there and I laughed-never again would they leave me out!!! Then, frantically I ran out of the house, ax in hand and blood covering my nightgown-I ran for the safety of the trains. When I saw the train 's lights, I ran out to greet it and to hug it-the last thing I heard was the screech of brakes ...
The sunsets I've watched alone Splashed colors dull across the clouds, Their patterns swirling emptily, Painting grey New England towns. And the nights so black and soundless Crushed my soul with tinsel dreams Ofhis voice and quiet breathing Near a hundred silver streams. The ashes ofmy laughter past I left with him to hold Have choked me with remembrances Ofa thousand thoughts untold. One more night oflonging And anotherjourney startsTo the comfort ofhis whispers And celebration ofour hearts. -sh¡aryn Chadbourne
Cat Approaching She examines quickly and accurately not missing a move. Quiet as a windless night as she approaches the movement. Everything is frozen in motion f0r she is sensitive and precise. Such accurate expectatioi1, ofsuch beauty, that is caught for only a moment. Cautious and content as she holds her head in perfect balance. Awareness has combined a pure, thoughtless mind with a.flawless, precious system; to guarantee the vitality ofa cat. -Jan Barco
-Janet Diukon
-Photo by Susan Gillis
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Trains I sat there silently, waiting for the train to come by. loved watching trains - everyone on them seemed so happy and safe - they were my one comfort. It must be near 3:00 I thought, as I listened to the predawn sounds, seemingly muffled in the distance. I had had to get out of that house and in my hasty retreat I had forgotten a coat or sweater - I shivered ever so slightly-they'd look for me eventually but they'd never find me here, near the trains, in the peaceful land near the tracks, the trains would never betray me. I remembered the trains from long ago-from the days when we had all been happy together. We often rode the trains from time to time, with father nearest the window, me in the middle and mother on the aisle-oh how jubilant times were in the sanctuary of the trains .. then, the time came when mother had to leave, I never really understood why-there had been some talk of an operation but I never could comprehend what for-it was an expensive operation, that much I did know. Father had often lectured about the tightness of money when he would return from work, maudlin and yet still very kind, it was only after mother returned that his intoxication was shown violently, but it was her fault-she provoked him by berating him so. He would then come into my room, sit down and we would talk for hours-he was so good. Finally mother's scoldings became more frequent and she threatened to leave, anon, father ceased to drink and they were happy together, once again-I despised them both-they had forgotten about me-I no longer mattered but I would get back at them-these are the thoughts that rushed through my head. I returned home-still in my nightclothes only to find that they had not even noticed my departure. Upon realizing this I became infuriated but I quickly regained my senses,-quietly, oh so quietly I walked down to the cellar and picked up the ax which was always left by the stairway. Silently, I stepped back up the stairs and crept to the bedroom door which had been left open. Proceeding to the bedside, I leaned over and the sight of them sleeping in one another's arms sent me into a rage. As I was about to drop the ax-my mother's eyes half-opened and in a drowsy voice, she began to say "Honey, is something wrong?" but it was too late-I let the ax fall and swiftly brought it up again and again and again-across their faces and over their bodies-when I finally stopped, I stared at the mutilated, blood splattered forms lying there and I laughed-never again would they leave me out!!! Then, frantically I ran out of the house, ax in hand and blood covering my nightgown-I ran for the safety of the trains. When I saw the train's lights, I ran out to greet it and to hug it-the last thing I heard was the screech of brakes ...
Ode for M.; 1000 Vacation Miles Away The sunsets J"ve watched alone Splashed colors dull across the clouds, Their patterns swirling emptily, Painting grey New England towns. And the nights so black and soundless Crushed my soul with tinsel dreams Of his voice and quiet breathing Near a hundred silver streams. The ashes ofmy laughter past I left with him to hold Have choked me with remembrances Oja thousand thoughts untold. One more night of longing And another journey startsTo the comfort of his whispers And celebration of our hearts.
-Sharyn Chadbourne
Cat Approaching She examines quickly and accurately not missing a move. Quiet as a windless night as she approaches the movement. Everything is frozen in motion for she is sensitive and precise. Such accurate expectatio,'1, of such beauty, that is caught for only a moment. Cautious and content as she holds her head in perfect balance. Awareness has combined a pure, thoughtless mind with a.flawless, precious system; to guarantee the vitality of a cat.
