PAGE 20 HIGH GEAR JULY 1980

Sandy, In Keeping

By P.K. Owens

Poetry

This intricate form, a violet so

fair.

Turning toward the south, her

senses grow.

Chin touching the sun, smile crisp as air.

Exposing a radiance, so fresh, so

composed.

Dawn mystically nurtured some dormant seed.

Dividing the woman from her

woes

The soloist smothering. suddenly freed

To sing her delicate new songs of prose.

Stifled curiosity brings her to fly Exploring directions which ache to be known.

The melody she now dances by Erased any memory she had of home.

As she leans south.

Her rhythm pacing the climb.

I turn north, searching tears For some sensible rhyme

An Offering, Overdue

By P.K. Owens

Not because I don't love you... for amid all the arrogant and cruel complexities

that make savage of my soul ravaging me, till my bones like weeping

you've salvaged this puzzle. hiding it within your caverns dressing the wounds, until healed

you return to the world.

a minstrel

Not because I don't love you... for during the moments redemption addresses me when time blackens, revolting my abuse

and shadows replace light rendering me a blind man. stumbling to find someone to believe in you've erected a cross. cruci fied yourself

to deliver my salvation

Not because I don't love you... for lonely times when warmth grows

transforming my body into a

sea

anticipating the storm, inviting the rage

that makes fire of flesh you've tested your powers calming the waters, smothering the rage to embers driving the whore from this latent ingenue.

Not because I don't love you... but because I've accepted your sacrifices

to the point of making you a prisoner.

and I now witness a piper iching for song You are free..

Only in the morning while the light is thin and cool can I reach out

and touch you again

One Night Stand By Mary A. Morris

A meeting of the eyes brings back a lusting feeling you thought you lost with your last love.

Obsidiani knives glint.

leaving you with,

empty hurts and a fulfilling sadness,

2/་་་་་

silenced with confusion,

mutilated with everyday.

paralyzed with memories

rusting on the walls of childhood staring

blank sad

embarassed with my absolute weakness.

Dawning

By Mary A. Morris

who refuse to eat back.

night sharpening it teeth on a few He climbs up the hill of big stones stars

The pyramid is hungry.

it wants to eat the soul

and throw the body remnants

back

so everyone can see his crime and cheer.

With a magician's gesture he pulls a red-winged butterfly our of each caterpillar-

bones to fill the stomachs of the they watch it fly into his mouth

Por

and make them stand a little straighter

become his tongue.

The cocoon of those who have

till the bones push their way bothered

through the stomach

and go off to dig a grave.

In the land of the vegetable.

the meat-eating man is king: he looks under stones for grubs. under fronds for worms

to grow a ghost

are piled on the altars

and ascend later

in angels of blue smoke

that baffle some eyes into tears.

Gloria in excelsis

ふ