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DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE OF SCIENCE AND AGRICULTURE
DOYLESTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA 18901
BRIAN A. KAHN 76
JAMES FORSYTH 77
Dr. George Keys
Mr. John H. Standing
Brian A. Kahn
THE GLEANER is published during the scholastic year by the students of
Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture of Doylestown, Penna.
THE GLEANER is a student publication, and the opinions expressed within
are not necessarily those of the GLEANER staff or administration. Neither
the college nor staff will assume responsibility for plagiarism unknowingly
Cover photo: GLENN SHARKO
You who are weary —
Come to me and i shall give you
With a cooling, murmuring voice
I shall pour sleep over you.
You who carry burdens —
Come to me, and i shall bear them.
On my own back the weight
You need not work.
You who are hungry
Shall find nourishment with me,
Food for those who have not eaten.
I shall carry you to those you love,
A roadway for all who travel.
Open and cool.
Life, death, and love.
I am the River.
— B. Novak
Go wading through
the sea of solitude
But, don't venture in too far
— Dianne Rodgers
If - \
/1 : • i.
What was the old cathedral oak
Is now but a much-turreted chapel
Brought down from its apparent grandeur
By a mighty blast of wind.
Soon this too will topple earthward
For within a deadly canker grows.
Yet might the roots, to the rock clinging
One day renew the soaring spires?
— Brian A. Kahn
THE LOST TREE
The sun was shining on me that first
spring day so long ago,
And the world was so beautiful that
it made me proud to think
That I was part of it.
We were all happy living and growing
together in my younger days,
Just swaying in the breeze and
hoping that life would go on
Forever, as it was back then so
many years ago.
But I guess the world, like the seasons,
must always change,
And things can never stay the same.
Everything must come to an end
As did my happiness in this world.
All my friends are gone now; the green
that was once around me
Has turned gray, and the soil that
was once my support, my strength,
And my food is now just a layer
of black tar.
I'm not as handsome as they say
I once was.
My complexion isn't as bright, my
limbs as strong and sturdy,
Nor my thoughts as fresh and
You see I'm dying now.
Dying because the world that was
once mine is no longer,
The air that I breathe is less fresh,
And the water that I drink is not
I cannot exist in this world any longer,
And the fate of all those I leave
behind is not up to me,
Nor God, but man. For he is
the one who created this new world
For he is the one that kills me.
— Joe lasello
f r • ' - i • .'.-2 ...
We would all like to live
In the security of the past
As a care-and-trouble-free youth
But we're out on our own
And away from home
Forced into adult life
Full of changes and decisions
Searching for much needed
Love and affection
From someone you care about
And want to give your love to
As well as sharing all of
Your actions and feelings with
In a mutual affair that
Will last as long
The basic element of
Life is present.
— Glenn Sharko
Dancing wildly in the wind,
brightly lit an empty room
with deep cut shadows left untrimmed;
casting no light on outside gloom.
Gone forever, all that it was
(lost in the beauty that was nature's dawn)
flicker of light that had no cause,
with fire out all light is gone.
Yourself; seeing no wonder, doing no good,
lit then forgotten, in darkness you stood,
toiling a job that did no good.
The world needed love
if only you could.
— James Forsyth
The dawn abruptly casts off
the night and all that
is held by it.
The feelings we dare to feel,
and the persons we dare to be
during the dark of night,
are suffocated when the sun comes out.
We revolve around the sun,
and inhale the daytime,
Then exhale our fantasies
which flare up in dreams
of the night.
At daytime we wear our faces,
and hide our eyes from everyone
— Dianne Rodgers
I was making a
A nude when a little
Old man came by
And shook his head,
So I threw out the
Sculpture of the nude
That I liked so much.
I was making a sculpture
Of a horse when
A lady came by and shook her
Head, so I threw out the
Sculpture of the horse
Which was a part of me.
I was making an abstract
Sculpture that looked
Like nothing creative at
All and wasn't the least
Bit part of me, when a
Mob of people came along
And smiled approvingly
Through their abstract faces.
— Glenn Sharko
Life wasn't easy for anybody. The Depression had hit
everyone very hard, and most of our fathers were out of
work, our families living on only God knows what money.
My friends and I were lucky in that our parents somehow
could afford to let us go to the college (tuition free, of
course) instead of having us work full time. "Get an edu-
cation," said the parents' hopeful faces. "Maybe you
can avoid this hardship when you get an education and
then a job befitting your education." Many of our parents
had "come over on the boat" and had no family ties in
this country. But they had left worse economic situations
in the "Old Country" and were thankful to be here. We
were the first generation born here, ready and eager to
make ourselves fit into the rhythm of our society surround-
ing us. If by going to college we could get a decent job,
we would be able to afford the most splendid luxuries, like
the outfit Lavonne wore.
Lavonne had herself only recently come to this country
as her English was strongly injected with a French accent.
She was a good-looking girl, there was no doubt about
that, but none of us were particularly jealous of that since
everyone was more concerned with getting enough money
to eat rather than with dating. People were fighting to stay
financially solvent, and very few had the time for a ro-
Despite the hard times and tight money, we young
women would get together during class breaks and talk
wistfully about clothes and new fashions. We all knew we
could not at this point afford any of the latest styles, and
made up for it by becoming rather proficient at altering
clothes from seasons past. But, as we sat in our many
times re-done outfits, Lavonne would always come up in
We all knew Lavonne to say hello, but we never could
talk long to her because she always looks so NICE. It
was uncomfortable to be seen with her for any length of
time. She wasn't pushy about her looks, but she made us
feel downright scruffy. Whenever we saw her, she was
wearing a black skirt, flawlessly, pressed, a white blouse
with a black sweater over it, and a string of pearls.
