Selected Photos, Art, Poetry, and Special Category: The Harvest

by Mary Lynn Bahr

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    You met the contest winners on pages 8 and 9. Here are some of the fruits of their creative efforts. Which will prove to be the apple of your eye? We suggest you sample all of them. They’re good for you.

    The Comforter

    They say the fire falls swiftly,
    Breaking adamant hearts, neatly
    Dividing joints and marrow
    For sterile reassembly.
    Pure, molten personality
    Will cool into new symmetry
    As crimson years bleach into snow
    And melt out of memory.
    I kneel and cringe, expecting
    Ecstasy and quickening,
    Ambush by wrestling angels,
    Annunciation that compels
    Belief. Tonight only snow
    Falls, half an inch, just enough.

    When I Swam for the Dolphins

    My mom could sleep all night
    without waking
    except when my ear
    ached hard and hurt so
    that I became a nightmare
    to my brothers,
    with a water-logged ear.
    She stood up and made medicine,
    while I lay down,
    my head aching side up.
    Bending she poured liquid drops
    into my eardrum.
    I waited for a pop
    and the wet to dry
    and it was over.
    What she whispered was softer
    than eardrops and better than a dream.

    [photo] Photograph by Chad Lewis Mosher

    [illustration] Art by Clayton F. Merrell

    [illustration] Art by Marcia Williams


    I was walking home
    from school, but now
    I’m walking onto
    an empty stage
    where houselights dim
    and a spotlight
    shines down on me?
    Or someone who resembles
    me, thinner somehow and
    more confident than I—
    A dancer in satin white,
    her sinewy silhouette
    posed in perfect elegance.
    The music starts,
    slowly gathering strength,
    and she leaps and pirouettes
    into space and time.
    Homeward bound,
    I climb the stairs
    to the porch
    but just before entering,
    I pause to address
    the applauding audience
    and take a bow.

    advice on pride

    yes, get rid of it!
    but please,
    don’t swallow your pride—
    it will give you a terrible

    [illustration] Art by Stephanie Morgan

    When She Sleeps

    She sits in her chair by the window.
    The shallow napping of the elderly.
    Her mouth hangs open,
    and a faint snore rises from her.
    Her grey hair is matted.
    A smudge of dust is streaked over her cheek
    from cleaning the cellar earlier that morning.
    I go to the bathroom and find a small brush by the washbasin.
    I try to step lightly
    so the floorboards don’t creak,
    I go back.
    A red and green afghan is draped over her feet.
    I pull it up to her shoulders,
    and step behind her.
    I kiss her on top of the grey mess,
    and lightly brush out the snarls.


    —everything is so uncertain, he said.
    —how can you be so sure, she replied.

    [photo] Photograph by Eric Swenson


    Silence burns between us,
    A charged underground cable
    That stings when I approach it
    And warns me from the shock
    Of connection—
    —In connection
    There is current to illumine
    And destroy. I retreat, afraid
    The force of fusion
    Will also split
    My atom self.

    [photo] Photograph by JoyAnne M. Moses

    [illustration] Art by Hinarera Hunt

    Interior Designing

    As you
    Through your pencil-sketch life
    Why won’t you
    And view
    Your Father’s painting?

    [photos] Photography by Nicholas Dunlop

    [illustration] Art by Lana Grover

    [illustration] Art by Casey Alexander

    [photo] Photograph by Aaron David Sweet

    Falling Stars

    I sat on the porch,
    chin in my hands,
    my eyes straining
    at the starlit heavens.
    “What are you up to princess?”
    I heard my father say.
    He ruffled the hair
    of my forehead.
    “I’m watching for a falling star,”
    came the answer in a yawn.
    Though late, he stayed to watch,
    His arm around my shoulders.
    Soon we spotted,
    in a breathless moment,
    the dazzle of tumbling light
    in the blue-black sky.
    “That star really fell
    a long, long time ago;
    More years than you can count,
    said Dad, now astronomer.
    “And you’ve just seen it
    this very night.”
    He smiled softly
    And put me in to bed.
    I marveled at the thought,
    all the distance,
    light-years of space,
    that stretched around me.
    Sometimes, even now,
    I feel that small
    And cry out impatiently
    at the darkness,
    “Where is the light,
    the tumbling dazzle
    that follows the faithful,
    the acts of goodness?”
    And my Father answers softly,
    “Just pause, little one.
    Feel the distance
    that stretches through eternity.”


    soiled snow
    from the trampling
    of feet
    and days gone
    by without sun.
    Will fresh snow
    fall gleaming white?
    I have seen
    that it is so—
    Repentance is like snow.

    [photo] Photograph by Melissa Marshall

    [illustration] Art by Chantel Nuttall

    [photo] Photograph by Morgan Murdock

    [illustration] Art by Kristie Gibson

    [photo] Photograph by Maren E. Younce

    Bread and Fish

    When we arrive at Zwingli Street
    Number Thirty Four
    at two-thirty P.M., Frau Lachman
    watches us through her window,
    one hand on the red curtains,
    the other on a white flower
    pot rim. She is curious, old,
    cooking sauerkraut on the stove,
    boiled potatoes skinned, steaming
    on a plate, the smell flows
    out all three windows
    of her second story apartment.
    She smiles when we come,
    we represent the God
    she has never heard about,
    to bring back life in her,
    to save her, to give bread and fish,
    to look out the window by her side.

    Willing Spirit

    Last night I felt as though with fingertips
    I might dispel the thick and pressing black,
    Or gently move the veil of heaven back
    With stirring sighs through slightly parted lips.
    Did wonder keep me still? No, only fear.
    I left suspenseful sweetly singing air,
    But knew that someone stood and watched me there—
    And if I called his name, he would appear.
    This moment in the balance could not keep.
    I, eager for the faith to carry on,
    In drowsy supplication prayed—a yawn.
    So, with this plea, I softly fell asleep.

    the trap

    ivory teeth
    ebony claws
    it’s waiting
    to catch me,
    to trap me,
    in its
    mouth open,
    help me!
    —i don’t want to
    practice the

    [illustration] Art by Stuart Grigg

    David Diminished

    lost light
    that flickered
    so brilliantly
    just hours ago—
    the embers gone
    the ashes are
    the residue of
    that once
    kindled flame
    no generating heat,
    no comfort
    from the call
    just ashes,
    even the mighty
    can fall.


    They come to fish here every year
    In mid-November when the lake
    Savors the westing sun.
    The beach has learned to wait for them
    At sunset when the palm leaves sharpen
    Stark against the molten sky.
    Every year the same men come,
    Three men who walk with covered heads
    Together on the shore
    And cast their nets into the sun,
    While gilded waves break gold
    Against their feet.

    [photo] Photograph by Nancy Olsen

    [photo] by Photograph by Cherilyn Ann Walley

    [illustration] Art by Brett Rawlins

    Special Category

    Awards in the special category are given for creative projects not covered by the other contest categories. David McPhie did original compositions and arrangements of songs using a Roland D-10 keyboard and a sequencer program for a Commodore 64. Stuart Grigg created some computer-manipulated photography. Nathan J. McArthur composed an instrumental piece of music. Randy Smith wrote two computer games. Prince Bakare Abiodun R. wrote a full-length play.