From: Stazja_at_aol.com
To: Stazja_at_aol.com
Sent: Saturday, May 12, 2001 10:27 PM
Subject: MAP #183-1 Featured Poetry Supplement Theme: Free For All

Map of Austin Poetry #183-1
Featured Poetry Supplement
Theme: Free For All

Upcoming Themes:

#184 - Back in the Saddle
#185 - Doors Close/Doors Open
#186 - Elmer Fudd and the Looney Tunes Opewa

Send poems in body of e mail, no submissions. On subject line, specify theme
and issue number. Include permission to publish. Poets retain all rights.

Because of the volume of submissions, I had to leave some out. Thanks to all
who submitted. This week's selections are truly a free-for-all: love, nature,
political commentary, multi-lingual, you name it. This poetry is free, for
all.

1. "Who Are These Men?" by Jean Russell
2. "Moon Over Cincinnati" by Scott Goebel
3. "Removing The Gunk - In Memory of Tracy Sypert" by LeVan D. Hawkins
4. "Optimisten/Optimists" by Ingeborg Miller
5. "Love Poem" by Cyril Wong
6. "Saltless Autumn" by Frank Faust
7. "After Reading R. H. Blyth #4" by Gary Blankenship
8. "This Is A Day The Mississippi River Crests In Wisconsin - April 20,
2001" by Kim Nuzzo
9. "Marcia #658" by Zell Miller, III a/k/a Graffiti
10. "The Sound of Asherah Poles" by Reginald L. Goodwin

1. Who Are These Men? by Jean Russell

Some kind of sculptors?
They carry metal tools
in their black leather bags.
They hack away
and disassemble me.
I watch, standing frozen.

They use precision
in their dismantling,
carting away my jagged parts,
each segment wrapped neatly
in red cloth
and bound with tape.

These men are careful.
They treat me like glass.
I try to cut them
with what is left of me.

I beg them to go slower
and to leave my eyes
and my hand with its pen
and to bring me several sheets
of blue-lined paper.
I think I need to write something
before their job is done.

These men work fast.

© Jean Russell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2. Moon Over Cincinnati by Scott Goebel

Hometown on the horizon.
It's reminiscent
of that first glimpse
on approaching the city
at night. That one moment--
catching just the radiance
that fills a dark sky.

But tonight, from 300 miles away,
beneath the first full moon of Spring,
I see a different glow
of my hometown on the horizon.

Cincinnati is burning.
Burning while cops in full riot gear,
surround City Hall, praying for rain--
the mayor and his jesters
held captive in the cellar
as bricks of rage shatter the windows
of the asylum.

Cincinnati is burning.
Burning for 19 year-old Timothy Thomas--
who ran from the cops for driving without--
without a seat belt,
without a license.
Without a notion he'd end up an alley.
Without a notion he'd end up dead.

Cincinnati is burning,
Burning for the souls of fifteen men dressed in black
dead-- at the hands of fifteen men dressed in blue.

Cincinnati is burning.
Burning for the nine year-old
shot in the head with a beanbag
from a police shotgun
for standing in line on 12th Street
at the Drop-In Center
just waiting for something to eat.

Cincinnati is burning.
Burning through Over-The-Rhine
and the Findlay Market
where the butchers, and the bakers,
and the candle-stick makers
fall prey to the riots, the chaos,
and the policy-makers.

Cincinnati is burning.
Burning on Fountain Square where hot dog vendors
are toppling instead of governments
and the eyes of blameless bystanders are crying from teargas--
their bodies bruised with 12-gauge beanbags.

Over-The-Rhine is burning.
Burning like Avondale burned in '67
when Dr. King preached peaceful protest.
Burning like again in '68
when Dr. King was killed.
And the cops keep praying for rain,
knowing too well the madness the full moon can inflict
when the people get trigger-happy--
falling victim to that lunacy
themselves.
Cincinnati is burning
and I watch the television looking for news,
while M~S~N~B~C~B~S~A~B~C~N~N
show nothing but boys and girls in green
coming home from China-- wrapped in Old Glory
after suffering 12 days of George Dubya's Chicken Beijing.

And because there's a bigger story in the news
for the networks to frenzy themselves,
for three nights, I have only seen
news from home in the eastern sky.
And still, as the April moon wanes,
I see nothing on the horizon
but darkness glowing
with the coming
of a new moon.

© 2001 Scott Goebel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3. Removing The Gunk - In Memory of Tracy Sypert by LeVan D. Hawkins

Boyish grin
Ancient soul
Enigmatic Buddha
strolling
down the boulevard,
How do you wear your life so easily?
I see you through the window -
Truth breathed casually.

I hurry out and shout your name
Your image fades
I am left with the words
You made:

To remove the gunk from your life -
You have to
Face it.

Your life
laid down matter of fact
as only truth
can be drags
me from
underneath my security
blanket of metaphors and similes.

I chuckle I nod I sigh
I flinch I
Flee

Enigmatic Buddha,
How do you wear your life so easily?

You tell me
You defied sickness
wrote a
new chapter.

You sit in
the dining room
with your husband
and exchange
amused glances.

Stoic face dissolves into laughter.
Yes! To remove
the gunk from your life -
You have to face it!

My
dining room is empty. Money's
not flowing. Career's
not going.
Ten steps
to my desk;
I can only make eight.
Infants and animals no
longer bring a smile to my face.

I call your white palace
for your husband's inspiration
He tells me no
new chapters. Your
book has ended.

