Winter 2009 Issue

Editorial Staff:


Senior Editor – Max Gahm
Senior Editor – Michael Hamod

Grant Lloyd – Staff
Junius Randolph – Staff
Brad Mutchink – Staff
Eric Friedman – Staff

Christian Louzan – Photo Editor

Mr. Baird – Faculty Advisor



Editor’s Note:

Hello fellow Crusaders,

So here it is. You’ve been waiting. We’ve been waiting, but finally the first issue of The Monitor has been released and it has not been the easiest of endeavors. The job of senior editor seems to get harder and harder with the mounting decisions that come into play each year. However, thanks to a supportive staff and photo editor, along with the final push that was needed from Mr. Baird, we were finally able to put together an issue that continues to improve upon the high standard set by past years. So now we leave you with the first issue of The Monitor, and urge you to continue your support by submitting your work to be published in the spring issue and any feedback you may have on our blog.

Sincerely,

Michael Hamod and Max Gahm



Table of Contents:

“Hidden to the American Eye” – Junius Randolph

“I don’t know” – Grant Lloyd

“Airborne Beauty” – Brad Mutchink

“Rain Season” – Max Gahm

“Concert Hall” – Michael Hamod

“Up Here Waiting (A sonnet for…)” – Alec Mitchell

“Winter Days” – Dan Gutberlet

“Pear Tree” – Max Gahm

“Striking” – Michael Hamod

“Beating” – Eric Friedman

“World Without Words” – Grant Lloyd













Photo by Luke Hrabal



Hidden to the American Eye
By Junius Randolph

Tears
stampeding down her face
Arms
stifling in pain
She holds her
Eyes
glaring up at the crying woman
Blood
slithering out of the hole in her neck
Mouth
A polar ice cap
Unmoving
Waiting for something
Someone

Tears
soaring down his face
Arms
hanging like the dead woman in front of him
Eyes
Perfectly situated in front of his entire childhood
Buildings
crumbled to a single wall
Village
loathing in newly known nothingness
Blood
creeping out of the sores in his feet
Mouth
desert dry
Will something happen?
Somebody come?

Lips
pursed Charmin soft on his Starbucks coffee
Two creams
Two sugars
Ass
comfortably seated, unmoving
Seated
Eyes
scanning the paper like an insurance officer about to deny his next claim
Sees the pictures
Next page
No stare
No tears
No shock
No single solitary pause
Taps his wallet
Turns to the sports section.












Photo by Ian Pederson



I Don’t Know
By Grant Lloyd

Through great pains
A flowery cancerous mess.
Fears that fall heavily --
Like a crushing ocean wave
Or the stifling smoke of
A cheap cigar.
A simple glance burns skin
Stripped naked
The deepest dark
and driving cold
Alone.
They come,
but at a risk.
Finally, the doors open.














Photo by TJ Root



Airborne Beauty
By Brad Mutchink

The light shining through the plastic panes
Jet black hair glistening like oil
Rapidly moving thumbs on the phone
Knees on the back of the seat
A short resounding giggle over the engine
Life’s self- satisfaction
Turning her head with a smile asking for conversation.
There was beauty that day
30,000 feet up in the air
Looking me right in my guilty green eyes.




















Photo by Doug Slaughter




Rain Season
By Max Gahm


No, he was a perfectly normal father. He plowed the field and fed the livestock, and watched over my mother as she raised me and my younger sister. Everything had been normal through my childhood, until the day the rain come.
The rain fell, and fell, and fell. Days in and days out rain fell, and made melodies as it clanked against the chipped red roof of the barn. At first we thought that it would be good for the crops, that it may enrich the soil and that we may have a good spring harvest. That, of course, would have liven father’s spirits. But the days wore on, and so did the rain. Thick, heavy drops like stones cascaded from the melancholy sky. I’ll never forget the day when father roamed the fields, getting soaked. He dug his hands into the sloppy soil and moved his nose closer. He stood, mud and water dripping away like wax on a burning candle. I watched from my back window, and he slowly made his way back up the porch. Blue eyes were glazed with a thick watery film and long black hair drooped like dying branches.
The crops couldn’t grow, the livestock could only take so much. But on one morning, a blade of sunlight pierced through my blinds and struck me across the chest. I leapt out of bed and gazed at the tattered farmland. The sky glow a milky pink, and a bird could even be heard on the roof of the barn. It was early in the morning, and I crept down the stairs. But father was already awake, fully dressed in a formal suit that made him seem alien. His silver keys flashed and prodded out of the side pocket of his pants. “Father,” I breathed in a crackled drowsy tone, “Where are you going?” He looked at me with those same confused, tired blue eyes that I had seen a few days earlier. The next few words were a blur, and all I heard was something about my mother and sister, and the farm. And then he moved forward, and took step by step and walked out the door.















