7
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      -WHAT
      IS
      OURS
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Are
      we
      all
      destined
      to
      suffer,
      a
      slow
     
     
      and
      shameless
      death.
     
    

    
     
      I
      guess
      then
      time
      will
      be
      plenty,
      to
     
     
      amend
      our
      sorry’s
      and
      regrets.
     
    

    
     
      But
      what
      good
      would
      it
      do
      us,
      to
     
     
      take
      all
      that
      we
      can
      horde.
     
    

    
     
      Because
      when.time
      comes
      to
      take
     
     
      us,
      those
      things
      we
      can’t
      afford.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      things
      we
      had
      begun.
     
    

    
     
      And
      there
      was
      still
      time
      to
      have,
      all
     
     
      these
      things
      undone.
     
    

    
     
      But
      what
      good
      would
      it
      do
      us,
      the
     
     
      end
      might
      be
      here.
     
    

    
     
      What
      was
      a
      dream
      is
      now
      reality,
      we
     
     
      now
      live
      our
      greatest
      fears,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Killed
      by
      one
      of
      our
      own,
      a
      son
      has
     
     
      died
      in
      war,
      —
     
    

    
     
      We
      may
      not
      see
      the
      whole
      truth,
     
     
      but
      we
      support
      what
      they’re
      fighting
     
     
      for.
     
    

    
     
      And
      what
      good
      would
      it
      do
      us,
      to
     
     
      pray
      to
      the
      Lord,
      so
      strong
      and
      sure.
     
     
      For
      all
      the
      diseases
      that
      we
      suffer,
     
     
      this
      almighty
      man,
      has
      no
      cure.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      But
      why
      can’t
      they
      see,
      that
      the
     
     
      things
      that
      they
      have
      done,
      or
      the
     
     
      things
      that
      they
      have
      gained,
      all
      mean
     
     
      nothing
      to
      me.
     
    

    
     
      But
      now
      it
      makes
      no
      difference,
      its
     
     
      all
      been
      painted
      and
      framed.
     
    

    
     
      Our
      hindrance
      is
      our
      difference,
     
    

    
     
      |
      pray
      society’s
      not
      insane.
     
    

    
     
      Jan.
      1991
     
    
   
   
    
     
      i
     
     
      canal
     
    

    
     
      of
      >
      .
     
    

    
     
      Ped
      ‘eS
     
    
   
   
    
     
      —
     
     
      va
     
     
      tu!
     
    
   
   
    
     
      "re
     
     
      vile
      Eats
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Many
      times
      we
      were
      told
      to
      end,
      the
     
    
   
   
    
     
      To
      write
      a
      poem
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      Doesn’t
      take
      much
      to
      write
      a
     
     
      poem
     
    

    
     
      Just
      a
      pinch
      of
      this
      and
      a
      pinch
      of
     
     
      that.
     
    

    
     
      Just
      a
      few
      words,
     
    

    
     
      arranged
      nicely
      on
      a
      page.
     
    

    
     
      Just
      an
      opinion
      on
      anything,
     
    

    
     
      even
      if
      it’s
      not
      important.
     
    

    
     
      An
      opinion
      on
      pancakes:
     
    

    
     
      All
      it
      takes,
     
    

    
     
      is
      a
      bit
      of
      vocabulary,
     
    

    
     
      a
      few
      words,
      a
      little
      piece
      of
      paper,
     
     
      a
      single
      pen,
     
    

    
     
      and
      a
      lot
      of
      heart
     
    

    
     
      -Janette
      Callbeck
     
    
   
   
    
     
      WHY?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      How
      come
      whenever
      |
      ask
      someone
     
     
      why
      it
      is,
     
    

    
     
      why
      do
      they
      always
      say
      that
      it
      is
      an
     
     
      act
      of
      God?
     
    

    
     
      Who
      is
      God?
     
    

    
     
      Our
      Creator?
      Our
      master?
     
    

    
     
      No
      one
      ever
      seems
      to
      know.
     
    

    
     
      But
      why
      don’t
      people
      know?
     
     
      Millions
      worship
      a
      being
      who
      they
     
     
      have
      never
      seen.
     
    

    
     
      Doesn't
      that
      seem
      strange?
     
    

    
     
      People
      who
      do
      not
      believe
      in
      God,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      believe
      that
      we
      are
      part
      of
      evolution.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Everything
      must
      begin
      and
      end,
      so
     
    
   
   
    
     
      how
      did
      it
      begin?
     
    

    
     
      Someone
      must
      have
      been
     
     
      responsible
      for
      it.
     
    

    
     
      But
      who?
     
    

    
     
      How
      will
      it
      end?
     
    

    
     
      Surely
      we
      will
      bring
      the
      end
      upon
     
     
      ourselves,
      or
      maybe
      evolution
      will
     
     
      do
      it
      for
      us.
     
    

    
     
      The
      manner
      in
      which
      we
      treat
      this
     
     
      earth,
      will
      not
      extend
      our
      welcome.
     
     
      Hopefully
      when
      our
      welcome
      here
     
     
      ends,
      |
      will
      not
      be
      here.
     
