di-\rerse'-iLryFounders' Edition

Antholog'of the

Austin InternationalPoetry Festival

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Cover Art and Cover Design byGryNN M. Inny

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di-utrsc' +ity Foun&rs' Edition

Copynght @ 2003 by Austin Poets International, Inc.

Austin Poets Intemational2003-2003 Boarrd of DinEctors

Deborah A Akers

John BerryValerie Bridgeman Davis

Barbara Youngblood CarrVcki Goldsberry Colker

Regindd L. GoodwinRon Horne

Byron Kocen, M.D.Midge Kocen

PegglrZuleika LynchDillon McKinsey

Gayle Hight, Festivd Director2003 Austin International lloetry Festivd

CoverAn: Imprcssions of Macr Ouo the Colorado by Glynn M. Itby

ISBN: 0-9650766-8-7

This anthology and the Austin International Poetry Festival

have been underwritten in part by support ofthe City of Austin Arts Commission and the Writers' League of Texas.

Special thanks also to the supporters, members and volunteers,

of Austin Poets Intemational, Inc., and to all the poets

who honor us with their participation.

Printed in the United States of America

by Morgan Printing, Austin, Texas

Thble of Contenrs

AIPF Founding Members

Judgement

Drag Racer

Of This I Am

I Am Yes

Juried Poets

[.ove Poem #1

Brautigan & Baudelaire

Ginny

Chameleons

YourWorks or Mine?

black wine

Remembering Sappho

Moment: Broken DollAn Act of Faith: Driving

to Maine with Marcel

Walking

This Watch

La Migra

Fading Out

Balancing Act

Egret

Shackleton's Wood

Cedar Bear

Reviving Ophelia

Brown Sugar

Finale IPainted Lady

l,ondon Limbo

Stargaze

Imagi22

John Berry

Sue Littleton

Herman Nelson

Thom the !7orld Poet

Shannon Baley

Stephan Baley

David Bayless

Matt Black

Joe Blanda

Clarissa l,evonne Bolding

Lynette M. Bowen

Susan Bright

Michael Brown

Jonathan Bryant

Graham Buchan

Del Cain

Cindy Childress

Nancy Kenney Connolly

Robin M. English-Bircher

Mary Fogel

Gail Folkins

Christine Gilbert

Beki Halpin

Ralph Hausser

Margaret Ellis HillStephen P. Howarth

Cindy Huyser

Glynn M. hby

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We All Want to Be Heroes

ln The Book

Tableau

Meat

Lucky in Love

Love and Laundry

Summer Night

Sounded Cold

The Tides

The Orb-Weaver

My Beautiful Black Man

On Painting

Broken Column

Girls'Night

Scribe

For Iudita

Hunters Dreaming

Bonking Sound

A Private Matter

childGun Toting Maniacs

Areola

variants

Amok IIafter the men have gone

Chocolat du Paris

Mountain Meal

To Mama

Helen of Joy

The Death of Cupid

Gulf Prairie Watch

parked

Mother's Calling

Falling

Larry Jaffe

Maggie Jochild

Marcelle Kasprowicz

Brian Kawano

Jeff Knight

Travvis Largent

Holly Lewis

Andrew l,ong

R. Bernard Mann

David Manning

Cynthia Gail Manor

Jane Marawar

Stazja McFadyen

Lynette Shaw McKone

Agnes Meadows

Neil Meili

David Meischen

June Melby

Chris Mooney-Singh

Jacob Nehman

Scott Jonathan Nixon

Wendy Noonan

tommie ortega

Anfisa Osinnik

Nii Ayikwei Parkes

Jane S. Parsons

Alice Pero

Anzhelina Polonskaya

Frank Pool

Joseph Powell

Carlyn Luke Reding

Jean Russell

Anne Schneider

Joanna Catherine Scott

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The Objectivist

I Tum My Face to the East

Imbalance

A Poem of UpliftThe Lies That Bind

deliriumbiblicus

l.essons in Mountain ClimbingChance Encounter

Preacher

The Divine ComedienneEn Route to Circle Seven

Vic

The Feast

Winter's ChildPantoum

Telling the Stories Back

Fish Eye Lens

Why the Poet

The Visit

AIPF Board of Directors

la Carafe

How Do Poems Come?

Lavender Moon

Poetry Here, OverThereand Down Under

Lagniappe

Last Days

Hate Club

Lincoln's Fields

Glimpse

Sruck in the Mud

Founders' Biographies

About the Artist

Tom Seabolt

Stefan Sencerz

Bevin Kerith Shaw

Dyke Shipp

Nancy E. Shreve

skipsilver

Rebecca Spears

Dr. Charles A. Stone

Beverly Sweet

Mary-Agnes Taylor

Victory

Asoka Weerasinghe

Gerald Wheeler

Scott Wiggerman

Jill Wiggins

Lauren Williams

KimmikaL.H. Williams

Tony Zurlo

Deborah A. Akers

John Berry

Valerie Bridgeman Davis

Barbara Youngblood Carr

Vicki Goldsberry Colker

Reginald L. Goodwin

Ron Horne

Byron Kocen, M.D.

Peggy Zuleika Lynch

Dillon McKinsey

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Preface

This year's di-verse-ciry honors rhe four founders of the AustinInternational Poetry Festival. ln 19g2, John Berry Sue Littleton,Herman Nelson and Thom The Vorld Poet conceived a mission: toencourage the knowledge and appreciation of poerry

- all poerry

amongst dl people. AJPE the heartbeat of these four visionary poets,has grown into the largest open forum poetry festival in the UnitedStates, regularly arrracring over 200 poers a year. The internationalflavor of AIPF prevails and flourishes, emphasizing the muld-culturaland open embrace of the festival:in2OO3, poers from seven counrriesand 15 states are featured.

Those of us who celebrate the power and grace of language, whobelieve, as Shelley did, that "Poets are the unacknowledged legislatorsof the world," owe an undeniable debt ofgratitude ro the four foundersof AIPF. John, Sue, Herman, Thom. . . we celebrare your achieve-ment, honor your commitmenr, and applaud your actualization of afarsighted fancy that rook flight. With gratitude, we thank you for theideas we've explored, *re friends we've made, and especially, rhe po-etry dways the poetry.

As for me, in my first year as editor of di-verse-ciry I wanted toreveal undiscovered blossoms, theshy alents, the poem hiding theirlighsunder proverbial baskets. And here rhey are, alongwith a number of di-verse-city veterans, srrutting rheir stuff before delighted Ausdn

- andinternational - fans. My co-editors, Deborah A. Akers and BarbaraYoungblood Carr, and I judged over 450 poems in blind readings, search-ing for artfulness, authenticiry, craftsmanship and surprise.'We scoutedfor poetry that made our minds jump rhrough hoops, quested for lineswhere words sparked across the synapse. . . poetry that er<presses Tho-mas Grays definition: "thougha that breathe, and words rhat burn."

I am proud to presenr di-verse-ciry 2003, Founders' Edition, a col-lection of richly distinctive poems represenrarive of AIPF's breadth ofvariety and peaks of talenr. You will find lyrics, narrarives, rhymes, biog-raphy, confession, protesrs, sounds and songs. . . affirmarions and con-demnations. . . rare rerritories, er<otic forms, singular rhoughs. You willacpeimce rhaepoems, resonate with r-he memories and hopes they arouse.

If poetry is, as Carl Sandburg sared, "rhe syndresis of hyacinths andbiscuits," prepare yourself for lush bouques and a full belly.

Vicki Goldsberry Colker

di-verse'-rrry

AIPF FoundingMernbers

Judgernent

This is now, and I am Adam,and you are Eve, and Eve, and Lilith,offering me rhe fig, the apple, and the scarlet egg.How shall I choose berween life unending,knowledge unbounded, and rebirth unceasing?

In the end, I choose the apple,

to knowJoy, though at the price ofgrief.And I know I chose well.

And the apple turns golden,and you turn Juno-Hera, Minerva-Athena, Venus-Aphrodite.And this is now, and the letters on rhe apple read, "For the Fairest,"and I must choose beween your bribes.