Photo by Christian Louzan



Concert Hall
By Michael Hamod

Dim eyed man on the metro corner,
tenderly strumming a Spanish guitar
with notes as fluid as those of Miro’s brush.
As the train car passes, he plays his
unyielding melody for anybody.
Picking his head up every time he
hears the coins clatter in his suede case
to mumble a practiced and hoarse “Mercés.”
Pitcher of sangria heating up in the
bone-dry Barcelona sun, with no
respite, even from the salty breeze.
A long sip of the fruity red, to try and
satiate a ravenous thirst. Then wiping
red lips with the side of his hand, the
man once again moves callused fingers
and fills the station with his echoing song.





















Photo by Eli Hutton




Up Here Waiting (A Sonnet for....)
By Alec Mitchell

If I were lost, would you come look for me?
Like searching for the sun on cloud covered days.
Through all of the rubble and the debris
of our shattered love, yet since set ablaze
I wait for you, as I wait for my life
Eternally waiting, for your return.
Still grieving, healing my internal strife.
Dreaming of your face for which I so yearn --
I’d like to say that you’re my only fear.
Here in my heart, which is aching and cold
I cannot bear to leave myself open,
Nor watch your own life without me unfold.
When I wake, I know so hard I have tried
But when I dream, I’m right here, by your side.














Photo by Luke Hrabal



Winter days
By Dan Gutberlet

The sweet warmth of summer comes to a close
Leaves turning yellow and green
The land begins to freeze
Throughout the night windows are shut, fires burn light
Long, breezy winds turn clothes to snowy white bricks
Chimney smoke swarms the air
Plants die, and freeze in the wind
Short cold days turn to dark burning nights
The frost devours all in sight.














Photo by TJ Root



Pear Tree
By Max Gahm

Her tall, dark outline
Plastered into my window.
Silence of the night
Lost in the constant
Melody of pears hitting the
Dirt, like hail,
Humans.

Sometimes she sways
Moonlight traces
Her arms, legs and veins
Across my sprawled and covered body.
When she moves the illuminated painting
On me slides and I reach for it,
Yet when I do she shudders
Her body drooping.
I hear
The thump of pears reach the earth,
Being born and leaving their mother
And waiting to be picked up,
To be suckled on and have their
Freshness sucked from them by
Human tongues,
Or else they will rot with their mother
Towering over them.

My eyelids thicken
She begins to dance on
The surface of my chest.

I doze away,
Her lullaby
A bittersweet goodbye.

















Photo by Ian Pederson



Striking
By Michael Hamod

Hammers and daggers
to the chest yield newborn
passion. A mysterious inferno,
yet every flame does not damage,
but instead lightly caresses
the tongue, leaving savory
spices that delight every small
opening.

Catastrophic yet
simultaneously sublime in nature.

Brushes of wind carry a
helpless feathery mind towards
the hearth of that candlelit
field. Those wisps of summer
cold are unfelt by the sweet
serenity that the hanging stars provide.
The quiet flashing fireflies
are shocked at the light of
the scene before them
in the sinister hours of darkness.

A small laugh, interrupts the
depths of blackness, and fuels
the small white candles as they
continue to burn against the gusts
into the late hours of that breathless eve.














Photo by Eli Hutton



Beating
By Eric Friedman

Seconds steadily beating
Death hammers at the door
Time melting
I sprint to the door
Faster! Faster! The clock finally racing
Sprinting, heart beating, I open the door
Death greets me, tells me
To use time,
In time,
While time lasts,
For all time,
Is no time,
When times past,
Away I transcend after He tells,
But to heaven or to hell?




















Photo by Doug Slaughter



World Without Words
By Grant Lloyd

Looking out on the horizon
Dark ocean blends with black sky.
The surface sports a single white
stripe, broken by waves.
Knee deep in sea foam,
I imagine myself, a crab
Scuttling violently across
A silent sea floor.
Cool breeze caresses my face as
I teeter on the unknown, the
Crab calls out to me.
Head first, I dive in.
Then swim, and swim.