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“Talcing His position at the f ml) oJ'tHings, tHe write
NO GREY MATTER
Bradleigh Walters
Drifting
Shifters
We be listless
Members of society.
Members?
Outcasts be more right
Trapped in
Hapless
Fly-by-night
Jobs in fuzzy, scummy towns
That harbor dirt
Like open wounds.
Powdered ladies
Not found here;
Glist’ning,
Ritzy
Clothes to wear-
. Elsewhere.
Not here.
Don’t seem to me
No change in sight.
Black be black-
And White still White.
• Bradleigh Walters, Z0, a junior
education major from Plano.
“It kind of just came to me. I
heard about the contest and it got
me motivated-to write about what
was already in my head. IPs ba
sically about the lower classes of
society in America that don’t really
have a chance.”
j: %;>.
I Eveiytime I see a blue 78 Impala V;
It takes me back
to that hot June night
When we dropped my father
off at the Ramada Inn
And then made love on the hood
of your car
in the field behind the motel, f.
You leaned over me and picked 'i.
a blade of grass to tickle
my stomach.
We left three dents on the hood
|| To remind us as we were driving
that w e w ere in love.
1 !
• Julianne Parsons, 21, senior En- |
glish major from Houston.
“It’s a love poem to my fiance. It •
was just something I had in my head :
^ that I had to write down. It was writ- f
ten about a year and a half ago. It |
came out of a creative writing class I J
% was taking.”
A Dead Man With a Pumping Heart
Nguyen Cong Thanh
Since the Redtide flew over the South,
He learned the uselessness of the five senses.
Thus, he stopped eating.
His bread would save a babe,
The hope for the liberation;
His potato w ould save an old man,
The bridge of cultural traditions
Between the ancestors and the liberators.
Thus, he stopped breathing.
His breath, a shameful breath
Of a defeated, useless person,
Filled him with feebleness which
Further stained the children’s fresh air.
Thus, he stopped seeing.
His eyes would no longer
Look upon the cruelty of the
Fierce beast that killed innocent
People. Vision stopped, because
Tears for those w ho died in
“Re-education Camps” and battle
Fields, had shrouded his vision.
Thus, he stopped hearing.
His ears refused the sounds of
Women ciying for their lost husbands,
Mothers for their children,
Brothers for their sisters,
Children for their parents, and
The ciy of death on the execution ground.
Thus, he stopped feeling.
His emotion — overw helmingly
Dedicated to the innocents who
Had lain down — had turned him
Numb, no more feelings, no more
Pain, no more nothing...,
But he couldn’t die. He had
To live to be an example of hope,
A mournful hope, a testimony to his
People’s dreams for peace and happiness.
Thus, he had to live, live in the life of a
Yellow skin, a dead man with a pumping heart.
• Nguyen Cong Thanh, 19, a freshman petroleum en
gineering major who escaped from the communists in
Vietnam five years ago.
“I wrote that poem because it has to do something
with my country. I wanted to share something with the
people over here.”
They sing so
They sing so clear.
A red shoe lies on the pavement
The dancing taps worn thin,
And all around it the glass shards glisten;
Stolen street light through prisms, and
Venus glimmers in Apollo’s wake.
They sing so loud
and clear.
In three-four time the flockering lights
Mark the waltz of a question:
Come with me, Dance with me,
Be shattered And torn with
Me, rest, rest, Rest your ey es
While i tell You stories
Of capt’n hoodand Crockadile
Crock.
So loud,
So clear,
The headlights flash past
Bright w hite then red,
Their wind fades gentiy to a breeze.
The crickets chirp in the grass
As Mercury races from the hospital ward.
The sing so loud
And they' sing so dear.
The subject is played again,
The bridge to sorrow' builds with rage;
No will sufficient to change the key'.
A second theme predicts
The terrible void of finale.
Coda: a gasp.
Then a minuet.
• Paul Stewart, 20, a junior English major from
Dallas.
“I wanted to capture the magnetic quality of an
accident on the highway. I found the best way to do
that was through the classical images of the sirens,
and also the images from my childhood.”
Dream Color
JoAnn P. Cain
My doubts are
blurred and shifting
low pieces break ar
feel pain and wisps
break comes from
Queen Anne’s lace *
While from nowhen
into black again.
Blue washes dej
renegade. Orange fr
are pillars of gratiti
not until tissue pin!
like paper butterflie
but someone takes
and I am here with 1
Cannot really foi
real reason just a h
Nothing is ever blui
that never saw frail
mingle with grey an
• JoAnn P. Cain, 23, a
nents.”
‘The poem means
it means to them. Art