
                             LITTERATURA MAGAZINE

                        J. Dolsen, Litteratura Magazine
                        PO Box 18092
                        Chicago IL 60618


         WE WELCOME YOU TO THE ONLINE VERSION OF LITTERATURA MAGAZINE.
         Litteratura is simply a place where lovers of literature can
         find and enjoy good writing - the stories and poems that our
         contributors have created. The reader will have the
         opportunity of meeting new authors and poets and of enjoying
         new writings - literary gems by unpublished and new authors
         and poets - the literary stars of the future.


         Litteratura Magazine is the place where authors, poets,
         cartoonists and artists have a forum for their creative
         efforts.

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            ATTENTION: AUTHORS, POETS, CARTOONISTS AND ARTISTS


         Are you interested in submitting your work for possible
         publication in Litteratura Magazine?  We suggest that you
         send SASE (#10 please) to the above address and ask for the
         Litteratura Magazine Newsletter 1, which contains guidelines
         and rules for submitting literary works to the magazine.
         There are also some helpful hints. (if no SASE, send a buck).
         You may request the Free Newsletter no. 1 by EMail to
         Litteratur@aol.com

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         Litteratura Magazine is published in Chicago, Illinois by J.
         Dolsen, PO Box 18092, Chicago, IL 60618, USA. All contents of
         Litteratura Magazine are copyright (c) 1995 by J. Dolsen and
         the authors, poets, cartoonists, artists etc.  All rights are
         reserved by the authors.

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                             TABLE OF CONTENTS

         Poem             Our Children, Our Future
                                               by Karen Goetz,
         Poem             Mary                 by Elizabeth Smaha
         Reminiscing      Life in Kentwood     by Mildred Klyce
         Poem             Rainbows are Real Things
                                               by kimberly
         Short Story      Amelia: Fantastic Lady
                                               by Adeline Rafferty
         Poem             Roll Back the Sky    by Robert Klein Engler
         Short Story      The Letter           by Ximen Wolf
         Poem             Patterns             by kimberly
         Poem             Happiness            by Howard Wolk
         Poem             The Snowflake        by Valerie J. Franch




         (The Aug-Sept 1995 printed, complete version of Litteratura
         Magazine contains the following:  2 articles, 7 short stories,
         and 16 poems, and is 24 pages long).


                          SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION
                Sample copies available, as well as subscription.
                        See info at end of this file.

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                      Our Children, Our Future

                    Every child should be loved.
                    No child shall be turned away.
                    They can reach up and
                    Touch a rainbow in the sky,
                    They can soar with the birds in the sky
                    They can make their dreams come true
                    They are our children,
                    They are, our future.

                    Drugs and gangs turn our
                    Dreams into nightmares,
                    The future becomes the present.
                    Our children become criminals.
                    Just say No !
                    Thats what we tell them.

                    They  can climb the highest mountain,
                    They can sail the biggest oceans.
                    They can make their dreams come true,
                    They are,  Our children,
                    They are, Our future.
                                              Karen Goetz
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                                    MARY

                    Mary had a hidden life.
                    One that she kept in a box locked away.
                    Words written when no one else was around.
                    Thoughts no one else could possibly conceive.
                    No one had to understand
                    No one had to approve.

                    Experiences and wants
                    Transformed into words
                    only she cared about.

                    One day someone else opened the box,
                    read the words, tried to interpret the meanings.

                    It didn't work because only Mary knew
                    and she was gone.

                                 by Elizabeth Smaha

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                                LIFE IN KENTWOOD
                (originally titled "I Never Liked Shirley Temple")

                                  by Mildred Klyce

         With each passing year comes the realization that time is
         passing much too quickly.  It really is true that the older
         we get, the more the past looks more wonderful than the
         present.  Things always look better when viewed through
         memory's rose-colored glasses. So please forgive us if we
         write our little poems and stories about things stored up in
         our memories of the past.

         I'm not sure if things were really better then, or if it just
         seemed that way.  I played with my Shirley Temple doll like
         all the other little girls of my day.  To be honest, I have
         to tell you that I never really liked Shirley Temple. She has
         those bouncy curls all over her cute little head and dimples
         to die for.  She could sing and dance and cry on cue.  She
         was Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farms, she was every little girl's
         fantasy.

