G O L D E N    L E A V E S   -   1 9 7 3

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At night,
just before sleep comes ...
I think of

I try to recapture
the atmosphere of
our first

The aura of a cool ocean wave;
my body and my soul.
Your subtle smile, and
your sidelong glances;
words never spoken,
yet somehow communicated.

I marvel to know that two people
could hold so much in
Our faith in God,
Our respect for Mankind,
and most important
Our communal love ...

At night,
just before sleep comes...
I think of
and then I thank God that I am

                   -Deanne Larsen

            Then They Can Live

The train has finally arrived, the anxious people climb aboard.
Those grey-suited men and women had lives of hard work, they're quite bored.
Even the children are lifeless, if children can be, with frowns of despair.
Come aboard, their new lives awaiting them are free of toil, free of care,
Then they can start to live.

The train moves fast, their old town of farms and barns behind them are distant.
From now on it's seamless stockings, and wide ties with patterns so brilliant,
Proms in the dance hall instead of a gym, and dresses with the recent look,
Swimming pools, and playgrounds, tall office buildings, and libraries with books.
Then they can start to live.

The ever-revolving wheels go so fast for the children they hold tight.
The flickering cities keep coming quickly and blurs their fancy sights.
The world is in a frenzy, but too fun to be a frightening show
The only sustainment they need is a whiff of the fresh breeze from the window.
Now they can start to live.

For the older people, the speed has slowed sadly through the creeping years
Time drags them on at an uneventful pace, nothing old or new comes near.
When they find their dream city, with hope they will find no killings, no wars
And get off this train, perhaps finding what real living is for.
Then they can start to live.

But now each city gets worse, they live motionless through the people they see
Unrealizing how the train slows down more and more and they have ceased to be.
Even as the waiting-to-be-painted sunset hangs still with nothing to give
Except their grasping eyes, who's commander has died with no purpose to live.

When will they start to live?

                                                                                 -Evelyn Child


Life is a game of Chess,
The concept is the same.
You move for life, and sometimes guess
What fate will be in store.

The man who knows the game the best,
And applies his knowledge to a cause
Will rise and read his joyous quest;
To please his maker and himself.

But those who develop a negative chart
Unable to pass through the victory gate;
Give up a feeling of pride in their heart
Because they've been labeled "Checkmate."

                                - Keith Russell

stayner3.jpg (34344 bytes)

                                               - Sherrie Stayner

Unexpectedly his dark, saddened eyes fixed on mine,
Oh, how long he had been gone from my sight!
A breath of cool air entwined itself among my curls.

I gazed steadily upon his face with tear-dimmed eyes,
Oh, how beautiful my love looked just then.
Suddenly the lonely gap filled with a glow of warmth.

I wondered if in the space of time, thoughts of me filled his mind?
Oh, how sweetly our tears did seem to fall.
His were tears of a man; strength softened by emotion.

Soul to soul, face to face, we searched each other's open hearts,
Oh, how softly he held me close.
Tender love words tumbled smoothly, gently from his mouth.

That ecstatic night was made for only those who love,
Oh, how gently was his tear, his smile.
I had my answer then; what could be more beautiful?

We met that night on equal terms; both needing the other,
Oh, the inexpressible comfort!
Our thoughts and feelings mingled; we were made into one.

                                                        -Becky Ely

Nature's Splendor

Walking in a wintry wood;
Trodding through the virgin snow,
Beneath appeared as vast jewels, and
Sparkled with an ochre glow.

And then I reached a feathery grove,
Where snow-laden branches swept the ground,
Creating a canopy above me there,
Casting blue patches, muffling sound.

Stepping back out in the golden sun,
My eyes were pierced by the powerful rays.
But a mysterious sonance sharpened my sight,
And squinting I saw a low, smoky haze.

Nearing, I saw that the rustling sound
Was that of a swift moving, steaming stream.
Its edges were crusted with a crystal-clear ice,
But the center was dashing too fast to freeze.

The natural splendor in that wintry wood,
Overwhelmed me beyond compare,
And not a single man-made creation,
Could surpass the beauty there.

                                         -Julie Loe


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G O L D E N    L E A V E S   -   1 9 7 3


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