Am I Paris, who chose love and ruin?Or Romulus, who chose rule and murder?

Or shall I be Faust, choosing knowledge and damnadon?

No, my knife reveals stars, dividing the fruit in thrcc.To Venus I give the blossom end for remembered beaury;I give Juno the stem end for tenacious strength.Minerva, I give the heart slice for deep wisdom,and your smiles become one smile, as the slices become one apple,and this is now, and I am a poet, and I know I chose well.

John BerryAustin, Texas

lt

Drag Racer

Jaunry roadrunnerstreamlinedas a 30's diesel engine

stalks arrogantlythrough whispering broomweed

on Twiggy legs

srudying today's menu

for a midmorning snack.

A plump ratdesnake

wisely loops out of sight,

lcaving a pamern of neat whorls in the dust

and an incautious striped lizard

to do the honorsas an hors d'oeuvre.This is not ambidous country birdyearning for Big Ciry Drama.

Allhe needs

is a lonesome two-lane highwaY

ribboning into a doton the horizonand a chance to runflat-out on the shoulder of thc road

veering offinto the brush

when it looks likethe car mightgo a little faster

than he does.

Sue LittletonAustin, Texas

t2

Of This I Arr

I am of this,the kiss that came to me:rnmorc than a kiss.

Of such consists

cxistencc, mine - and yours.

Such heritage is ours.

Spun from that spider-rhin threadinto this knowing, brawling light,we sail on gossamer

toward fate's eternd night -ever faster as we charge ahead.

Ite watched the silent &rkfill up the wood,the way a man might watch it fill with snowand brooded if to stay or if to go

but went because I should.

Awhile, we have to conquer or conform,awhile to dancc and leap

beyond the storm,a while to rage before dl blows to dust,and then it is to sleep,

to sleep we must.

Herman NelsonAustin, Tixas

l3

I Am Yes

And all around me is Light!

ForAlac KrysinshiArt N Soul GallcryDeutsbury, Yorhsbire

October 6, 2001

She is opening an Art Gallery

She opens the door and lets in the windShe strips the roof to let in more lightShe makes windows of her willShe enacts fresh ritualShe unframes all Art and releases itArt snggers to the door and opens itArt leaves, allowing Healing to come inShe welcomes Healing, and serves a place for him

He says her breath is sacred

She believes him -

breathes even deeper

Healing is then released - and Spirit appears

She says she has been waiting for so many years

Spirit resides in the blank and empty room

Quiet as a silent mantra, Spirit stays within her

She becomes an Art GalleryShe opens herself to the windShe becomes a source of LightEveryone wants admission

She tells 1[66 -

Open up

Your own heartt art gallery

kt fut leave, and Healing will come inAllow Healing Freedom, then Spirit will return

Be the spirit you really need

You will always be a point of LightThe most important fut has always been - To Beam!

Thom the'World Poet

Austin, Texas

r4

dirverse'-cLry

JuriedPoets

ffi=Hcffi

Love Poem #1

For Stephan

Tonight I will write of our love instead of living it.I will compose sonnets ro the bridge of your nose,quatrains to the sound of youfwashing upafter dinner, dedications ro rhar bead of sweatuaveling down your neck while you plunge wrists into suds,into blades of grass, similes.

I will compose hexameter, alexandrineall for celebrarion oftaking out garbage,

scratching the ears ofour tabby,rubbing my belly after 3 a.m.

At nineteen, who knows how marvelous ordinary can be?

At nventy-two, who can imagine sunsets wirhout symphonies,love, without roses? Who can tell you rhat who you love will bemeasured in kindness, nor rhymes, balanced by sleep,

dreams polished in half sentences, rhe night quier amid books,pillows, cats, rhe next dayt grocery list. Thar rhis will be

more moving than romance novels, Beethoven, Playboy.

Tonight I will write of my love and hope rhis poemdoes not still birth, stop motion before his hands do,hope that these words settle like cogs into grooves,watches into clocla, smooth and sure,

like the way our bodics stretch when in proximiry,yearning, yer cerrain ofcontact.

Shannon BdeyAustin, Thxas

l7

Brautigan and Baudelaire

I talk aboutBrautigan and Baudelaire

as if I knew them,but I have to be honest -I ve read very little ofeither,but have the impression

they were bad gardeners,

who hated tleir mothers and materialism,

yet wanted desperately to fdl in love

and own a spaceship,

traveling at the speed oflighttowards Neptunek rings,wanting desperately to be Saturn

(at the speed where lightshould be)

as if it were a drug

as if it were a carnival

a dim memoryof a hungry child

fire on Earth

and a coal mine

Stephan BaleyAustin, Texas

l8

Ginny

Ginny lives on whiskey and wheat gcrm,tortilla soup and ceam cheesc. Years

are illustrated as bright pcnnents,with mcn's nalnes, hanging from the ceilingofher memory.

Ginny is bcautifirl. She livesby rhe Guadalupe River on the edge,

unsafe. She sings and plays thc guiar.She placcs wildflowersin a turquoisc vase.

David BaylessFulton, Tixas

19

Chameleons

On off-days my mother disguised herself as

a kitchen table, my father as a spade, leaving

house (disguised as home) and garden free

for the kids - remorselessly tlemselves;

and I think I saw you yesterday, my o(-Partner'

disguised as a brick wdl in Sheffield

City Centre, your eyes blinkingin the crushed mortar, I hope

you want to hide and still look out for me.

\/hot that open gate outside my window?Is this desk my future partner? And here I am

rearranging myself, molecules and structure and

colour and nature, pure physics is

so fluid, I must learn to be more flexible; so now

I'm going to leave dris virrual piece of paper

and, for survival, just think about the absent kids, again,

whilc I disguise my heart as a tree, not worried,

and mv outside as a cooker.

Matt BlackSheffield, United Kingdom

20

Your'Worlcs or Mine?

This aint easy for me: hot water,

Or something likc it.Stepping into very hot water'Without

so much as wincing,'Without

taking a bath,For a faith-shaken man,Is the supreme act. Lost time,Cubed like ice, rapidly coolsThe bathtub's underbelly,lraching the heat so vitallyNeeded for inner healing.

\0'anted: Someone with nerves

Of mighry dry ice that crackAnd sputter in the waking spring\trChen invariably up to something,To, drop by drop, replenishThe poemt skin solely byCondensation at the surface.

Joe BlandaAustin, Texas

2l

black wine

delicious words drip from chocolate lips

thick and rich with a soothing flowa steady stream of syllables and vowels unending

stretching, bendingrolling in intricate waves that wash over me

in a cleansing totdiryof mind and motionhis thoughts like an occan

i am submerged into he

wanting to swimin his vocal sea

my ears long to taste the inside of his mindas he pours winesweet and intoxicatingeyes deep and dark, contemplatingconcentratingon releasing thoughts imprisoneddelicious words drip from chocolate lipslooking past appearance i see his wordsspoken from endurance i hear his wordsthey are slipperysliding, snaking, diving into the very core of me

i feel his wordshe is all i see

i am captivatedpenetrated

spiritually elated

by a voice delicioushis wisdom is nutritiousto my soul

i want to drink him into the essence of me

delicious words drip from chocolate lipsi want to taste his language

Clarissa Levonne BoldingAustin, Texas

22

Remembering Sappho

I say someonz in another tine will remember us*sweet Sappho, so your words flutter as fragments of butterfly wingsthc wind carries ro us in iridescent whispers

we grasp and hold them, dipping them in earrl and skywe dance and eat them in the forestlonging for glimpses of our woman's soul

and when our bodies sprawl exhausted on the dark soilwe murmur among ourselves, the wind snatching our wordswe saJL tomconc in another timc uill remembn us

*Tiansktion of Sappho b1 Diane Rayor

Llm.ette M. Bowen'Webster, Texas

23

Momene Broken Doll

Sometimes there is

a momentwith joy in it.Iaughter cracks fear

and soft, gentle knowingmelts the afternoon.

Sometimes,just before horrific blasts

rip apart drc slqy,

someone knows love,

before survivors finda doll in the rubble,one arm missing.

