THE PATH The night was dark, and as I walked my lonely, weary way, "It can't be far; the end is near," my heartbeat seemed to say. Then, suddenly, a gate appeared. The pathway there did end. "You can't go on; you must turn back!" bellowed the mighty wind. And as I slowly turned to face the path down which I came, The rusty gate swung open wide and softly creaked my name. I entered through into a world of sweet serenity. The howling wind became a breeze that sang warm melodies. Now, as I walk, each footfall seems a million years to last, But even so, there's only now; no future nor a past. The melodies the breezes blow keep telling me, "Dear friend, You'll walk this path forevermore, for this path has no end." Robert R. Vance THE EPITAPH OF FUTURE GENERATIONS Let me tell you of the man who sings to me guitar in hand his protests often tend to bore he demonstrates against the war he says destruction's very near and in his songs we always hear the epitaph of future generations. He protests, but he can't maintain he demonstrates, but can't regain the freedoms lost within his time the peace his pencil puts to rhyme he loses all his dignity and in his thinking we can see the epitaph of future generations. He says his conscience is not sore but with mankind he's lost rapport he takes the privilege of the free but flees responsibility the man who strings that protest tune the man who sings the awful doom the epitaph of future generations. And though he reads his poetry and though he sings his songs to me his music can't eliminate his poetry can't compensate for all the hearts that cry to him for all the men who die for him yet knowingly he always writes unwittingly he often cites the epitaph of future generations. Byron L. Wade A Hymn to the Mini-skirt Coolly revealing Hardly concealing Sadly appealing The mini-skirt all but dicloses That on which milady reposes. Carl E. Andra