KIOSK

Morningside College

Sioux City, Iowa 51106

Fall 1983

Student Editors:

Faculty Advisors:

Carol Wallace Sandra Long

Sharon Bevans Shannon Robinson

John Bowitz Robert Conley Jan D. Hodge

Cover design by John Bowitz

3 Craig Wansink 4 June Hubert 5 Carol Wallace 6 7 8 Paul McCallum

9 Karilyn Sealock JO Larry Jarman 11 Kristy Arrick 12 Kristy Arrick 14 Marie Witt 15 Jill Brosamle 16 Cheri Rosene 17 Carol Wallace 19 John Lasley 20 Jan D. Hodge 21 William R. Hackett 22 Nancy A. Lafferty 23 Andrew Barnebey 24

Contents

Sitting on the Trunk of My LeSabre The Yellow Crocus A Visit of Charity Grandma T. --Portraits Photographing an Ocean Sunset Hollowheads Cordial Hosts Drawing Litho print Drawing Drawing Drawing Drawing Drawing Receding Tide head singer Of Mouse and Woman A Day in the Slaughterhouse Here I Am Untitled poem Notes on Contributors

Sitting on the Trunk of My Le Sabre

Do you have a pet kitten? I am going to take your kitty, shave its fur, dress it in a robe like a little Hare Krishna devotee.

I may even strap finger cymbals to its tiny paws.

I am a crazy man. A lunatic. A sane man would not sit atop his car reading corporate finance.

You middle-class, leisure-suited Iowan. Your provincialism walks past me-­eyeing me as if I were a Klanner in Harlem.

Don't try to hide it. Your mouth may be mute, but your face isn't:

"A short-haired flower child-­the most radical kind.

Probably waiting to defile girls, to accost little boys.

Will he mesmerize our children with poetry? or perhaps he will guruize:

tuck his feet into his groin; chant spastic mantras."

Please don't bother to smile, to say hello, to wave (with more than one finger).

Our karmas just wouldn't mesh. Our auras just wouldn't jive. You see ...

I may not understand your friendliness. You see ...

I am a lunatic.

--Craig Wansink

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The Yellow Crocus

The woman stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the yard. The trees were still leafless and the grass was showing only a touch of green here and there on the lawn. Even though patches of snow lingered in the shadows of the house and bushes, spring definitely was on the way. A squirrel ran around the yard, scratching for the nuts he had buried last fall. He didn't seem to remember where he had put them. Sparrows chirped in the bushes. The woman thought to herself how nice it would be to hear the robins and orioles once again. It had been a long, hard winter, and she and her husband had been fighting all the time, it seemed. The arguments had been frequent and heated, with no apologies afterward. One damp and dreary day in February, he has stormed out of the house in anger and had not returned for a week. Now he was back, and they spoke cautiously to each other, keeping the atmosphere polite, but not friendly. She had escaped to the garden.

"The forsythia needs trimming; it's taking over the rose trellis," she thought. "Even the tulips aren't up yet." It seemed as if growing things were suspended between winter's hibernation and spring's growth. She picked up a stick and tossed it in the direction of the bushes. "Too muddy to work out here," she said to herself, and turned and went back inside.

In the house, her husband was dozing in front of a basketball game on TV as he waited for his dinner. He seemed content to spend the rest of his life in the same routine, and it affected the woman like the oppressive atmosphere of a stale and dusty museum. She set the table and took the dinner from the oven. "Come and eat," she announced. They ate in silence, she wondering whatever it was that they had talked about so eagerly many years ago.

"Saw a robin today," the man volunteered.

"That's nice; where was it?" asked the woman. Her spirits lifted just a little. Was this going to be a friendly conversation?

"Down by the creek. There's a little yellow crocus bloomin' down there, too," he added.

She looked at the window and saw the fading light. She ven­tured, "Would you show me where it is? I'd like to see it."

There was a long silence before he answered.

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"It's getting dark already. Besides, I want to see the rest of the game."

She cleared the table, put on her old jacket, and went off in the direction of the creek. She walked alongside the creek for a while, and almost missed them in the poor light--not just one crocus, but almost a dozen, as yellow as sunshine. Of course the flowers were closed up for the night, but the little petals were really there, promising that spring was coming any day now.

A Visit of .Charity

You're alone And lonely In this place which Smells like bodies the owners No longer control. I want to reach out to you But don't know how.