Somctimesin the instants bemreen

our imposition of empireon the sky

and the details oflife

joy breala briefly out,

Susan BrightAustin, Texas

24

An Act of Faitfi:Driving to Maine with Marcel

So it was an old pattern when he

headed west, our destination north;the same when he missed rhe firsr exirfor I-95. But to stop in the middle laneofI-93 at three pm on a Saturday afrernoon,wait for the right lane ro clear, creep

to the right and backup in rhe breakdownlane, it put me on notice.

He paid close artenrion to exit numbersand was easily confused by them.He wanted to read the map and rurnpike tickerwhen they were in my hands.He judged every traffic hazerd,

three miles after we passed it.

In a calm voice I said,"That line of cars is sropped.A toll booth is just ahead.This is an exit ramp."

I died six times. In one visionour engine block passed through my middlefollowed by a Geo Prizm and a Camryjust before a truck tail clipped off my headand the top ofour car.

I screamed a couple of dozen times inside,profoundly, unleashing pure rerror.This man older than myself has driventhis car over 80,000 miles withour demolition.If he can make it 150 miles more,I will get home exhausted but alive.

This is how poets come to faith.

Michael BrownOnset, Massachusetts

25

'Walking

A cerebral palsy or gunshotwound victim crosses the street.

I can hear the kidt crutches

clank across the pavement behindme now. Under darkness, the trafficacross these four lanes slows down.Rush hour certainly would not dofor jaywalking towards a taco stand.

I sit here having forgotten my money,

thirsry for the life drink I continue tobe served, walking overgrown sidewdks,mostly plain cars passing by. A taxi ortwo, but I dont need a ride tonight.Tonight, I'm going to walk.

I want to continue walkingdarkened ciry streets, longinto the night. I m lookingfor something. . . somethingthat breathes deep fullfilling breaths, cutting theair with im lips, sensuous,blood rising to the surface

but not breaking skin.The fragrance of the nightbewilders me, with the lone

bird singing to the passers

by, which at this moment, is

only me, puffing my way up

rhe sidewalk to the intersection,where I choose which way to

call the way home tonight, whichway to follow tonight. rVhere

ever I end up I can call home

tonight. . . under bedside bench,

beside street lamp sofa. . . thatwill be home tonight.

Jonathan BryantOklahoma Citv, Oklahoma

26

This'Watch

This watchis a good watch.It's a Swiss Eternamatic.\lfhen I rake it for repairthe man purrs with delight:"I did my apprenticeship on rhese."

It runs a linle ahead,

like a friend making sure I get on with my life.

The polished back of this watchgraced my fathert arm,

a gift from my mother.

The original bracelet

snagged his hair.It felt his pulse.

They ticked togetherfor six short years.

I've worn this watch

sincelwasalad.Itt mechanical,I think it must wear out,but we dck together,

eternamatic.

I dmost lost this watchrescuing the damn cat from the river.

It cost fifty quid to dry it out.I wondered for a while:was the cat worthmore dran my memories?

Graham BuchanLondon, United Kingdom

1'7

La Migra

I guess the name sticks to me

like a srveary shirt,that somcthing

-you would say the "stink"of the badge.

How do you know who I am?

You go on busing tables

but your eyes accuse me

with furtive glances

as if I would rise fromSunday dinner with my familyto pull you out to my Escort

like it was the Green Bus.

I cant tell you this, amigo,

but if my babies had little to eat

and less futureI'd wade that river, too.Tomorrow I'll chase you,bccausc iti my job.But mday,

I slip a five in your handas you gather the plates

and avoid my eycs.

Del C.ain

Saginaw, Texas

28

Fading Out

Grant fingers do not need to remember

her children's names or faces -they have changed over time.

The piano keys remain in uniformringing out the same tones

they did during the '40s

when she played Chopin at Ford Theater.

She hums the melody without flaw,

but cant recall

that her home has central heat and airmaking a chillyJuly afternoonseem like a Hitchcock movie;cold air rushes past her feet.

The bite in her breast whispers too softly

like an overdue chore she cant recall;

pain signals from the tumor now broken through the skin

get lost in the nerve labyrinth of her skull.

She discusses her 28 years ofteachingas though she hadnt told mefive minutes before,

and her son who flew across the Adandcto see her one more timecan't stay in the same roomwith the shrunken shell of his once-brilliant mother.Still, I envy her oblivionto the world of change

now foreign to her

and the stealth with which her fingers

still command the grand piano.

Cindy ChildressThmpa, Florida

29

Balancing Act

I remember it as an elemental forcea cyclone in the chest

as if a rush of indignation couldput food in a Mexican migrantt gutas if it heded, repaired, and schooled,or gave him voice.

Life goes on. Dust collects. Cometsand w documentaries return.

Lettuce, cucumbers, grapes, tomatoes,like indignation, wilt and rot. Crowsblack as afterthoughts tauntharvested rows.

Scant repriwe, the o<altation -

some selfless

Quaker in Kosovo or Bethlehemrisking his all for a wounded stranger - as ifhe does it in our name, and we are thereby

saved. It's always been so easy

to let Christ die for us. Thati not

what grabs my throatwhen disillusion strangles me. It's the ripeningofear and eye: the cicadat song,

the live oak's green. Itt Andromedacolliding with the Milky \Vay, outrage overcome

by wonder, as close as we c:rn get to clean.

N*"y KenneyConnollyAustin, Texas

30

Egret

. . . perching on an islandof water hyacinth and plant debrisremains steadfast. An unwaveringwhite figure fixed against rhe currentrushing over the dam, the rivertlandmark, unmoving in the windshaking the shelter ofthe rrees.

Do you remember that day at the zoo,the dayyou grasped the collarof the kid, his family nowherein sight? Your voice never droppedso low, ground threats, Vhat are you doing?

I sboald hich 1ou. You lifted the boyfrom the ground, rescuedthe egret hatchlingfrom the provocation ofhis sneakers.But *re young bird wouldnt ler youtouch it, pick it up, and rerurn itto the nearby cluster of birds

- rooting

through undergrowth for fish feedand chips left by spectators rushingbetween the poison dart frogs and elephants.'We corralled the bird - carefulnot to touch it, not to make it shakeanymore than it already towards another.You left them the remains of our popcorn.

An egret stands in the same spotone stood on my birthday

-it is South Texas snow drowning in a backdropof browning green and dying leaf litter,standing up against a currentof cars and inhabitants rushing by.

I'm sorry to interruptyour coos of love and complimentsjust to tell youI saw an egret perched on the river.

Robin M. English-BircherSan Marcos, Tkas

3r

Shackleton's 'Wood

Shackleton's wood moves in liquidOcean pulling current NorthInto heart's desire and dream

Sails filled with clear, fresh hope

The ship glides slow, steady, deep

To hull in liquid ocean pullJust barely touching tips of atoms

Near to crystalline stage of ice

Shackletont wood perceives the bondingOf molecules touch becoming hardThe liquid change to something coldThat stops the glide in place

Endurance stopped in ice flow gleamingBlue in Northern darkness glowFrozen to the spot then splinteredCrushed by atoms hardened fast

I moved and glided full sail tensingThe liquid pull, desire and dream

Stopped in crystalline stage of ice

Formed deep and still and deadly cdm

Shackletont wood stops in bondage

Tiapped in blue, clear, icy heartFeels the pressure, wood explodingCrackling sound of blendingTo ice

Freed by the crushingOf atoms, crystalline, formed deep'S7ithin the heart of sea

Mary Fogel

Austin, Texas

32

Cedar Bear

Fresh carved ce&rofa bark-clothed bear,

Thken to the new homereminder of the time before

Instant passage to childhoodsummer's last gasp

Salmon Days, riual ofpopcorn, silver bracelets

Such moments glimmerobscuring youthi pain

Wrile steelhead brave the creek

their birthplace found

Scales unnoticed, Ellingon shining rocksides

Sdmon jumping upstreamback ro autumn, and death

Gail Folki'sAustin, Tixas

33

Reviving Ophelia

Lost in your soft sexualiry sensuous consciousness

of the feminine mystique down the front of your dress,

berween your thighs, mystery of your curves -you know the power your body has -you're preoccupied with hair, lips, and eyes, a certain way to move;

you worry about the size of calf, waist, or hips,refuse to eat, take diet pills, throw up after meals,

pretend youie not as good as boys in math and science skills,because theret something wrong with smart girls.You dont want to be like your mothers,but you won't listen to others trying to warn you -you don't know what you don't know

-it all works backwards while the clock only ticks forward:"Gotta look pretry tick tock, look good, tick tock,please men, tick tock, get married, tick tock,have kids, tick tock tick tock tick tock."Inside you are mothers of civilizations, builders of nations.You can choose your heroes: Catherine the Great,Florence Nighdngale, Amelia Earhart, Rosa Parks. . .