         Personally, I would have liked very much to sink her Good
         Ship Lolly Pop !  I could have done all of that.  All I
         needed was a few curls instead of my cotton top, straight,
         short hair that wouldn't hold a ribbon or a bobby pin.
         Well.... maybe I couldn't sing very well, but my sister and
         I had this great "sister" act.  We could dance up a storm in
         the kitchen while doing the dishes.

         I came to accept the fact that I'd never be another Shirley
         Temple.  However, I never did like the dimpled darling and I
         often considered taking the scissors to my Shirley Temple
         doll just to see what she'd look like with hair like mine.

         Except for my dislike for Shirley, I was able to leave behind
         other disappointments.  Looking back, things did seem better
         then.  No doubt it was a gentler, kinder time.  As children,
         we wrote our poems and stories about "how I spent my summer
         vacation. As teen agers, we went swimming in the river. The
         water was clean and clear. We wore our sweaters buttoned up
         the back. A full skirt and petticoat to make it stand out was
         a must, and saddle oxfords topped off the well dressed girl
         of the late and early fifties.

         Prom night was a dance in the school gym with music provided
         by a local band.  Fruit Punch was the accepted drink.  When
         they played "Good Night Ladies," everyone went home, tired
         and happy.  I gasp when I see what this school event has
         become.

         The children of today write poems and stories about their
         fear of the future.  They write about today's problems with
         the ozone, rain forests, polluted streams and gangs.  They
         don't know about drive-in movies, but are well aware of
         drive-by shootings. How sad.

         No matter the decade, each generation does seem to have its
         own personality.  As I selectively look back through my rose
         colored bifocals, I'll settle for memories of the "Jitter
         Bug" guys in khaki pants and brown leather jackets, cherry
         cokes, and poems you could understand.  Rap was something
         you got across the mouth for speaking with disrespect to your
         elders.

         I enjoy telling my ten grandchildren about "the good old
         days" in my poems and stories.  They like to hear about how
         Maw Maw met this tall dark haired young man at a school
         dance in a gymnasium at Southeastern Louisiana College in
         1948.  He was wearing khaki pants and a brown leather jacket.

         Our two year old granddaughter, Katie, calls him "Poppa."
         Incidentally, she dances on cue and has curls and dimples
         to die for.  Shirley Temple, eat your heart out.
                       The end.

                            THE END

         The piece of literature, originally titled "I Never Liked
         Shirley Temple" was first published in THE POET'S VOICE, a
         publication of the Southern Poetry Assn. It appeared in the
         Issue number 14, 1994.  It is published here with the kind
         permission of the author, Mildred Klyce.

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                         RAINBOWS ARE REAL THINGS

                     When things aren't right in life
                     and there's a rainbow in the sky,
                     Maybe make a simple wish,
                     It doesn't hurt to try.
                     And when things go wrong
                     Just wish for happy times,
                     That the clouds would go away
                     And the sun would start to shine.

                     Cause rainbows are real things,
                     Appearing so very high,
                     Colors of every description
                     Vibrating high in the sky,

                     Life's like seeing a rainbow
                     There's cloudy days of woe,
                     But even when the sky is dark,
                     A rainbow will start to show.
                     So when you see a rainbow
                     And the rain is coming down
                     Remember that somewhere else,
                     The sun will be coming around.

                     A rainbow is a real thing,
                     Made up of wishes and dreams,
                     Keep on believing in rainbows,
                     Remember, rainbows can be seen.
                                           by kimberly


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                          AMELIA : FANTASTIC LADY

                            by Adeline Rafferty

         It was a subdued group of old folks sitting on the porch of
         the Colby Convalescent Home that morning.  It always made
         them sad to lose one of their members.  Their number was
         dwindling all of the time.  Now they had lost Amelia.  Mrs.
         Colby had gone up to call her for breakfast, and found her,
         just as if she were sound asleep.

         Amelia, she didn't like to be called Amy, had been the
         darling of the people at the home.  She was admired by the
         men, and liked by the women, although sometimes they were
         envious of her.  What an exciting life Amelia had lived; the
         friends she had made, and the wonderful memories she had
         shared with them.  They could still see her; her grey head
         bobbing excitedly as she rocked and talked.  No one could
         quite bring themselves to sit in her favorite rocker.