Pearls! Could you imagine! And the air she put on! We
all felt vastly inferior to her whenever she was around.
It wasn't fair, we thought. Why should she have it easier
than any of us? As a result, Lavonne never became a
very good friend of any of us.
Years went by. After college, the Depression was
over, and many of us got our decent jobs and could
afford our nice clothes. But the image of Lavonne and
her impeccable looks was an unattainable goal set by
many of us to reach.
I saw Lavonne one day. She had moved to the next
town, and was in the area visiting her parents, who re-
mained here after she was married. We talked more easily
than was ever possible in college. She was still precisely
dressed; the difference was my outfit, which was now up
to date and new, not remade. Finally, in an unbearable
moment of curiosity, I blurted out the question, how was
she able to afford expensive outfits in a time when every-
one was so poor?
She looked at me, trying to decide whether I was
kidding or not. She relaxed, and laughed a small laugh.
"I was no better off than any of you. That was my only
nice outfit! Mom and Dad always told me that no matter
what I wear, wear it as if it was straight from the high
fashion designer's table; with a flair!"
We parted, and I couldn't help but remember in our
envy, we never checked to see if the pearls were real, or
if the skirt wasn't just a bit worn. It was Lavonne, and the
flair she wore that outfit. It was hard to believe an attitude
could so impress all of us.
I went home, silently laughing to myself.
— P. Wohlferth
The smokestack, proudly standing
Tall and narrow, straight and tapered,
A stately magnificence amid cold gray buildings,
Sends its smoke up into the blue;
Billowing, swirling, wispy,
Like long bent fingers
Penetrating the ethereal void,
The vanguard of a great white army
Emerges from its funnel-birthplace,
Writes into graceful forms and sizes,
Then dissipates in lazy splendor.
— John H. Standing
"The Everyday Man"
I'm all alone,
with a million people around me.
I'm feeling low,
and no one will turn and see.
I feel like a grain of sand,
sitting on a beach of an abandoned island,
or a pebble rolling in a clear blue stream,
or a wisp of smoke in a cloud of steam,
For I'm a common everyday man,
with no great achievements,
or great discoveries,
So I'm forgotten amidst
the ever moving mass of people.
— Michael Schnatz
Yi rapi rg^i
Look at me.
What I am you cannot change.
Red flannel shirts
And patchwork jeans.
Hair tossed against the wind,
Free to fly as I must be.
You may show me new ways,
But I must choose to make
them part of me.
Not because of what people say,
But what they show me,
What happens to me.
A gentle touch and a warm smile
Will do more than all the force
in the universe.
For force causes only rebellion
And an opposition to the change.
But love offers acceptance,
And giving to the new ways
With returning love
And a good feeling of still
— B. Novak
As we were walking
Arm in arm
We came to a fork
In the path and
You took one path and
I took the other
Looking for new experiences
And our paths have
Crossed many times
But now I sit
By myself in
The dessert that my path
Has led me to,
Wondering what paradise
Your path has led you to.
— Glenn Sharko
Wandering the back roads, as I stop
to rest I find
In every little flower, all the good I've
The hopes of our tomorrows, the
tears of yesterday.
But I know now it's all over, and I've
started on my way.
You've lost yourself in fantasies of words
and minds and schemes,
Of other people's failures and other people's
I cannot bring you closer, no matter what
To the realness of my world, so I must
be on my way.
The warmth of night brings silence —
Our fears are almost gone.
But I cannot stay beside you
When the restless morning comes.
The story can't be found in any book
or any poem.
My world is a reality, and my time
is all my own.
I cannot live my life out by what
other people say,
And though my love remains here, I
must be on my way.
— B. Novak
behind the trees
sight . . .
. blue night
cold wet tears
on naked breast —
now grows cold
— Debbie Kahn
Separated and alone
A 24-hour stand
And once again
Separated and alone
Isolation is broken
By two thirty-minute calls
Putting us into
Our own beautiful world
But to be abruptly
Brought back to
By the click of the receiver
That we are isolated islands
In a sea of sad and confused populations
With an invisible strength
To keep us afloat.
— Glenn Sharko
Esthetics of a Slob
(or Ode to my room)
I love a mess
That natural Blend of
Tumult and Entropy
That is Man's constant coMPanloN
OH lovely the hEEp
how colorful the trash pile
with Soda Can like X-mas ball
amidst the cellophane
coat and books take chairs so as not
miss the show
while by a tent under a thatch roof
a shark swims IN formaldehyde
and upon a B.V.D. Banner
march weapons from wars past
ThE inDoors out the ouTdoors in
and bicycles walk by
and socks stuffed in my
Bedside plot my roommate's
It is a strange feeling sitting alone with no one
but the darkness as company. It seems as though time just
doesn't move as I sit engulfed by the dead quiet.
I keep searching for the small noises we take
for granted each day, but it is useless. My mind,
in vain, will create a noise, but upon listening more
intently to hear just what it was, the darkness closes
in tighter and becomes less audible than silence. It
is a cruel silence that mocks and pokes at
all my parts. In terror I grab to take hold
of it, but why, it only laughs that much more quietly.
Swallowed in the stillness I relax
with the thought that death shall bring a much
— C. Main
Clock says seven
it's been there for weeks,
Time refuses to stop
it never stops to speak.
The hands don't care to move
Time still passes on.
Discoveries are made daily
but they'll never know
not wishing more than their wooden case
when they could have a gold and jeweled face
so sit still my lowly one
if you don't care then why should we?
Should the hour hand pass you on the way
Don't stop and say
you weren't given the chance
'Cause instead of letting precious seconds pass
you let irreplaceable hours slip by.
— Michael Schnatz
How sad it is to watch a clock,
and see each second
die upon the instant
of its birth.
■ Dianne Rodgers