But you don't know what you dont know -that you must be very brave to play the part,to take up your feminine sword and cut the cordthat binds you to a predictable life

-or someday you'll be trying to understand,looking in a mirror, like that wicked queen,asking who's the fairest in the land,or more likely you'll be wishingyou'd known at sixteen what you know at thirry-seven,trying to build up rCsumCs, regretting all the floors you cleaned,all the dirry dishes of your days,

measured to the rhythm of washing machines.You don't know what you should know

- you're in your prime,

there's plenry of dme to get married, have babies, be a woman,have a goal, have a life, find your soul,beat the clock, tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock

Christine GilbertAustin, Texas

34

Brown Sugar

The wrinkled puppy sleeps, lcgs up, muzzle nvitchingI rub her fat naked bellyTouching Buddha

Beki HdpinAustin, Texas

35

Finale I

A massive dam in a far-offdesert qlnyon,

Having served for five millennia,

Surrendered its claim to immortdiryReversed the concavity so carefully engineered,

Burst, and with an almost biblical force,

Fell in a ruin of broken stone and rumbling water

To the canyon floor below.

The people of that dme, by then accustomed

To ancient structures giving way, just watched.

A few applauded, not because the dam was gone,

But for its marvelous'Wagnerian exit,The amazing final crescendo of falling masonry

And water-show not to be experienced again

Until the other dams along the chainFall in their time. But one could not be suretVhen the others would go or if they wouldGive warning as this one had.

Thus Hoover's namesake became a place ofRapids with a tree-lined lake behind.You can have a worse legacy.

Ralph HausserAustin, Texas

36

Painted Lady

Tbe eydids uhich hae the eyes

and lie on tbem to shEt, open. . ,

- Galutay Kinnell, "TheVahing"

She searches through jars ofcolorsand various brushes

to create striking blue covers

to blanket her eyes.

On another day she uses

shades of green like elms:

some days brown suits an autumn mood,gray shades er<ude Norse mysteryviolet suggests Monet pastels.

The frosted tints and hues of strobe lightsadd sparkle as iffor holidays,

but as the days wilt into nighs

she lifts the covers half way.

The holy days are ovcrand black may be the only shade

left to hide in.

Margaret Ellis HillWilton, C-alifornia

37

London Limbo

I m living in a London limboand when I m sleeping I fail to dream

I drink coffee but I dont feel active

take a shower but I dont feel clean

I make love when I dont feel hornyand as she slowly removes her dress

I read about another yardie shoodngon page 3 ofthe South London press

I get drunk when I'm not even thirsryI dress up when I'm not even coldI protest when I'm not really angryI'm so young but I feel so old

I only eat when I dont feel hungryI only cheat when I'm likely to winthe only time I ve ever felt pureis when I know that I'm drowning in sin

Because I m living in a London limboI'm so tired I cant even rest

I just keep penning down these poems

to get the bullshit offmy chest

Stephen P. HowarthLondon, United Kingdom

38

Stargaze

The binoculars are heavy,

draw the stars in sharp

o<cept for *re quiverof tiring arms;telescope tremblesin the slight breeze,

casts a closer eye on planetsthat spin out of view in minutes:the Earrh's turn.

Once I thought the pale swatha cloud, but it's stars now,the gala:cy edge on.NearJupiter, three

bright patches hover: nebulae;further north, the motdedmarble band becomes

a field of white pepper.

Tonight, when sleep comes,I'll dream of other places, waketo find the Milky \Vay offcenter, falling;walce againto lose it inthe brightening blue

CindyHuyserAustin, Texas

39

I:.nagi 22

Heart-hills embody the red soil.Blue water rejoices the shoreline.

Clouds praise the color of slcy.

I thinkofyou.

As stars ripple in the sad wind,birds fly past the shore through night,and the distance becomes intolerable.

I think ofyou.

Vhen sycamores change color to grey,

lakes know the source of their abundance,and valley streams the origin of flow.

During the season of soft lighr,aftcr the air has become cold,in the time of prairie moons

-I think of you.

As curling petals, magenta and dry,fall from their tall, thorny stems

onto the river stones of my garden -I still think of you.

Gly"" M.IrbyClute, Texas

40

Ve All'Want to Be Heroes

At Rockaway Beach, I am four, pedalingmy little red fire engine

as fast as my imagination

rescuing residen$,faces petrifiedframed in open windows. . .

At Rockaway Beach, I parade

down the boardwalk, breathe salt airthe ciry gives me ie keys

- and today r}re sun is so distinct

I can sec each ray-I am 54 and still smell ocean air.

trtryJ"fi"Los Angeles, C-alifornia

41

In The Book

Love used to come by often,say "Vhaddya thinld"I'd either push her offmy lapor lie down on the floor so she

could take me

${o difference, as it turns out)Now there's a hobo sign on my front door"No*ring to eat here"I've scrubbed the woodI want another chance with one of youwhose birthdays I still recall(ovcr my '70s paranoia, I'm in rhe book nowunder my own name)or even someone new

some clear-faced womanwith a boy cutand the will to liveI promise to be braveThke my timeLet you meet my familyKeep changing the ban&gesPublish this poem

Maggie JochildAustin, Texas

42

Thbleau

Awinter dayThe sun is a yellow tonguelicking the bdconyt whire stone

For the couple sipping rea

it is the end of a storyRoles have crystallizedLessons have been learned

Her hands, white doves

dight on her kneesNow and then one takes flightpats the dog at her feet

The dog is staring at HimHis hands are strugglingwith the newspapera flutter of captive wings in the windHe folds itholds it down with one handThe other He places on her quict hand

She does not respond to the pressurenor does she remove her handboth actions are fraught with dangerunpredictable consequences

Lessons have been learned

Peace is her only loveShe continues patting the dog

Marcelle trGsprowicz

Austin, Texas

43

Meat

my hamburger began cryingpleading for its lifewailing pitiful cries like a newborn

i bit down hardso it would not sufferso its children would not hear it die

i devoured itwithout a second thought to its originbecause our conscience is nevcr so loudthat we cennot silence ir

we kill our own in our own wayinhumanely

ravenous

we feed upon miserytreacherouswe breed hatredfor each otherand for ourselves

one man's meatis another man

Brian lGwanoFarmersville, Texas

44

Luclcy in Love

Claire left her wedding dress in the closctwhen the lease was up and she finallymoved out. Let the make-ready maids toss it,she thought. She didnt care by then. Or: She

thought she didn't care by then. Punctuateit whichwer way you like. The dress hungso lovely in those shadows that the maidbrought it home for her daughter, whose too-youngmarriage time would (most likely) doom. Findingthat dress was a lucky step in the dance.

Nightfall, and she turns to her work, not mindingat all, mulling over this happenstance

stumbling across abandoned riches,

whisding softly as she snips and stitches.

Jeffl{nightAustin, Texas

+>

Love and Laundry

For Beth

One afternoon, you watch me

doing the last of my laundryfolding white shirts.

The whites are always

the last load to be folded,left to wrinkle in the borromof my duffel bag laundry basket.

Each other load is soned and foldedhot from the dryer,quick fingers dancingover cloth, skirtingmetal buttons on blue jeans,

the same dance we performin haste and darkness.

