2B - The Michigan Daily - Literary Magazine - Thursday, March 8, 2001
Poetry in Roman print.
Fiction in bold print.
"Two Minutes of Farne," Emily D. Wingfield.......2B
"Takio," Jonathan West .....................3B
"Words," Chris Fici......................................6B
"A Walk," Kevin Stoy..............................................6B
"That Moment," Jeff Waibel..............................7B
"The Dinner Table," Amelia Levin.....................7B
"Orange Latte," Christine M. Lasek..............I.OB
"Despondent," "Under a Boiling Sky," "Downriver
Rain,' Christopher Gerben....................13B
The L ist............................................................. 14 B
"A Trip Through the Fall," "Between the Lines,"
"Pennsalt," "Closing Prayer," Christopher Gerben.... 16B
The Michigan Daily - Literary Magazin
A Trip Through the Fall
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By Emil D.
Stop running through
Stop tormenting me
day and night.
Can't I escape you?
You heard me - I know
You did. My voice
You ignored between
your quick breaths
and frantic fumblings.
What did I do to you?
I hate you for this.
I hate me.
I hate wondering.
nightmares steal my sleep.
Was it what you wanted -
your two minutes of fame?
To be etched into my
I guess you had to leave
your mark somehow.
Stop thinking you won.
I can get over you _-
c an you say the same
Walking by the creek
the leaves gather at my feet, like
children eager to hear a story
from their second grade teacher.
Only these leaves pay more attention.
A swirling mass of brown, gold, and green
cascade down from the treetops that reach up into the sky.
Above the trees, gray and white clouds cover the sun.
The sun wrestles for victory, peeking out briefly.
Then it is gone.
A gentle breeze pushes me along my way.
The rusty park gate creaks a solemn farewell
as I make my way down the gravel
drive of the apple orchard.
I walk further along and see
Couples coupling and cider giving warmth
to the hands of hose
forgetting that just because it's late
doesn't mean it's also an early winter.
my hands are warmed from within the oversized
sleeves of a gray, faded sweater.
My jeans now feel.snug
in their sixth straight day on my body.
A dog whose leash drags lazily behind him greets me
a short distance from the orchard.
He sniffs my feet curiously.
A grateful master snatches my new friends collar
gasping a thank you with the same breath lost in the chase.
Continuing my stroll down the street I see
porches full of grinning gourds and leering skulls
as children count the days until
they can scare each other silly.
At least until the streetlights come on.
The dusk comes that much earlier,
when you don't want your day to end.
Mon. - Sat. 'til 1 a.m.
333 E. Huron
My mother hates hills.
But she has always loved gifts.
The pencil last Christmas read
"To the little mhan with big desires.
It was a delicate example of fine cr
wood displayed my mother's words
then a normal 2 pencil it still fit
I'm writing to the rhythmic sound
Wondering where my pencil came
the words suddenly come to me.
In a Colorado forest
the red oak stood proudly until it f
The lumberjack no longer had the
to cut down the trees that he loved
His company didn't make use of ti'
All they did was cut and strip and
logs, which were bound to end up
Running into a line that doesn't so
the opposite end of my pencil
receives its first chore of the day.
My eraser wasn't cut down in some
was forged at the Dow chemical pl
in the center of Michigan.
Dow is what makes Michigan
almost as much as Detroit.
Dow makes chemical that bond to
rubber works to get rid of your mist
I lightly tap the point of my pencil
Graphite shavings litter my paper.
Just the sight of the tiny pieces of
A sneeze blows the trash off of my
with those who man the mines dig
for my pencil.
Day in and day out searching thoug
Blue collar workers fill their lungs
premature death to fill my pencil w
The sowing machine has stopped a
I sit back now and put my cheap, d
No carving graces its sides and its j
normal pencil out there.
Last years gift is neatly packaged aw
collecting dust in a corner of my cl
I don't want to spoil the carving or
or the perfect shape of the red erase
I have yet to sharpen it at all.
Too much work went in to mother'
but I'm the only one that knows ho
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