    

    
     
      When
      something
      has
      been
      for
      so
     
     
      long,
      it
      won't
      leave
      peacefully,
     
    

    
     
      Jan.
      1989
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      AGLIALOUS
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      Computer
      Sitting
      In
      Front
      Of
     
     
      Me.
     
    

    
     
      Oh
      What
      A
      Nasty
      Sight.
     
    

    
     
      The
      Glare
      Off
      The
      Screen.
     
    

    
     
      An
      Ail,
      Pale
      Light.
     
    

    
     
      |
      Try
      To
      Run
      And
      Hide.
     
    

    
     
      My
      Emotions
      All
      Locked
      Up
      Inside.
     
     
      The
      Crooked
      Creek
      Turns
      Here
     
     
      And
      There.
      :
     
    

    
     
      And
      People
      Just
      Don’t
      Seem
      To
     
     
      Care.
     
    

    
     
      Oh
      What
      A
      World
      We
      Live
      In
     
     
      Today.
     
    

    
     
      |
      Wish
      It
      Would
      All
      Just
      Go
      AWAY.
     
     
      -Jabba
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Frenne
     
     
      =
      —_=__—_—==
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Thistle-laden
      jagged
      peaks
     
     
      Stretching
      to
      the
      sky
     
    

    
     
      Rushing
      streams
      and
      crushing
      creeks
     
     
      Validate
      my
      cry.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Seek
      to
      free
      the
      who
      within
     
     
      Gripping
      at
      my
      bones
     
    

    
     
      Claws
      of
      hate
      ripping
      the
      skin
     
     
      Of
      one
      who’s
      now
      full
      grown.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Anguish
      filled
      and
      lifelessness
     
     
      So
      ruthless
      and
      undone
     
     
      Longing
      for
      the
      gift
      of
      rest
     
     
      What
      has
      the
      ghost
      become?
     
     
      H.K.
      Douglas
     
    
   
   
    
     
      WHAT
      I
      EXPECTED
      WAS
      A
      BELL.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      A
      great
      bronze
      bell
     
    

    
     
      thundering
      to
      the
      ground
     
    

    
     
      from
      a
      burning
      tower,
     
    

    
     
      a
      monument
      to
      freedom
     
    

    
     
      cracking
      out
      its
      last
      dolorous
      peel
     
     
      as
      it
      splits
      on
      the
      frozen
      ground,
     
     
      its
      tongue
      stopped.
     
    

    
     
      Silent
      bell.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      What
      |
      expected
      was
      a
      bowl,
     
     
      slipping
      in
      slow
      motion
      to
      the
      floor
     
     
      with
      the
      sickening
      certainty
     
    

    
     
      this
      cannot
      be
      saved,
     
    

    
     
      shattering
      with
      a
      rich
      final
      ring,
     
    

    
     
      the
      vessel
      flying
      into
      an
      oblivion
     
    

    
     
      of
      plinths,
      slivers
      of
      glaze
     
    

    
     
      making
      the
      path
      unwalkable.
     
    

    
     
      Empty
      bowl.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      is
      not
      a
      bell,
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      not
      a
      bowl.
     
    

    
     
      |
      did
      not
      expect
      bone.
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      a
      small
      broken
      bone,
     
     
      silent
      as
      it
      snaps
     
    

    
     
      ..there
      should
      be
      sound...
     
     
      barely
      felt
      in
      breaking,
     
     
      agony
      slowly
      defiling
      flesh.
     
     
      Hidden
      bone.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      is
      unexpected
      pain
      in
      motion
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      |_
      [Fi
      sgnqestGtbraxityfirstidpezspage
      15
      |_|
     
    
   
   
    
     
      pain
      in
      small
      things,
     
    

    
     
      feeling
      and
      movement
      no
      longer
     
     
      possible
     
    

    
     
      without
      knowledge.
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      crying
      when
      feeling
      comes
     
     
      uninvited
      and
      unrehearsed.
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      crying
      for
      the
      impossible
     
     
      the
      trivial
      and
      stupid
      thing.
     
     
      Without
      motion
      there
      is
      peace.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      is
      a
      small
      broken
      bone
     
    

    
     
      deep
      in
      my
      flesh
     
    

    
     
      that
      causes
      nauseous
      pain
     
    

    
     
      that
      freezes
      me
      with
      fear
     
    

    
     
      of
      ever
      being
      moved
      again.
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      a
      small
      bird
      bone
     
    

    
     
      that
      breaks
      whenever
      |
      migt
      t
      fly
     
     
      that
      brings
      me
      plummeting
     
    

    
     
      To
      the
      frozen
      plane.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      is
      not
      a
      bell.
     
     
      It
      is
      not
      a
      bowl.
     
     
      It
      is
      an
      unexpected
      bone,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      -
      small,
      silent,
      avian.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It
      is
      the
      piece
     
    

    
     
      deep
      inside
      of
      me
     
    

    
     
      that
      breaks
      when
      |
      hold
      you,
     
     
      when
      you
      die.
     
    

    
     
      Glenn
      Saunders
     
    

    
     
      Dec.21