March 18 2002

Over The Edge Page 15

Poge-s> Cornet

Drop off youm poetry end wel] put at ihe

Word of the Week

Resgestae

a) things done, deeds

|b) a type of reggae that no one likes or
listens to

c) a brazilian fire ant

d) a medical problem relating to the
digestive tracts of geriatric males

"ail) UO SUBIU) Siu jes SSeoULd |nJANeEg
9} se pepsemaiuN O6 JOU pip yUBiuy JUeITeA 8U}
jo eejsebsei aul “a1 Spe9ap ‘auop sHhuiy} (e -wemsuy

"It is not your
aptitude, but
your attitude,
that deter-
mines your
altitude."

- Zig Ziglar

The crimson glow on the horizon paints the
sky in a false dawn. The light flickers over the
surface of the clouds scudding by. The silence
of the landscape gives an eerie feeling of loss.
The only noise is the crackle of the consump-
tion of a lone tree in a black waste; a stark
reminder of what had been.

A spot of yellow is a beacon in the land-
scape. Beckoning and welcoming the weary
traveller, the last safe house. A small cabin at
the edge of insanity, an island in the midst of
the storm. With approach of the house eager-
ness is tempered with unease. While the bea-
con calls and promises safety, the contents of
the house are unknown. After a moment of
hesitation, movement continues.

The door is ajar and the sounds of laughter,
music, and small talk filters out into the small
area around the house. The rough walls no
quite able to contain the light and life inside.
The eagerness returns for the safety of the
house and unease is pushed to the back of the
mind.

Inside, the lights dazzle the eyes, bright
excitement charges the air. The small size and
rough shape of the outside of the cabin belies
the spacious brightness of the in. A riot of
colour and light strikes the eye. In one corner
of the room, the whirl of skirts and the stamp
of boots pervaded. In another corner, the clink
of glass and quiet hum of polite conversation.

Falling Noises

| haven’t time for the patchwork fabric you weave
For if | close my eyes tight enough

| can wear your embarrassment.

If fiction is for you, then fact is for me;

| have seen in my future how clear that can be
Mirrored in myths and images.

Everything echoes in the end

As falling noises, a crescendo sends

Military motions such as yours

Pass me in the night.

Unnoticed, but not without fight.

-Michael Brisbois

Dancing in a False Dawn

The frenzied beauty of the room is almost
overwhelming. Getting caught up in the fervor
is almost inevitable.

Striking is the contract of the colourful
dresses of the women to the monotonous
khaki of the men, Amidst the whirling of the
dance and shadows of conversation it had not
been immediately evident. Now the stark con-
trast between the women and men is showing.

A hand is taken and pulling is felt in the
direction of the dance floor. Feet move quickly,
skirts swirl around legs and boots stamp time.
Concentration is focused on the dance, copy-
ing steps, keeping time. Looking up, the face is
familiar. A feeling of horror sears conscious-
ness. A face that has been instilled as evil
since the first memories of childhood. The
eyes filled with a fanatical fervor. A face shin-
ing with the national need to advance his
cause. The face of Hitler.

The feeling of revulsion rushes through
veins. A rush of disgust flood the mind, and yet
pulling away is not possible. A wrenching of
the soul, but loss of control over the body. With
the end of the dance a pulling away is
achieved, moving away is possible. Not too
fast. Don’t arouse anger. Mind is whirling. The
safety of the house no longer seems to be.

Chaos of the world outside; structure and
fanaticism within.