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Full text of "The Gleaner"



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.EANER 

"SPRING 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://www.archive.org/details/gleaner76stud 



GLEANER 



Established 1901 



DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE OF SCIENCE AND AGRICULTURE 
DOYLESTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA 18901 



SPRING 1976 



Staff Artists 

Lydia Berry 
Jean Dimmler 




STAFF 

Co-Editors 

BRIAN A. KAHN 76 
JAMES FORSYTH 77 

Layout Staff 

Pete Northrop 
Pat Wohlferth 



Faculty Advisor 

Dr. George Keys 



Staff Typists 

Paul Barrett 
Keith Jordan 

Faculty Contributor 

Mr. John H. Standing 



Andrew Apter 
Lydia Berry 
Jean Dimmler 
James Forsyth 
Laura Gleason 



STUDENT CONTRIBUTORS 

Deborah Grant 
Joseph lasello 
Brian A. Kahn 
Deborah Kahn 
Chris Main 
Barbara Novak 



Dianne Rodgers 
Michael Schnatz 
Glenn Sharko 
Donna Truesdell 
Pat Wohlferth 



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 
occurring within. 



Cover photo: GLENN SHARKO 



You who are weary — 

Come to me and i shall give you 

rest. 
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 

shall fall. 
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 
The under-tow 
is devastating. 



— Dianne Rodgers 



If - \ 

/1 : • i. 




Cathedral Oak 

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 

youthful. 

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 

as clean. 

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 ... 








IT 



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 

As love, 

The basic element of 

Life is present. 



— Glenn Sharko 



Fire 

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 




Facade 

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 

but ourselves. 



— Dianne Rodgers 



I was making a 

Sculpture of 

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- 
mantic encounter. 



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 
our conversations. 

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 




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SMOKE 

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 





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"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 



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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. 

I change 

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 
being me. 



— 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 

left behind. 
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 

dreams. 
I cannot bring you closer, no matter what 

I say, 
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 



mellow yellow 
sun 
slipped 
softly 
silently 
behind the trees 
and gently 
sank 
out 
ot 
sight . . . 

. blue night 
rolled in 

obscuring all 
cold wet tears 

on naked breast — 

bare earth 

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 

Ugly reality 

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 
Desk 
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 
F 
A 
L 
L 



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 
louder silence. 



— C. Main 



The Clock 

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