You watch over my shoulder,wondering at the wrinklesI have let grow.The whites are mostlyunharmed by the wait.Socks, boxers, and sheets

bear well with wrinklesand go unseen,

except by those

who wont mind a wrinklein passing these levels of indmacy:socks to boxers to sheets.

Nodding to agree,

you wraP an armaround my chest,

squeezing and warm.Folding sheem is a jobfor two, you say.

Tiawis LargentOklahoma City, Oklahoma

46

Surnrner Night

The boardwalk stretches out before us like a clock laid flat,numbered streets intersect like hours: lst, 2nd, 3rd -all the way to l40th Srreet and another state.

A human parade (a circus if there ever was one)flows from end to end past a ribbon of amusements:tattoo parlors, dairy queens, greasy spoons, and youpull me in and out of these places,

your face gleaming in the fluorescent light,tdking loudly as if theret no one in the world bur you and me.

The Ocean hovers beyond the sand,

Rising and falling like a soft black sweater, heart beadng underneath.You lead me to the watert edge.

\7e are looking for crabs -

sweer and precious.Ve will keep them in our pockets unril they're ripe enough to eat.

\7here the boardwalk ends we step into a summer nightfull offireflies and the fragrance ofcedars.Ve walk on a road in the moonlighr.Gravel gives way to sillql sand beneath our feet.Bungalows rise from shadows deep in lawns

-white clapboard glowing like soft remembrances,laughter and a light-on have seeped into jute rugs and the cobwebs in the rafters.

\fle wdked with purpose -

as though we've been here a million times before.

Itt as safe as a mother's apron.Arrangements have been made for the children.Teenagers have chosen between mothers and friends.Yet standing here, gazing at these houses, I lose the orientation.I dont know who lives here now, where I belong,who will welcome me, where I will sleep tonight.These are summerhouses.

The days are long and everything is temporary.

Holly Lewis

Towson, Maryland

47

Sounded Cold

l,ater I redized it was death she spoke ofthe lonesome sound piercing the distance

pitched longshe said that train whistle sounded cold.

'We were walking out of the movie theaterinto the frigid six degree air bundled properly;it was not the weather.

It was the memories

cascading in thoughts,family, childhood, 81 years of traveling.

Now it sounded cold.

The memories of San Francisco lit her up,the brief time she spent post warin her San Francisco with Don.

'We're back at her house now.

From her perch she surveys her surroundingslike a five-year old child.

Her basement is packedwith every decade's worth,like a lifeboat she is hoping to return to shore

but can't -not with all that luggage.

She is radiantif you let her be.

Ifyou fight her

she will fight back.

Just let her be radiantuntil her time is cold.

Andrew LongAusth, Texas

48

The Tides

Yodre not of the sea, she saidand turned away.

You're not of the land, I rhoughtto say, but she was gone

by thcn.Tiuth was,

we two were of neither.

Somewhere in thc soughingmargin between known and unknown,in the intertidal prismwhere abrasion and sympathy mix,contrast, and move apartas routinely, but seldom so predicmbly,

as barnacles and loose Irish moss

in thcir quotidian rounds,herc one's goodbyeswash back ashore as

remembered hellos, salry sandworn.

\7'here the gulls wheel,

we sometimes cry.

R. Bernard MannAustin, Ti:xas

49

The Orb-W'eaver

fuain I break at break of day

the work offuachne's tapestry

bear her drifting silk away,

leave the wcaver to her repair,

tireless from door to tree,

skein of some god's love-affair.

You are the spinner I cannot see.

All day I feel you at your loom, my wonds

the weft you weave of me.

I think of tenderness, relentless -

y€tbound by Death, lovet shadow-side.

Love is the silken net

the black spider spins, and we

are captives in each otheri pull,by need, entangled helplessly.

David T. ManningMorrisville, Nonh C.arolina

50

My Beautiful Black Man

I touch your face

and touch time itself,rippling back

to the Beginning,when the Nile first sprangfrom your eyes.

Your heartbeatis the tale

of many Kings,

whose blood winds throughyour pain and dreams,cuts through the denigrationshackled to youdaily.

'When I look in your cyes

I see the souls

ofour peopleshining likc moonlighton sdll waters.

I see you.

I see youfor who you really are.

Cynthia Gail ManorAustin, Ti:xas

5r

On Painti.g

A single living breath remembered

and made permanentI wish I could climb into youto press my hands upon you but that would brcak the rulcs

and might leave behind rhe slightest residue of me

but my desire is to push through your layers

push through ground and canvas and get caught in your glistening threads

I would settle in the warm gold flccla ofyouI would curl up and sleep in your pdest blueforever

hiding and waiting to sec if your field of alizarin crimson

would remain as remcmberedor become fugitivedeepest blackwith me gladly lost insidc

Jane MarawarAustin, TLxas

52

Broken Colurnn

Inrpired b1 the painting of Mexicdnartist Fida IQhh

In this piece, no monkeys or muralists.

no festive Tehuana dresses,

only Frida, dominating landscape ofdisconsolate sky and barren brown earth.

There is, in her mien, a merciless digniryholding cloth across the pubis,

fingers hidden behind the folds,

one opalescent thumbnail exposed.

A pox of carpentert nails pierce the fabric,st2gger in a trail penerrating naked fleshfrom hips to breasts, shoulder to wrist,clavicle to jaw to forehead.

Metal nails like fifty-four eruptions of suffering.From chin to pelvis, skin is split apart,baring broken ionic columnstrapped beneath an orthopedic corset.

Hair hangs loose,

parted in the middle, unadorned.

V-shaped brow mocksthe freedom of seagulls in flight.

Lackluster eyes leak thirteen tears,

grieving her lot,Iike cyborg regent fettcred by fate

to rule a desert of desolation.

Stazja McFadpnClearwater, Florida

53

Girls'Night

Dressed up

made uppissed upSaturday night on the towntrawling thc asphalt streams

struggling not to drownl,ooking for a potential mate

or a quickie on the nightRunning on trembling stilettos

from alcohol-fuelled fights

Queuing for the ladies

lippy and masclra all askew'Wondering if it's wonh the effortfor one quick screw

\Taking Sunday morningtripping on the guiltburying last night's memoriesunderneath the quiltHung-over and hung upSaturday night on the towndressed up

made uppissed upstruggling not to drown

Lyneae Shaw McKoneVyke,lW'est Yorlq United Kingdom

54

Scribe

btspired by a 9tb Century marginal noubt oo unhnourn Irish snibe

Surrounded by starlings

He sits in a world without quarter,

Confrontational sdllness drifting onto gilded vellumLike summer light.Outside the world turns,

Only ocean rush of leaves as they flicker,

Only soft bruising of bells collecting hours,

Only staccato ripple of birdsong appliqued onto thc day,

Breaking into its silence

Inside, t}re smells of comfort gather,

Of cooking and of dust,

Beeswax hived behind books, anxious for candling,Knife pungency of ink,And the murmur of the turning page like goodly children.

He waits for the dayt quict spin,

Lifting his eyes from jeweled pages\ilfhere unicorns and dragons march,

Each word envined with flowery devotion.

Branches stepping rlrough sun and shadow in eternd patterned play,

The painted snail siming like a pearl upon the painted stalk.

\Tatching this chess game of leaf blink,

He stops his linear pageant,

Smiling in joy, then writes for the God he cannot see.

Phasant to me is the glittering of the sun today upon these margins,

because it flickers so.

Agnes MeadowsLondon, United Kingdom

55

For IuditaChild of the Holocaust Survirrcrs

futists wirhout hands

hold the brush with their feet

'S0ithout hands or feet

hold the brush in their teeth

fu for me and my friendall thar remains is the navel

And small marks

in the center ofrhe canvas

Neil MeiliCdgary, Alberta, Canada/Austin, Texas, USA

56

Hunters Dreaming

The Egyptians were righe theret somethingabout them. The way rheir eyes carch rhe lightand throw it back at us. Something they see

that we do not.'We resist them at our peril,afraid ofwhat they know: that we are nothingmuch, undl we stoop ro meet this need:

arched back arcing against a panrleg,sinuous grace of muscles rememberingthe hunter's choreography of crouch and leap.

