The Rendcomb Magazine, May 1975 - The Old Rendcombian

But risen I have, and as Unity,I watch you - My past.You are me.But you are broken, fallen;Between the individual lies a gulf.For me to evolve, that gap must be bridged by Love.I plant love on my planet and watch it grow,Under my conscious it grows and flourishes, bridges thegap.I am formed beyond you,I am all of you,Each individual is a part of me.I am perfection, completion.I am God.The room was hollow and dark,The furnishings sparse and dusty,The French windows open,Allowing the world to glide inIn different shapes and forms.The car-horns, the dust, the polluted air.Thinking even harder.The two clamp together as one.The empty mind enters the hollow room,Where it lies and stops, and thinks.The room was still, dark and quiet,As a target awaits its punishment,The atmosphere being light, yet heavy.Her mind had gone forever.LIMERICKKeith Winmill (Form IIIa)There was a young lady from China,Who said, “No-one can make rice finer”.She was universally known,From Bengal to Cologne,And even in Wales, by a miner.LAST MINUTE (Haiku)The dazzling headlights,Rush onwards towards me,Without a care.FOR THE INNOCENTBut the mission had to be completed,Regardless of the hurrying housewivesWho were snatching up the special sales,And of the timid old lady stealingA jar of coffee with trembling hand.The man paid for the groceries and leftThe parcel innocently on the floor;He desperately made for the door -But the explosion came too soon for him,And the freedom fighter was exaltedOnly to fall on the wreckage below;The old lady still clutching the coffee;A bruised mother feeling a dream denied -And the painful loss of the child inside.Philip LyonsDEPRESSIONIan Cummings (Form IVa)THERE will be a slow north-east movement on the systemsto the west and north of the British Isles with Low„H‟ filling a little, Low „Y‟ deepening a little, and High„U‟ declining a little.The bird call chimes, clear in the air.The wind echoes the note, rustles my hair.And the sunlight - sifted, from the clouds,Tries to trickle, through these will-o‟-wisp shrouds.A river reflects the woods of bare beechWhich, although stilly frozen, can just reach,The fields, bespeckled of frozen dew,Appear to be of faded green hue.ONE AND THE SAMEHer mind was full of emptiness, as isThe glass without liquid, as isThe sky without cloud, as is alsoThe stars without their courteous twinkle.It had got lost while thinking and wasDoomed to solitude.Richard Caney (Form IV)A slight rime of very whitenessSuffers the sun in blinding brightness,Fades; every crystal, each grain.Yet the fine crystalline crust contrives to remain.Never moving nor even changingYet covering hillside, rangingFar out of sight.Is the weatherman ever right?29