         To the women, Amelia's life was the life they would like
         to have lived. Not always easy maybe, but not the dull, drab
         life most of them had known. They had worked hard in their
         day; most of them on farms.  There was many a sigh over the
         gown Amelial wore to the opera house in Central City.  It was
         a beautiful red velvet, and she had some scraps in her
         sewing box to this day.  Amelia told them about the dress one
         afternoon when Emmie, looking for a thimble, found the scraps
         of red velvet.

         Amelia had told them she was very young when she wore the
         red velvet dress. It was in those days she had met the
         wealthy Chinese family, and had become the companion to their
         young daughters.  They had developed a lasting friendship. To
         this day, some member of the family sent her a box of rare
         Chinese tea.  The folks at the home would miss the delicate
         tea that Amelia received at Christmas.

         Adventurous Amelia, the old men were fond of her.  What a
         different life they could have had if their own mates had
         been like her.  Someone to work side by side with a man, and
         willing to take a chance.  They would never forget her
         telling of hardships she endured when she and her husband
         went West in the 1880's.  She told them of her husband's poor
         luck prospecting, and how she thought of the idea of running
         a small cafe.  She fed the miners the same thing every day,
         but they liked the food, - woman's cooking.  She made money
         in that town out West; made it all in that cafe. Her husband
         never made it rich.  After he died, she came back to the
         Midwest that she left years before to live her years out in
         the private home of the Colby's.  Mrs. Colby, a nurse,
         started the convalescent home years ago, but as her elderly
         charges often needed to stay on, and she too was growing
         older with them, she let it stay that way.  Every person at
         the home had some money, as meager as it was.  Although Mrs.
         Colby never made much money, they were all cared for and
         comfortable. The Great Depression was soon to sweep through
         the nation, but wasn't evident as yet.

         Often when Amelia wasn't within hearing, some folks would
         express the opinion that she had been the wife of some famous
         person, or maybe the sweetheart of one.  Probably there was
         more that she didn't want to reveal. They felt a bit
         flattered that she had chosen to spend her last years with
         them, and shared her stories.

         Mrs. Colby had notified Amelia's daughter of her Mother's
         death.  The folks at the home knew she had a daughter.  No
         one knew much but her, but they thought that she must be a
         very prominent lady.  Every year for the first few years
         after Amelia arrived at Colby's, she spent two weeks in the
         late summer with her daughter.  That was long ago; she
         preferred to stay at the home these last years.  Come to
         think of it - it was difficult for the old folks to remember
         much that Amelia had told about her daughter.  They did
         remember her mentioning the good schools that her daughter
         attended.  The girl must have everything.  Amelia didn't like
         her daughter's husband, so maybe that was reason enough for
         not visiting them. There was hope, by the people at the home,
         that the daughter would come to claim her mother's remains.
         They were disappointed when they learned that Mrs. Colby had
         orders to ship Amelia's remains to the daughter.  How sad
         that children were so busy these days.  Through the long days
         to come, the old folks would retell Amelia's stories and miss
         her presence.

         After the funeral, in a neighboring state, the small party
         of mourners returned to their farms from the church cemetery.
         Hank never dreamed his wife would carry on so about her
         mother's passing.  Goodness knows they hadn't been very
         close.  They never saw each other these last years.  Time
         was, when Amy came home at harvest to help out, but it must
         have been too much for her these last years.  She was very
         tired of farm work.  Amy didn't want visitors out there at
         the old folks home either.  It wasn't natural for a woman not
         to want visitors, especially her own kin.  Hank figured she
         just never got over her girl marrying a farmer.  Amy sure
         wanted her girl to be somebody; even sent her to all those
         fancy boarding schools.  Hank had been told that farm life
         was too hard for her daughter. Funny how Amy hated the farm.
         Darn funny, the way she had taken the insurance money after
         her husband died, and went off that home she had heard about.
         It was peculiar, so Hank thought, Amy's picking up and going
         to another state to an old folk's home.  Especially peculiar
         for a farm woman who lived all her life on the farm where she
         was born.  Hank reminded himself to tell the grocer, the next
         time he went to town, that they wouldn't be needing that
         fancy Chinese tea for Amy next Christmas.