--June Hubert

I don't have time to get to know you. Do I really want to? . I'm just here To make you feel better For a moment, Pat myself on the back For being a good person, Then go on my way. You make me uncomfortable, Reminding me That could be me Some sixty years from now-­If I'm lucky. As I look at you My hand becomes Wrinkled, Withered, Splotched. Suddenly I'm the one Sitting in the wheelchair. A group of students Sing me a song Then go on their way Leaving me Alone.

--Carol Wallace

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Grandma T. --Portraits

Christmas over, I lay in bed

Wishing you'd quit Laughing

So I could sleep.

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Held against your softness I thought only of escape,

Of running into the next room to play.

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I loved your visits . I knew you'd come bearing gifts.

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Waiting for Mom and the new baby We were fellow conspirators

Shoving my mess in the closet.

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You told us stories Of times and people I didn't know.

I wish I'd heard them.

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"Mom doesn't make me Eat my beans.

Why should you?"

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I never really tried to know you, Never went beyond

The gifts under the tree, The p~ppermint candies in the cupboard.

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I've learned You had your bad times (It wasn't fair, you said, That Frank got the farm; Grandpa was the old~st.)

But I knew only Your love

And your laughter.

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Seeing the still face among the flowers, I never quite believed it was you.

Back at the house I could still smell your talcumed presence, Hear your laughter echoing in the rooms.

--Carol Wallace

Photographing An Ocean Sunset

A golden path spreads from the setting sun Across waves urgent with approaching night. As if the day has seen too little done, They rush about, frothing green and white. At the burnished edge a wave begins to curl And chase the others toward the shadowed strand. It reaches shore with a last exhausted hurl And rests a moment spent upon the sand. Dragging into the depths it skimmed before, It traces a path back to the distant flame, Turns dolphin-like and runs the course once more, Ever changing, ever still the same. My camera captures ... No, it only stills The endless, restless beauty of the swells.

--Carol Wallace

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Hollowheads

Entering ears, breezes whirl inside

Their hollowheads and leave lips

a whistle--An accident,

no sweet symphony.

And sometimes their cavity-cones

Fill with the glue they gulp. But oozing out loop lips,

it affixes their fish faces to the ground.

So they think of dirt and slugs, For flying

is impossible.

--Paul McCallum

Cordial Hosts

For those of us who sit and stare

upon blank walls,

Who reflect upon what was never there,

a silent shadow falls,

Taking us to the blade-edge of insanity.

And still we ask those who've never lived--

"Would you like another cup of tea?"

--Paul McCallum

( V I

........---... --/

>- /

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Receding Tide

White foam danced around her ankles and then hurried away. Gulls swirled whitely beautiful across the blue sky. Martha filled her lungs with the tangy, salt-filled air.

Today the ocean was in one of its playful, sunny moods, and Martha soaked it in joyfully, feeling a youthfulness, a freshness in that ancient body of water which made her feel young and alive too.

She wriggled her toes deep in the sand and rinsed them in a laughing wave. She had a sudden urge to go skipping down the length of the beach or to play leapfrog with the waves or to do something equally childish, but somehow the forty or so years since her childhood--the years of motherhood and grand­motherhood, of circle meetings and PTA--stilled her restless feet. Suddenly she could almost tangibly sense the cancer gnawing away at her insides, and there was a chill in the breeze that hadn't been there a moment ago.

She turned with a sigh and went to sit in the sand, leaning against a large piece of driftwood. Running her hand over its wave-polished smoothness, she thought sadly that it looked rather like her: old, dry and gray, having drifted its life away aimlessly.

They'd been here a week now already. Poor Bill thought she was crazy, wanting nothing more than to wander the beach for hours at a time. Why not drive down to San Francisco and see the sights, he wondered. It would cheer her up. After all, they'd driven all the way out here from Iowa; surely they should see something besides one beach.

It was beginning to get chilly; she pulled her sweater more tightly over her shoulders. It was getting late and the ocean was changing its mood. It seemed to feel a sense of urgency, as if it hadn't accomplished enough today. The waves rolled in bigger and more wildly.

The lowering sun shot a golden path across the restless waves. As a lonely gull flew off into that inviting path, Martha wished she could follow. Surely it must lead to some Never-Never Land where everyone ran young and free on sunlit beaches.