They carry the taste of blood into our living roomsand lie down sated, unafraid of whar rhey dream.

David MeischenAustin, Texas

57

Bonking Sound

I have friends who go to church every Sunday and sing hymns.

I have friends who go to Alcoholics Anonymous and pray.

I even have a few friends who go to Buddhist temples -I dont know what they do there.

I, instead, make weekly visitsto Keebabast Tropical Fish Emporiumwhere I watch the fish swimming behind glass.

And I feel like taking notes -

how they breathe, how they eat.

I have noticed how the fish swim to one end of the tank

and then flip around to swim back the other way.

There's no limle bonking sound when their heads hit the glass,

because their heads dont hit the glass.

Fish brains are tiny, yet they seem to know exactly where they are -and I guess thatt what I'm looking for.

Little bonhing sound to ht me hnow lbe gone too far.Little bonhing sound, not a suggestion but a bonft.

Ir's true, the fish know somehow.

The glass is clear, they can't see anything.A lot of them have their eyeballs on the sides of their heads anyway.

I'm not angry, I'm perplexed.I'm not trying to find the meaning of life here

at Keebabat Tiopical Fish Emporium -

then again, where are you looking?

Little bonhing sound to ht me hnow lbe gone too far.

I'm the top of the food chain.I m the big mystery.

This thing here is called a frontal lobe.

Yet, once while turning around in a stairwell,I stepped on my own toe,the nail turned blue and then fell off-

this kind of thing does not happen to fish.

Little bonhing sound to ht me hnow lbe gone too far.Little bonhing sound.

I tried having fish in my house, but I couldn't get anything else done'

June MelbyLos Angeles, California

58

A Private Matter

I know it's clear that she has gone from here

into the lupins smothering the yard

and the long grass that seizes full command.She let herselfturn yellow as the leaves

and departed with the last picked apple.

A closer look may yet reveal some clues

that point a wig the way she might have gone.The lone geranium in terracottahas fine petds rwitching pink like mouse ears.

A breeze will make them shiver, as if runedto other frequency. Meanwhile, the cypress

extends a kind of whistling invitation,and now there appears to be conspirarybetween black starlings and the copper tap,or otherwise, they would never carry onso loudly when they come to splash and jokeinside the basin. How unjust it seems

to have been abandoned on the very edge

of listening, and with so little hope

of finding out exactly where she went.Ifyou ask the dove-grey slcy or the coniferthat up-thrusts its evergreen branches

like a hopeless person asking with both arms,they'll only say, "It is a private matter.

Now do your own praying." No one can givemore than a tiny hint of what might heal

this empty chill of feeling that approaches

with the long winter. \7hat to do, but listenand see what sound might tumble from a gumlike a fat, ironic raven onto the grass.\trf'hat it says might be the sign you seek.

Today, this single thing hits home again -be good and ready for your own departure.

Chris Mooney-SinghSingapore, Singapore

59

child

Onward home dear child,To sleep in the early hour,The summer air will still be there,Another day will flower.

Onward home dear child,For you the morrow waits,

The scrambling bee and the butterfly tree,'ufithin

the garden's gate.

Hop and dance and skip and frolic,Child do not fret,Another day will fill your eyes,

The sun will not forget.

Onward home dear child,To dream by moonlit night,The blossoms sleep with heavy lidsUntil the newest light.

The daffodils are patient,And in the dark they nest,

Lilies and hydrangeas

Thke advantage ofthe rest.

But when a newish glowAdvances o'er the Eastern sky,

And vibrant colors wash the airUntil the dew drops dry;

And violets reclaim the light,And bees to their pollen dance,

The garden will a gift bestow

Of youthful circumstance.

So, onward home dear child,Your dreams do anxious wait,And when Morning reappears,

She'll greet you at the Gate.

Jacob NehmanAustin, Texas

60

Gun Toting Maniacs

I am grasping an old Harrison .38 revolverThat carries five cartridges instead of six,And I'm wondering if it had been usedIn a game of Russian roulette.Since it bclonged to my grandfather, I pretendThis is the gun that killed the Archduke Ferdinand,And that we arc responsible for stringing barbed wireAcross the continent of Europe.

I am reading The Bedbugby Mayakovski;And I am enthralled by how he wouldEnd his life as a cloud in rrousers.I spin the cylinder, cock the hammer,And pray there are enough roundsTo put down weryone that dares

To rage on the raw meat of policemen.

Because tle war never truly ended, I am unsureIf I have enough courag€ to continue hiding, wirhinThe trenches, from the onslaught of civilizarion.I eat nothing but vermin and spoilcd parables,\7hile I weep over the loss of zealous affecrion.Yet I wonder if death can be so liberatingfu the departed poets believe?

I, too, am familiar with the feel of a gunPointed at close range, but I was not willingTo die so soon in a restaurant parking lot.So I gave what money I had beforeThe gun had another chance ro go off

Now I'm grasping an old .38 that canHold only five bullets, and I'm squeezingThe rigger for the sixth rime.But the gun always goes "click,"And another poem travels alone,To be crucified by the crossroads.

Scott Jonathan NixonOklahoma City, Oklahoma

6r

Areola

You're what the night made when the night first happened,

The first cry in the dark happened because ofyou.And the night grew wings and shoulders,

Long fingers shooting up from soil,

Unfurling towards you.Petals floadng on lake water became her back,Her lips two stars, bellybutton a root,And her womb was a hole in the ground.Then you touched her. Squalling your newborn squall,

You bit down as hard as you could,And she turned her blood to milk,So her flesh could be the very fire that formed your feet.

She pulled rhe injury of that first violence downTo where all stories begin.

For a long time you thought you made it become.

Your presence deemed this fundamentd event, you thoughlThen one day you remembered how her eyes'Watched the fissure of your beginnings,

Saw you reaching up, the clench ofyour hands.

And when you opened your mouth to say the wordIt came from somewhere, the center of the Eanh maybe .

Thatt when you learned pain could not be owned,And like her, you wept.

VendyNoonanAustin, Texas

62

variants

in my hand i turn the key that ignites vehicular motion.coils, bolm, generated kinetic energy moves me from destination

to destination.homeless people approach, people sit at bus stops,people pass me in other vehicles.

it is not where i'm going, but where i've been to get there.

steel movement on railings, cylindrical squelching,cenrifugal force bursts within me likethe sting of adrenaline in mad, torrid jealousy.

nothing remains static.

i am alone

going out the same as i came in,encapsulated.i have touched so limle

taken someone's hand too infrequendyi have loved so littlewasted fire.i em dizzy with the motion of the way things are.

tommre oftegeAustin, Texas

63

Amok II

A Malay with a face of withered leaves

appeared in my dream.Piercing my heart with a spear,

he said:''This is amok."

Midnight is impenetrable.I am midnight.The stars

are my wounds,the moon is my throat. . .

Give me, Malay,the medicine

to heal my woundsand silence the moont

strangeand painful lament.No medicine,

said the Malay,will cure amok.How do you heal woundswhen they are stars?

How can you silence the voicewhen the moon is your throat?

I know all that, old fellowdont tell me. . .

The solo of the moon in my throat,in the dark star arise,

the birdcomposes a chantfor me:

amok,amok,

amok.

Anfisa OsinnikVeracnrz, Mexico

64

after the men have gone

there is a sideways walkperfected long before maninvenrcd side shuffles

to dance

a carefrrl clatter free crawlexecuted with aplomb

by crabs

emerging from caverns

beneath sea sand

the moon out the tide incrabs cruise the shrunk shorecompedng for foodand funand hollows

sidling about star struckin their blue-blackmuscled-to-fit shclls

they cavort and consultclawing backthe land they own

after the men have gone

Nii Ayilavei ParkesIlford, Essex, UK

65

Chocolat du Paris

Our eyes caress every chocolate morselnestled in the brasserie window,attractively displayed toaccentuate each unique feature.

'We note and discuss their delicious differences.their variations in size and shape,

color and decorative wrap.