                                The end


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                          Roll Back the Sky

                       Hawk, scarab,
                       generations to trace
                       the outline of a stone.

                       Turn the steeples over.
                       Let them point down
                       to the dark matter of things.

                       How to read this?
                       Brush, quill, paper,
                       the blush of cathode rays?

                       What is new, letters?
                       Father laughing his
                       leather hands to dust,

                       mother, the petals of her
                       eyelashes floating,
                       while her bones unfold?

                       Come pyramids, stupor
                       of days without refrain.
                       The store house of souls is filled.

                                    by Robert Klein Engler

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                                   The Letter

                                  by Ximen Wolf

         The old, fading woman sat in front of her ivory writing desk
         holding a picture frame.  The writing table was Victorian
         and fit in perfectly with the rest of the house - the
         upright piano that was polished once a year, the
         heavy-patterned drapes, aching lace doilies, the mirror in a
         slightly tarnished frame.  The picture that Grace held was
         an anomaly in that it's golden frame shone brightly, almost
         harshly, around a depiction of two young girls playing by a
         weeping willow.  It was really greeting card from Yvette that
         Grace had put in a frame.  The beautiful scrawl inside
         chatted so eloquently as Yvette always had in real life.
         The card was obviously thoughtfully chosen; Yvette and Grace
         had often played with dolls together when re children.  they
         had remained close, even with the many years that had
         passed, until Yvette moved away to be nearer to her
         grandchildren.  At first they wrote frequently, eagerly.
         But as the letters became chores, they did not beg so loudly
         to d or answered.

         It was Grace's turn to write.  It had been for nearly three
         months.  When Yvette's thoughtful card arrived, Grace had
         gone the very next day to pick out an equally wonderful one
         - out of a genuine longing for her friend, a desire not to
         be outdon ense of duty, she didn't know.

         The card Grace chose was the same one that she now held in
         her hand, three months later. On heavy, grainy paper was
         printed a muted watercolor bouquet in a copper urn.  It was
         blank inside, like Yvette's had been and Grace really had
         intended to mmediately with vibrant, charming prose.  But, as
         she had sat, fountain pen in hand, the words just did not
         come.  Some days, Grace had found herself wandering over to
         the desk and pulling out her pen from the top drawer.  But,
         it was somehow thr when she held it, as if it would ruin the
         beautiful card by writing words that would undoubtedly be
         hollow and lonely.  Eventually, she stopped leaving the card
         on her desk where it looked at her remonstratively and
         tucked it carefully in the des drawer.  Occasionally, she
         would pull the card out, along with a plain white sheet of
         paper.  Grace would practice on the blank page, scribbling
         and scratching out until it seemed the ink would envelop the
         paper altogether.  Over time, the thin white sheet appeared
         less frequently, then not at all.

         But today, Grace finally had something to write about.  Even
         though her handwriting was burdened, her sentences simple,
         she finally had something to say.  Yesterday she had bought
         a dog.  A little white poodle, yet unnamed.  She had
         wandered into op, absentmindedly thinking it was the corner
         grocery, and she saw the poodle.  It was sitting quietly off
         in it's cage, unlike the other wildly barking dogs.  She
         imagined how sad it was among the endless noise as it
         waited, needing a friend.  T keep each other company, protect
         each otherr, she thought.  After holding the dog near her,
         in her arms, Grace brought the poodle home.  It startled her
         at first to see something alive among her faded pillows, and
         her tables laden with heavy pape and clocks with hands that
         never moved.  But the poodle mostly slept or wandered
         quietly, fitting in nicely with the surroundings, as if it
         was a person, a weary wanderer who had finally found home.

