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thank you for the dawn ocean's rise and falling children born to carry on and the end that's always calling thank you for my tears loved ones who forgave me thank you for my darkest years all the sorrow that made me and the beauty that saved me --from the song "Prayer 2000" by Eliza Gilkyson on her new release Redemption Road Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Donna in Kansas City, November 1997 ~ What if the hokey-pokey IS what it's all about? ~ Touche@aol.com
One very rainy Sunday morning, When it was not a sin to cry, Chained to my present, past, and future, I sat and watched the world go by. I sat and watched its joys and sorrows Untouched by any one of them, As if my heart has been divided Between what's now, and what was then. Larisa Voronina, November 1997 voronina@cts.com
Curiosity Presumptuous fingers exploring the past tracing the future drawing into proximity something vague and remote. Gradually, the particular fades categories crumble boundaries blur neutralizing time into mutually implicit unity. Now timelessly existing indefinite truth unfolds in the present myth. Rebecca A. Davis , Nov. 1997 Belespirit@AOL.COM
Maria Schembri: Nuvole
14 Mar 1997 Touche@AOL.COMSimiles
I enjoyed these attempts at creative writing, and thought you Arco folks might like them too. My personal favorite is the Jeopardy one. Donna ************************************************** Each simile listed below was actually used by high school students in their various essays/short stories: He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7 P.M. instead of 7:30. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie, this guy would be buried in the credits as something like "second tall man". Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 P.M. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 P.M. at a speed of 35 mph. The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr. Pepper can. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met. The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play. The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
Milos Coric
16 Dec 1996
Roger L. Satterlee roger9@IX.NETCOM.COM
Violated
Who conjures from the ether
The passions of one's pain
Must duly cast upon the "self"
The vileness of the vain.
For in the formless Universe
There lies no dark despair
As this resides within the "self"
Just beneath one's hair.
Pluto, you're unjust they cry
And beg the death of Death
They see no god of vacuums
As they draw another breath
Has Neptune failed the masses
How selected the inspired
What illusion in their writhing
Is but plainly things desired
Saturn makes their lasting bone
And Uranus makes them creak
T'is Venus makes their graves so fair
And coffins satin sleek.
Force itself belongs to Jove
T'is Mars which does the deed
And were it not for Mercury
I could not cast a seed.
--Pedantus
Rog
roger9@ix.netcom.com
11:53PM EDT 26Jul50 76W48 42N06
http://www.netcom.com/~roger9/
http://www.reocities.com/Athens/7406
19 Nov 1996
Rossi d'Providence seekonk116@aol.com
Web page: Art Studio
THE MOONLIT RAGE
A poem by Rossi d'Providence
an American painter.
IN THE STILL NIGHT, ALONE, WITH CANVAS AND IMPOSING THOUGHT.
PAINTING, IN DIM LIGHT, MENTAL IMAGES SKILLFULLY WROUGHT
IN THESE HOURS OF QUIET WHILE BLUE WINDS CARESS THE NAKED TREES
LED BY SOFTNESS FROM THE HEAVENS - MY FINE ART POURS OUT TO THEE
AS IF SOMEONE WERE PASSIONED O'ER MY PICTURES HUED INSPIRED
OR, AS IF MY PASSION PAINTS FINE ART, FOR SOME ETHEREAL LOVER DESIRED
BY THE MOONLIT NIGHT SILENCES, BLESSEDLY CREATING MY LIFE'S PART
AS THOUGH BORN WITH THIS GRATUITY FROM SOME LONG AGO START
OBSERVERS SAVOR THE WONDER OF MY LUSTFULLY PAINTED DESIRE
AND OF MY SOUL ON CANVASES, HANGING, FROM EVERY STUDIO SPIRE
BUT NO ONE CARES OF MY BEING, MY PASSION, OR MY DIVINE ART
IT IS EVER THE ONLOOKER'S AVARICE THAT SETS US SO FAR APART
IN THE MOONLIT NIGHT WHILE THE MADNESS OF PASSION RAGES
I AM TO POUR O'ER THE COLOR OF WHITE GESSOED LINEN PAGES
NOT FOR LOVE OF THE OBSERVER DOES CONSTANTLY THIS POOR SOUL CREATE
BUT FOR MYSELF, AND, MY DESIRE AS AN ARTIST, TO BE EMINENTLY GREAT
AS THE COOL NIGHT ENGULFS MY SPIRIT IN WANTON ARTISTIC DESIRE
FINE PICTURES COME FORTH FROM MY SOUL AND HEART'S CONSPIRE
THEN, WITHOUT REMORSE THE COLD PATRON IS TO TAKE THEM AWAY
WITH THE STEELY FINANCIAL GREED, THAT STINGS MY SOUL EVERY DAY
IT IS NOT MY WISH TO CREATE ART BY THE BLUE MOONLIT RAGE
FOR CORPOREAL THINGS THAT AMOUNT TO A POOR MAN'S WAGE
I'D GLADLY CEASE ON THE 'MORROW AND STOP THE ARTFUL CREATING
OF PAINTINGS CAUSING NIGHTS NAUGHT BUT RANTING AND RAVING.
Copyrighted material. Use artist's name when reproducing.
Jill and Patrick Alessandra The Spiritual in Art
Brad Brace Synopsis: The 12hr-ISBN-JPEG
Petrea Hansen ART THERAPY IN CANADA
Mark and Julie Parmenter White River Foundry
Gary Smith E-Cottage & Millennium Art
Terry L. Kelly Wenchpoet's Home Page
Roger L. Satterlee Pedantus Journal
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