Three plump ladies we'boh" and "ahh,"pointing as we exclaim unabashedlyabout the beautiful excessiveness ofeach piece.

In silence, each in our own way,

we imagine the soft caress of Parisian chocolatemelting in our mouths as we resist the urge to chew,so as to let the flavor linger before drippingall too quickly down our rhroats.

There is no sensation quire like it.

The world is over-populated by women our age.

Like our fewer numbered male counterparts,we, too, admire fresh tarts and raste them in our minds.\(/€, too, marvel at incredibly smoorh shapes and conrours,aromas and textures.

Occasionally our judgment submits to passion;

we choose to taste and satisfr.'W'e cross the brasserie threshold confidendy,franc-filled hands extended in anricipation.

Irt the orgy begin!

Jane S. Parsons

Austin, Texas

66

Mountain Meal

Before eating a mountain,make sure your face is washed

Dry it with a cloudLick the sides, you can dripmolasses on them'Wear something black; it won't stainThe drippings, hot or cold, like a sundae

Scare off coyotes, distracting howlsThe mountain can be split or sliced, bumered

Some can be whisked into a froth,but those mountains may not be there at dl,figments, soft, like ripe fruit, melt when youtouch them with a thoughtBefore biting a mountain, break offa piece,

spiced with a few stray pines

Like sushi, it can be dipped and savored

with green horseradish

Drink the lava before it hardens

But beware, eating mountains may speed up

your heartbeat, give you strange notionsto climb steep sides, stare at the skyfor centuries, welcome travelers

without speaking,

mutely stand against the sun,

knowing everythingand nothing

Alice Pero

La Canada, California

67

To Mama

I brush pine needles of sleep from your cheek in rhe mistwhere the guards, wrinkling rheir tanned foreheads, warmed

the roofwith their curses.

In the nervous tannic air a flutrering swarm of bumerflies,and peonies, which die dripping blood, hiding from the shears

in the bushes.

Your hands, hands like dry maple leaves, hidden in rhe amberof a yellow room sappy with fresh-cur wood, how they burn!Unknown time flows through the ailing window frame,and crows stick their nests like birthmarla among the branches.

The flannel of space dries on a line, changing color,baked by the summer, bread cools, sweers lose rheir flavor.Clouds, random pieces of upside-down china, bang inro the rafters,and pine columns rhrust toward the sky, like a baleen corset.

Anzhelina PolonskayaMoscow, Russia

68

Helen ofJoy

You have a face to launch a thousand slips

Of the tongue into epic sessions of the songsDrumming distantly from the far shores

Of a past committed beyond the fires of memoryTo a shining presence at the transit of Venus

Shattered in reflection by a thousand waves

Of warm and warring waters in my blood.

You have a skin to commit to memoryAnd to stretch itself, drum-like, to old songsChanted by the rivers of the heart and the bloodDancing by the setting sun and rising Venus,fu the boats set out silendy from their slips'Westerly, toward the red sun beyond the shoresLapped endlessly by the loving touch of waves.

You have a smile that shyly splits and slipsOpen like a semaphore flag of joy that waves

From sanded decla to watchers on the shores\7ho srand and etch in stone their memoriesOf touch and taste, of skin on skin, of bloodPulsing through the living temple of Venus;Arousing me to art, and dance, and songs.

Frank Pool

Austin, Texas

69

The Death Of Cupid

I will shed no more tears

will not celebrate another love song

or write another love poem

I will take my heart from my sleeve

and put it back in my pocket,

where it belongs,

where it will be safe

and wdk down this road

much travelled,

all too familiarwhere other dejected souls

know my name

and share my painwhere they sing the bluesand play funeral dirgesfor the death of Cupid,that persistent son-of-a-bitch,who was never welcomedanyw^y,

and wouldnt take nofor an answer;

who now sleeps amongthe dead roses

and lilies trampledunderfoot by those

of us who are gladto see him gone.

Joseph PowellBurbank, C-alifornia

70

Gulf Prairie 'Watch

The blue heron sitsbeside the pond

watching his private wondcrlandlined witl cattails and dragonflies

on the edge of Eagle leke.

Day by dayhe sits and wondersin his blueness

alone like a poeton the edge of a poem.

Cerlyn LuIrc RedingAustin, Tleras

71

parked

one of the ugly grownupsI remember it - stood up and hollered,"Oh my God, the Devil himselfl"when we all watched Elvis there for rhe first timeon Ed Sullivan - smiling old Elvis - swiveling, shakingand dl us little girls parked there in fronr of rhe w set

seeing finally what the old Devil really looked likecause no grownups in Sunday School could ever tell us

but here he was on the w at last, the old Deviland we LIKED him, that Elvis

- he taught us about love

and then Ozzie and, Harriet who slept in separate beds

instead of one like our parents did if we had nvo parenrs

which we didnt - old Ozzie and Harriet never cussed

or kissed on the mouth like our farhers and theirgirlfriends or our mothers and somebodyand we could never figure out what Harriet was smilingabout standing there in the kitchen ar

the Frigidaire in her little pink flowered apronor why she had to bake so many cookies bur we liked themold Ozzie and Harriet

- they taught us about marriage

Now here on the w today this psychologist says the wthat was always our best babysitter and our best friendhas distorted us poor kids who used ro sir parkedin front of the w just watching and listeningand we cant help it now if we're always disappoinredbecause reality sure as hell never measures up tolife on w

- unplug me!

Jean RussellBurke, Virginia

72

Mother's Cdling

The glass bell pinging shatters my sleep like ice

cracking inside my head, dreams fissured into cold slivers.

Do yu uant mc to go?

.A/a, I mumble, iti my turn.

Barefoot I hurry down the hall,

wading through thoughs of white lights and tunnels.

Padding into her bedroom I enter the nighdight's blush,find her on the king-size bed in the same small space.

I can't breathe.

Taking a deep breath for her,

I bend over tle form curled in on itselflike a fetus in a cotton womb.

Try to rckx, Mom.I exhale, stroking the hair silvered with 89 years.

Her voice barely rises above the mechanical purrI canl belieac this is bappening to me.

I search my foggy brain for some reply,

something not yet spoken in the night.Discover instead it is in my heart

I hue you, Mom, yu're not alone.

She finds her breath, sighs and beckons

HoA my hand.

I perch on the chair beside her bed,

try not to hold on too dghtly.

Anne SchneiderHunt, Texas

73

Fdling

. . . tuet u.,ho haae alutays tboughtof happiness as risrng. . .

- Rilhe

Today, happiness fell out of the slcy

- precipitous!- and seized me by the scruff,

bore me away in mad, transcendent flightthe way an owl drops suddenly upona mouse, which, till that powerful downbeatthunders at his ear, has lived condemnedto scurrying in small, myopic fields,to crouch and shiver under shadowed threat.

But when at last death comes careening down,it comes on wings of ecstasy, a rush

and tumble overwhelming fear, the soundof falling echoing the rising up

-rwin arcs become one perfect mirrored arc,

light welded by pulsating joy to dark.

Joanna Catherine ScottChapel Hill, Nonh Carolina

74

The Objectivist

At the treelineleaves rattle on stiffpetioles

A cooler rushingwind crosses the hayfieldcausing it to billow inquick rapid slapping waves

fu the uneven lineofgrey cloud cover advances

overhead

smaller details begin to vanish

rVhen direct experience reaches

out as a violent demonstrationit makes him think tharreal failure is to call a thingonly by its name

The rhythmic pulse of privatedissonance moves

much too slow

similar to the morphic burningof a candle's wick

Enthusiasm returns to alistless indifference

And then he is startled

seeing her there in the stormtossed downfrom her berth in heaven

Tom Seabolt

Austin, Texas

75

I Turn My Face To The East

II am a small piece of a mountain resting on the bed of a srreamthat carries waters of rains and melting snow ro the prairies to the sea.

I am about to become the point of a spear, pierce rhe body of an animal."May your spirit dance with dre Grear Spirit to the Easr! May you find peace!"