-Jan Barco
-Janet Diakon
-Photo by Susan Gillis
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Gentle words express innerfeelings, but never aloud. For emotion is nothing more than how the body feels. My words fall like snowflakes, and chill my heart. -Tate Swecker
Sketches of Time I listen as doors open to another world that could never be. Fantasy. /watch the pitiful dove being swallowed by sky. and then die. Agony. I taste the richness of life as mountains stand still; with a renewed will. Eternity.
-Ann Wilson
New horizons are best reflected in a tear. For we strive for the new only when we still wish to Cling to the past.
- Virginia Parker
Yet in moving ahead we will.find morejoys, And cry again. -Tate Swecker
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#3 ''A cage went in search of a bird.''
-Franz Kafka
Barely evening yet, and afriend and I Are out to watch the blue stain red, Peaceful in our piece of world without The zoo of eyes to dread Tight silences pop their springs, Spraying modem conversations The length of8·tracks, everywhere Bumping and bouncing in the air around us Along with us, in my Out·of·date machine. ''There are demons in thatjungle there! It's good to be away.'' She sighs into her glasses, Dirty and unusedMountains black and surreally clear Jump into her skyline, shooting Her with smiles She says, "Let's Analyze our significance now that we Are being ourselves. '' We are countless orphans, impotent to cause And dead to answers, swingingfrom the vines Of question marks undotted and agedWe have a wooden idol helps us to forget, Passed from hand to eager hand Wefill its gut with nourishment and Suck the vomit from its throat . . . . . . . . It used to amuse us all. Habit now, Like the attitudes of weathered deathbound Elders, gasping for release. Evening happened, miles away. It happened to relax us, and happened like a dream. And words chained on in paragraphs describing Skies and moods of winter; Likening mountains to near-bald heads With tree-hairs growing, magnified . . . . We spoke of our vainfantasy To bum our nulled identity/BM in effigy, to make us more anonymous. All or none!, sang we in tears, And laughed, as though in pain.
-Sharyn Chadbourne
-Photo by Kathleen Bailey
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The World ,s Still a Beautiful Place The way of our world is harsh and cruel The wars, injustice and hatred which rules. Yet, despite the errors that mankind has made; It was put here for us to preserve, not evade. Its rivers and sunsets and creatures within Are for us to behold, not destroy;just to win. But the world, in its glory revolves, as does time, And Lovers embrace and their hearts intertwine. -Cheryl Ann Poling -Cecil Payne
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-Photo by Rodney Ratcliffe
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-Photo by David D. Hinkle
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Without the Word The mere thought of her presence, fills me with passion and anxiety. Her touch too soft and smooth. Gentle feelings, violent reaction, deep emotion to the fullest. Without the word, I try to reveal my mind. Ohl that would be the end. Too soon to say, but not too soon to wish. Until that day, I will remain empty, lacking her love tofill my shell. For a man without the love of a woman, is depression beyond material thought.
-Tony Dileo
-Photo by Scott Cates
-Photo by David Ahrend
What is a Buil,ding but a Ship? What is a buildin_g but a shi'p that Sails to the sky, its crew construction Workers, its captain, a steel Mercury With wings? Dawn rises on the Appian Way. A Roman road, the girders, soaring Eagles in a gladiator's hands. Caesars Looking down in contempt on the masses Below. Yankee kings building on a sea Of air, land that must reach an end. Penthouse dancers on a roof of granite. Asleep down below like a fat man's Pastime after lunch, labor leaders Argue contracts, draw fine lines between Past and future in the country ofthe present.
-Eli Rosenberg
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-Photo by Scott Cates
The Chrysalis is the art magazine of Ferrum College. Published every spring by an all-student staff, the Chrysalis reflects the contemporary concerns, moods, and observations of the college community viewed against the rich folk traditions of Franklin County, Virginia. Contributions of original work are accepted in poetry, prose, music, painting, drawing, photography, and folklife heritage.
Staff Editor ..............................................................................Sharyn Chadbourne Assistant editor ......................................................................Douglas J. Massey Art editor ..................................................................................Tony Dileo Photography editor ...................................................................... Rodney Ratcliffe Copy editor ................................................................................Mark Jones Proofeditors ..........................................................Stewart Roberson and Janet Diakon Faculty advisor ..........................................................................Dr. Peter Crow The staff of Chrysalis would like to extend its thanks to Mr. Jim Flanagan at Copenhaver Publishers, Mr. Andrew Wyndham, and Mrs. Jane Stogner-without whose assistance this magazine would be impossible. Thanks also to all contributors. We appreciate your cooperation with our efforts.
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