Settling herself more comfortably against the driftwood, Mar­tha felt herself being lulled to sleep by the hypnotic rhythm of the waves.

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She'd fallen asleep out there again, he knew, and putting on his coat he went out to bring her in, his boots leaving heavy tracks in the sand as he crossed the beach. Jesus, it was cold out here. She must be about frozen to death.

There she was, sitting in the sand with her head on a big piece of driftwood. Lifting her awkwardly in his arms, he paused for a moment thinking how beautiful she looked. Her face looked like it used to when they were just married, just after they'd made love.

He stood up heavily and trudged back to the cabin with his burden. That was such a long time ago. He'd been getting the farm going with such high hopes; she'd been trying so hard to be the perfect wife, pouring over cookbooks to find a recipe to try, bringing him some special treat while he was working in the fields.

Stopping at the doorway and turning for a moment, he looked back over the ocean. God, it was big. It seemed to go on forever. What was it she was looking for out there, staring at the waves for hours on end? He wasn't sure she even knew.

She woke to see the moonlight streaming in the window and to hear Bill snoring at her side. Dear Bill, he must have carried her in again. She leaned over and kissed him lightly and then slid quietly out of bed. Pulling on her shoes and a coat, she slipped out into the night, furtively, as if going to meet a lover.

The moon was sparkling off the now peaceful waves. The stars glittered in a dark, cloudless sky. There was no other light to be seen, and she felt as if she were all alone in the world. Walking slowly along the beach, she felt the waves seducing her, drawing her toward them. She stood in the wet sand at the edge of the beach, not caring that her shoes were getting wet.

There was something gloriously eternal about the ocean, the endless, rhythmical cycle of it. There was an assurance of the ongoingness of life: the world would continue without her; Bill, the kids, dear little Jessica, they'd all do just fine without her.

For some reason, this didn't make her feel unimportant. She felt, as she looked over the waves that had been repeating this pattern for millions of years, that her life had been part of some bigger plan. She needed that reassurance. It must matter.

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He woke to feel a cold, empty space beside him in the bed. She was out there again. He felt that she was pulling away from him already, that she was being drawn into a world where he couldn't follow. She'd been so scared when the doctor first told her about the cancer, but now he could feel her getting ready to leave him.

But he wasn't ready to let her go. He couldn't. He wanted to reach out and pull her back, to hold on so tightly that she couldn't escape.

Pulling on his boots and coat, he went out onto the porch. There she was, standing quietly at the edge of the water with her feet all wet. He smiled gently. The moonlight was sparkling off the silver at her temples and she looked wonderful. The doctors had to be wrong. A dying woman couldn't look that beautiful.

He crossed the beach as quietly as he could and stood in silence a few feet behind her. Hearing his footsteps, she turned and looked at him.

"It's going to be O.K.," she said, reaching out a hand to him. Taking it and pulling her to him, he looked over her shoulder at the receding tide. She was ready; he'd have to be too. Then he knew what she'd been seeking out there, began to feel it reaching out to him too, the tranquility which she'd found in the rhythm of the surf.

head singer

make a song for me sing with me dance with me smile for me when i die

--Carol Wallace

--John Lasley

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OJ Mouse and Woman for Elizabeth, perpetrator of the deed

The snow had started, and the chill

the wind brought with it down the hill deepened the warmth she felt as she

.lay reading late and quietly ·'of how the schemes 0' mice and men

gang aft a-gley, when in the den a sudden flurry of sound announced

that Spike had found a mouse--and pounced. It was still trembling when the cat

carried it into her room and sat smugly at the foot of the bed.

She, seeing that it wasn't dead, and cursing the captivating way

the cat made playthings of its prey, trapped the small, gray, quivering mass,

tumbled it into a drinking glass, delivered it to the 100, and flushed .

The hapless creature paddled and pushed

against the swirling tide that rushed to drown it--and refused to drown.

Such desperate valor challenged her frown and might have conquered it, had not

fellow feeling been checked by the thought of how the cow'rin', tim'rous beast

had (dwelling cozie) made a feast of the crocus bulbs she'd set with care

to root beneath the cellar stair. But that dissolved whatever claim

to social union she for shame had for a moment half allowed,

and like an avenging fury, proud and horrible above the flood,

she vowed to be rid of it for good. Scooping it from the 100, she bore

her wretched trophy to the door where even the bleak December wind

could not persuade her to rescind; her housecoat slapping at her knees,

she tossed it out, still wet, to freeze.

