Poems in this issue Linda Barrett Ruth Deming Jan Felgoise Marion Fox Angela Glover Jan Goldman Maxine Hobbs Grace Lynch Marvin Thall   Edited by Kristine Grow For more information about  writing workshops offered by the Cheltenham Township Adult School, contact: Cheltenham Township Adult School 1414 Panther Road Wyncote, PA 19095 Phone: 215-887-1720	Maxine Hobbs  Maxine Hobbs born and raised in Philadelphia as one of six siblings, growing up believing few things were possible. She was married at an early age, and has two sons, one daughter and a lovely granddaughter. She is a medical professional looking forward, with longing, to retirement. A woman of the Christian faith, an American of African descent and a lover of truth, she now thinks that all things are possible if only you believe. She spends much of my leisure writing poetry and fiction. My Son This country is the land I love, this land so rich and free This country went to war one day and took my son from me I know we must defend this land for freedoms we must pay But freedom’s price is much too high, it took my son away. Be brave they said, hold up your chin, a battle must be won This battle will be costly, and in its cost, my son. We read of wars, we hear of wars, but they seem far away But now this war is here at home, it took my son today. This child I brought into this world, so sweet, so soft, so small I saw him crawl, I saw him stand, I saw him walk so tall. The first day that he went to school, he tried to be so brave But I could see through his façade, I knew he was afraid. He said to me when he was young, “I don’t want to go to war The thought of killing someone shakes me to the core.” And now they’re taking him away, he tried to be so brave But I could see through his façade, I know he is afraid. The fighting rages on and on, will it never end? Will the men return alive, will the wounded mend? A letter came to be today, it’s from our Uncle Sam Your son was brave, your son fought well, he followed all commands. But he was killed we sadly say, he fought a real good fight The tears are streaming down my face; I lose all sense of sight. In my mind I see he still, trying to be so brave But I could see through his façade, I knew he was afraid. This country is the land I loved, this land still rich, still free This country took my child away, it took my son from me. He defended this great land, for freedom he did pay. Nostalgia I remember living in tenements and Avoiding rats and bugs But I can’t recall ever feeling lost or Without my mother’s love I remember gathering coals that fell from Train upon the tracks To give out heat in potbelly stoves Feeling warmth upon our backs I remember playing my aid games with Children by the score In a neighborhood scarred by poverty but. . . We didn’t know that we were poor I remember watchful eyes of men when Mother wasn’t home To keep us kids from hurt and harm and So we wouldn’t roam I didn’t feel the want or care said that Ghetto children feel For I didn’t know what a ghetto was only neighbor’s love was real Then we moved up north to a brand new place To a spanking housing tract And I learned real soon even though a child to Remove knives thrown at my back Not knives of steel or shivvs of tin but Daggers of cutting words Hurled at us kids as we played our games in the streets like. . . Human herds They picked us out one by one a Team of easy prey But we didn’t know and we weren’t sure so. . . We continued just to play And my mother sat in the house and thought that The people were just the same And we kids were safe in this pretty place as The men made us human game For the leering eyes and the preying eyes of These predatory men Also had big hands and muscled arms we Couldn’t fight nor comprehend Now I remember back way down south in those Poverty ridden streets Of the kindly eyes and the gentle hands and the patter of our feet Then I look outside in the troubled hearts of These animal-like men In this tree-lined street, in this pretty place And I’m lost—and I’m only ten.	"Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it." Hannah Arendt
	Editor's note:   At this time, The Tookany Review is accepting only the work of writers who are enrolled or have been enrolled in Cheltenham Adult School writing workshops. Home

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