The next day
I walk and breathe with the water
Taking in life
exhaling questions. I
see you
strolling into the ocean
I want to ask you how did
you wear your life so easily
but I know
you can't hear me.

I reclaim my medal of bravery
as your words sound out clearly:
To remove the gunk from your life -
You have to face it.

Face it.

Face it.

© 2001 LeVan D. Hawkins
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4. Optimisten by Ingeborg Miller

Fallen
Optimisten
wie
reife Pflaumen
zu Boden
oder
fliegen sie
fröhlich
wie
pralle Luftballons
gen Himmel?

Optimists (Translation from the German)

Do optimists
fall to the ground
like ripe plums
or
do they fly
joyfully up high
into the sky
like
inflated
balloons?

© Ingeborg Miller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
5. Love Poem by Cyril Wong

It is beyond
That first desire
For presence;
You are either

Mine, or
Not mine.
Love

Without need
Is mere
Compassion.

You will
Not believe this,

'Love
Is beyond pride,
And any
Talk of loss,
Even longing.'

I want

So much to believe this.

© Cyril Wong
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6. Saltless Autumn by Frank Faust

I miss the sands of summer
that yield beneath probing feet
digging into an anchorage
against the movement of blue water
clear enough to see the golden embrace

salt tasting my lips

I stood in the wash of rising tides
felt the cool lick at my skin
upon my face the release
of a shallow dive to freedom
under rocking waves of comfort

salt wash upon my lips

I am rue in this biting cold
that tells me there is now
a numb pain in that water
gleaming chilled green
and withholding invitation

saltless lips in autumn

© 2001 Frank Faust
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
7. After Reading R. H. Blyth #4 by Gary Blankenship

My begging bowl, broken,
sits on a shelf behind plastic flower arrangements
and old ivory.

My sandals, threadbare,
discarded in a charity bag with retired dress shoes
and purple pumps.

My staff, scarred,
thrown on the woodpile with unsplit madrona
and broken headboards.

My hat, bent,
rests atop my head; it is raining and I do not want
to get wet.

I do not need the bowl,
the potato bin is full
and the ice box is frozen.

I do not need the sandals,
better boots are made
and I only walk to get the mail.

I do not need the staff,
birds do not attack me
and there is no one to teach.

I need the hat,
summer may arrive someday
and I should cool my head.

My back itches.
Why do I study Zen
when my knees hurt?

My bed is made.
Why do I need Buddha,
when my book bag full?

© Gary Blankenship
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8. This Is A Day The Mississippi River Crests In Wisconsin - April 20, 2001
by Kim Nuzzo

This is a day
there is not a living soul in sight.
This is a day
dance music fills the air.
This is a day
to wrap things up.
This is a day
that is now a myth.
This is a day
you are not safe.
This is a day
to be sucked back into the belly of the earth.
This is a day
to look to heaven while eating a chicken leg.
This is a day
all but forgotten.
This is a day
to walk in the garden beyond all doubt.
This is a day
old poems burn and grow stronger.
This is a day
to sing on a hill.

© 2001 Kim Nuzzo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9. Marcia#658 by Zell Miller III a/k/a Graffiti

In winds time
categorically

deny
Me
Your

FEAR

Bring about sweet kisses
Don't turn away your eyes
When..
We
Make
Love

Fingers of electric action
Grain 2 grown from
Attraction
Electromagnetic
Combustion
Barley
Breathe from
Glances
What's that about
Have U always known I would love U
Did U see me at times when time was no time
When figures pressed against the alley of everlasting
We spoke volumes into existence
Did U see me
U see the in me
I knew I would love you before night was named
And bodies of energy become transparent through
Translucent
Imagination
In
Winds
Time

© 2001 Zell Miller III aka Grafitti
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10. The Sound of Asherah Poles by Reginald L. Goodwin

Near the pulpit:
A preacher spits lyrically
Into a microphone
Moaning; rapping a tone.
Dancing, slinging sweat
To the harmony of a
Slamming gay organist. Near the pulpit:
Sisters scream and swoon
"Slain in the spirit" by
His baritone croon.
Rapture still when the
Fillies
Later bang him silly
In strange beds
Birthing jack-leg-preacher
Children with hickory-nut heads. Near the pulpit:
Today's absolution
Flashes back
To a time the priest
Was clearly off track in priestly chatter:
Counsel and mutual
Masturbation should
Not be related matters. Near the pulpit:
Tele evangelist fleece
Their flock
And talk
About each other's sins
Like dueling hip-hop
Stars,
Verbosity slicing
Psychological and real
Scars in skins
of pontiff
And parishioner as outsiders
Pass from the stage to no chagrin. Near the pulpit:
Messenger spreads his
Seed,
Using scripture to
Hide his greed
For young flesh:
It is prophesy, not sex. Near the pulpit:
Like Malcolm near
The messenger
Sent by God,
I feel odd
As we all did
When Martin's
Peccadilloes had
Their cover snatched
From its lid, The blinding light
Of reality
Does its best
To pull down high
Places
I want intact and erect.

© 2000 Reginald L. Goodwin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Welcome new readers. Anyone wanting off the mailing list, e me at
stazja_at_aol.com

The MAP and featured poetry supplements are posted online at:

The Poets' Porch: www.poetsporch.com
Dream Forge: www.pcisys.net/~drmforge/poems.htm
Austin Metro: www.austinmetro.com/poetpage.html
Sun Poets Society http://clik.to/SunPoets
Austin International Poetry Festival: http://aipf.org

Much Love,
Stazja