         Grace began to write.  She started to say how good the dog
         was, make a joke about buying a dog at her age.  She
         pretended that it was a small, unimportant incident, and
         that her life wass so full that she only had room to
         describe the littlest ev t it all sounded so trite and
         untrue. She scratched out the words.  Perhaps she would be
         honest and say how long it had been since she had touched or
         talked to something that was alive.  It made her remember
         the cafes wehre they began gossiping a yone else, but would
         end up revealing themselves.  She pictured her wedding, when
         Yvette had squeezed her hand, giving her the courage to walk
         down the unknown aisle.  And when they went shopping, and
         Grace put on a dress, and the elegant Yvette aid, "You really
         are beautiful." It was all so long ago.  Grace slowly wrote
         down seven words, put her card in it's envelope, addressed
         it, and walked out immediately to the mailbox down the block
         and dropped the message inside.  "Yvette, I do miss you so,
         love, Grace."

         Every day, Grace walked the dog, and upon returning home,
         would take off it's leash, let it inside, and would then
         check her letterbox.  Not that she expected a reply so soon,
         but she wanted to be in the habit when a letter did come.
         Not a week en Grace reached her hand in the box, her wrinkled
         fingers closed around an envelope.  She pulled it out,
         knowing it was from Yvette, and smiled a tiny, soft smile.
         But, as she looked at the envelope, her face withered, and
         the letter fell to th On it was written the words, "Deceased.
         Return to Sender." Grace's hands touched her sunken cheeks
         and she looked frantically around, as if maybe someone could
         help her.  But the street was empty, and she closed her eyes
         and leaned against the mb, shaking.  "I've done everything
         wrong," was the only thought she could pull from her muddled
         mind.  And, as if in affirmation, the nameless dog walked
         out the half-open door and down the street, very quietly,
         almost as if it was a spirit, loving but forgotten.

                                 The End

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                                 PATTERNS

                          It was hot and dry,
                          No rain for quite a while,
                          And there wasn't much green
                          In many many a mile.
                          But still we held on,
                          And always wondered why,
                          Why didn't it ever rain
                          Didn't God control the sky.

                          Then the winds had come,
                          From the Rio Grande,
                          Cutting many patterns
                          In the movin' shiftin' sand.
                          The wind was strong and gusty,
                          As it moved across our land,
                          And all we had were patterns
                          In the movin' shiftin' sand.

                          We thought the rains might come,
                          To our land that was so dry,
                          And we even saw the clouds
                          Comin' high in the sky.
                          We prayed for the rains to come,
                          That's wash away the fears,
                          The fear that we wouldn't last
                          That our lives would disappear.

                          But all they were were clouds,
                          Just clouds high in the sky,
                          There wasn't any rain
                          An' we asked our Lord why.
                          Then the clouds had gone,
                          Hot sun was in the sky,
                          It seemed to bore right through
                          Our land that was so dry.

                          The wind was strong and gusty,
                          As it moved across our land,
                          And all we had were patterns,
                          In the movin, shiftin, sand.

                                        by kimberly

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                                   HAPPINESS

                    Happiness is not in having things
                    and seeing places.
                    It's not living in a mansion
                    or being dressed in lovely laces,
                    and dainty silks.
                    High on a hill
                    Or having anxious parents answer
                    at your every will
                    Happiness is just knowing someone
                    Actually cares for you.
                    It is found in doing things for all mankind,
                    It is found in liking all the work.
                    You have to do
                    Having love and strength to give
                    to the weak and the blind.
                    Happiness is having your strong hand
                    reach for mine
                    This is divine contentment
                    So slender and so fine
                    Happiness is in the valley or high upon a hill
                    Happiness is for me to be with you forever,
                    my dear.
                                      by Howard Wolk

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                             The Snowflake

                         So soft, delicate, unique.
                         I reach out to catch this snowflake,
                         I want to witness its intricacies.
                         Ever so gently it falls into my palm.
                         My warm touch melts away its shell.
                            Much too quick
                         I never knew every bit of this wonderous
                         treasure.
                         It has disappeared, vanished
                                He has gone.
                         My hands are empty.

                                       by Valerie J. Franch

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               ATTENTION: AUTHORS, POETS, CARTOONISTS AND ARTISTS

         Are you interested in submitting your work for possible
         publication in Litteratura Magazine?  We suggest that you
         send SASE (#10 please) to the above address and ask for the
         FREE LITTERATURA MAGAZINE NEWSLETTER NO. 1, which contains
         guidelines and rules for submitting literary works to the
         magazine. There are also some helpful hints. (if no Self
         addressed stamped envelope, send a buck).
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