--Jan D. Hodge

© 1983 Jan D. Hodge

A Day At The Slaughterhouse

Etherized, bleary-eyed you punch the clock. As the blood pours out the head clears up. Wheels turn--machines roar--you are mocked. Time slows to a stop. The cup fills up.

Sweat pours out and fills your boots. The hanging dead have no feet. Your feet begin to sprout roots As you suffer the insufferable heat.

It's time to leave, so you go And leave behind a living carcass To suffer the time that moves too slow. You find yourself in a cafe in Caracas.

A beautiful Latin lady pours your wine As you laugh while the time is forgotten. Your head is swimming. You start to recline, And picture yourself in Rome as a glutton.

A shaft of light strikes a pool of blood and water. You reflect on the beautiful crimson glow. The fantasies die and you thirst for cold water. Again you are waiting while time passes too slow.

--William R. Hackett

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Here I Am

Where are the road maps for Christ's mission today and tomorrow?

Where is the triple-A-triptic for the road not taken? Where is the computer print-out

for going where we have never been before? In our early days of following The Way or before

Were we not waiting and listening in exile like Jeremiah?

"For thus the Word of the Lord came to me: 'Before I formed you in the womb

I knew you. Before you were born,

I dedicated you. A PROPHET TO THE NATIONS

I APPOINTED YOU.'"

Didn't we answer: "Ah, Lord God! I know not how to speak. I am too young !"

But the Lord answered us, "Say not, 'I am too young!'

To whomever I send you, you shall go. Whatever I command you, you shall speak."

So we set out t:ven then without any road maps, no triple-A­triptics, no computers

for the road not taken for going where we have never been before.

Over the years haven't we reminded our benefactors, friends and relatives in our joy

like Isaiah?

"Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying: 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us as a witness?'"

Haven't we answered: "HERE I AM! SEND ME!"

So even today and tomorrow the Lord continues to remind us:

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"This, rather, is the fasting that I wish: releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yokes,

setting free the oppressed, breaking every bondage,

sharing your bread with the hungry, sheltering the oppressed and the homeless,

clothing the naked when you see them, and not turning your back on your own.

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your wound shall quickly be healed.

Your vindication shall go before you, and your glory of the Lord shall be your protection.

Then you shall call, • and the Lord will answer.

You shall cry for help, and Yahweh will say:

'HERE I AM!'"

--Nancy A. Lafferty, FSPA

The wind and air conditioning fight against the windows. The inside grinds outward, bangs, groans, squeakily whirls, ... The outside juxtaposes, batters, caresses, whistles, booms!

But you know this. And, knowing, the fireworks and vacuums alienate.

The windows fog. The windows drip nightmares.

--Andrew Barnebey

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Notes on Contributors

Kristy Arrick is a sophomore accounting major and ' art minor from Council Bluffs; she is a member of Phi Beta Lambda, the Art Club, the yearbook staff, and the Black Student Union.

Andrew Barnebey, a senior English major, was born in Dallas, Texas, which he left five weeks later.

Jill BI;osamle is a sophomore from Sioux City.

William R. Hackett (480 62 4429) is an accounting major.

Jan D. Hodge teaches in the English department. (His poem in­cluded here was written for and about Dr. Elizabeth Holtze, a former colleague in English now residing in Denver.)

June Hubert, a junior from Sioux City and the mother of two, is studying medical technology.

Larry Jarman, a senior from Waukegan, Illinois, majoring in physical education and minoring in art, is a member of Morn­ingside's football and track teams and of the Black Student Union.

Sister Nancy Lafferty, FSPA, teaches in the sociology and social work departments.

John Lasley, a freshman from Macy, Nebraska, is a member of the Omaha tribe; his poem "head singer" reflects that culture's oral tradi tion in poetry.

Paul McCallum is a freshman from Omaha, planning to major in English.

Cheri Rosene is a junior business administration major from Sioux City.

Karilyn Sealock is a junior art major from Council Bluffs.

Carol Wallace, a senior English and Spanish major from Irwin, Iowa, is currently president of Sigma Tau Delta.

Craig Wansink is an English and business major from Sioux Ci­ty, now spending his senior year as an exchange student in Japan.

Marie Witt, a Sioux City mother of two, is a freshman art major.

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