I am the hunter ready to embark on rhe Dance of Life and Death.I have fasted to purifr my body, now I sit crossJeggedoffer the sacred robacco ro rhe fire ro the East.I raise my pdms ro rhe heavens. May we all find peace!

I am the bear, the Mounrain's King. I hold the moon in my paws,drink from the spring, sense the wind blowing from the West."Come here my brorher," I say to the hunter, "Ler us join in the Dance!May the Bear Clan dance with us! May our spirirs travel ro the Easr!"

IIIn 1996, the Mabe-A-Vish Foundation sponsored a dling teenager

utith a brain tumor who requested a hunting trip to shoot a bear.

I am the small bir of lead melted into a bullet about ro be fired, ready to kill.

I am the hunter-boy about to die. I need peace.

I want a gun that will kill from a distance of a quarter-mile.I'll hang a bear's head on my wall, spread irs firr on my floor.

I am the bear, the Mountaint King. I hear a thunder though the slcy is clear.I try to run but the pain pierces me, pins me down,the Moon melts in my paws, rhe mounrains swirl around.

IIII am the S\y, the Moon, the Smoke, and the Airthe Spear and rhe Buller, rhe Hunrer, the Boy, and the Bearthe River that caries warers of rains and melting snow from rhe Mounrainsto the Prairies to rhe Sea I am all. I rurn my face to the East.

Stefan Sencerz

Corpus Christi, Texas

76

Imbdance

In the paper pillow house cther is served up in Dixie cups.

The world shrinks to fitfor reinforced fences and wired windows that don't open.

In the morningYou shake the drugs from your hair and shuffle outsideTo swallow the first of the five cigarette day.

One Sryrofoam breakfast bleeds into anotherAnd afternoons are safery scissor collages -Room checls, foggy visitors, and fluorescent flower arrangements

Tirelessly cheerful and strained.

At days end. After the third dose. After lockdown.

You can slip out into the dark, listen to rooms breathe,Rearrange furniture in the communiry roombefore dre night nurse can suck the fight out of you with thar syringe

full of plastic cdm.

Saturdays are icing.On Saturdays a degreed professional will sit with youFor the ten minutes it takes to write a prescription.There are reassurances.

Anybody's life can be made morc palatable

With the right chemical cocktail.

Bevin Kerith Shaw

W'aco, Texas

77

A Poem of Uplift

She knows when somerhing is full of ballsand thunder doesn't lay her lowthe way it did before the sun.Today she dances barefoor on cloud topsreclining idly in the footprints of rhe godswho envy her divinity.She leaves sensible shoes behind.She is Eve, woman, the opus of heaven,

a mystical smoke in the garden.Vith syrupy siren tongue she whispersof love and its crearion. She rises

like a scent on the breath of Aprilremembering the day Spring dancedfrom the lips of heaven

and through her smile enrered thestem of the day lily, the trumpet of jasmine.

kt her rise above youan open sky of promisefull of awkward and perfect grace.

She has all the world's knowledge in her hearrand all is griefs are in her shoes.

Dyke ShippCoppell, Texas

78

The Lies That Bind

Anger strange and foreign bornlurks furtive by my side

in pocket patched. Shred and torn

I search for my Oma's eyes.

They are hidden in my overcoat where myanger, strange and foreign born,

reel<s of filthy German lies.

I touch its sharp-edged toothiness

in pocket-patched. Shred and torn,

it pricks fingers that are my own.

Clasping it like a touchstone. Myanger

- strange. And foreign born

at night, the wind howls and mourns.

Churning up the ghosts forlorn, singing"Anger strange. Foreign born."

Through years of dark-eyed secrecy,

her bastard Jewish ancestry where

my anger strange (and foreign bornin pocket) lives patched, shred and torn.

Nancy E. Shreve

Austin, Teras

79

deliriumbiblicus

daze in daze out daze on end,nothing comes of this sub/emerg-in-seeof shadowshine. I see my mulatto-soul, a carboncopy of god,a soular flare in psylhouette, an altar wine o[mock suns, moondogs & quantum mechanicars.

juxtapossessed by a contraritualin this psychosmic passionplay,where all form is whiteface on shadow.my psyche-otomy, the die-caught of me. . .

snake-eyes, the parallelies, not a paradice, but a paradoxology. . .

self-negating contravesry all the blackjokes in whitelies:rant anti-rant.

I see my mulatto-mind;an inkblot on ice, an alphabeta rest of IQuantum,a darwin-christ cross-breed, an ego-id halfbreed,an electra-oedipal on & offspring.my StarChild exiled in psyberia,while the psylent majoriry infanticizesdouble-suicide, nullified on the flip-psyde.

the juxta-pose, my Psy chiaroscuros:

the antagoni ce$ound hearts & bowels of the psyamese lepersona,anti-Am & anteDeum.at play in their obsesspool,

calling the eightball & the cueball in the Selfsame-whole.

Scratch! ( In psyde-pocket! )

all the blackjokes in whitelies:

rant anryrant.

skipsilverOklahoma City, Oklahoma

80

Lessons in Mountain Clirnbing

Near the top ofTiinchera Peak, above 14,000 feet

(a small peak as mountains go),

climbers learn what they hadnt known before:How insignificant one imperfect snowflake may be

until it becomes part of an avalanche.

How things can snowball.How freezing to death is not so hard -drowsiness sets in firstto take the edge offthe terror.

Climbers also appreciate the chemical properties

of two molecules of orygen joined togethernear the crest of;, say, Kilimanjaro or K-2,that these naro small items are worth more

than the know-how of every climber in sight.They comprehend that dry socks are saviors

and ropes are saints, that Polartec

might be equal to grace, that mind over matteras a concept may not work all the time.

These exercises on mountaintops give rise

to other lessons: that it's wiseto sleep well before undertaking a climb,that it's hard to get a proper burialon the summit of a mountain,that it's the simple things in life that matter most -a strong rope, waterproofing, fresh air,

orwhen in trouble, the weight of snow,

the indifference of wind.

Rebecca Spears

Dallas, Tqas

81

Chance Encounter

each wrong turn leaves a scar

on the stippled lining of my psyche

so when i turned around abruptly andknocked the avocado from vour hands

i stuttered an apology and rried to explain

about wrong turns and scars

while a blemish crept across

the surface of the peach i was holding

but wrong turns are not always random events

you said as you surveyed the fruit in my basket

our meeting here might yield fruit of unknown sweetness

you whispered berween the lines of your own apology

then you explained how each wrong turn leaves a bruiseon the plum-smooth lining of your psyche

we blushed strawberry red when we redizedhow much we were alike

you asked how many wrong turns i thoughtmight have led us to that aisle

i asked how often we might have crossed paths

and not been aware of it

we each wondered how many scars and bruises

we had accumulated during the years

that preceded our coincidental meeting

among cherries and pears and jalapeno peppers

then we turned and went our separate ways

with our blemished fruit and wounded psyches

and still i sometimes wonder how many wrong turnswe each have made since that chance encounrer

Dr. Charles A. StoneAustin, Texas

82

Preacher

likc a habitthey slip into the leather worn ease of his voice

cold hands andflcece lined pockem i

make a match

a crescent smile upon their lipshis gibbous glow warms the pall of ceature sin andby his word he feeds a crowdtill each is satisfied fatlike a tickwith blood

Beverly Sweet

Seabrook, Tixas

83

The Divine CornedienneEn Route to Circle Seven

Yes, my Love, my gracious love,Life is a game of charades,

And you drew a slip wirh rime curtailed.

I mocked the Author wirh disdainful air,

Grew girlish, gay and giddy-Primped and preened and perfumed more,Cajoled and cavorted like a desperate whore.

I wove a smile for my fabric face,Clothed myself in clouds of lace

-Vainly vowed never ro despair,

And religiously denied my final pnyer.

Thank God, my love, my gracious love,lVhen Minos grabs me by the tailAnd rips the veil thar guards my lie,You will nor see the harpy formNor hear its keening cry.

Mary-Agnes ThylorAustin, Texas

84

Vic

'u(i'ild westTixas boy,A son of dynamite and lightning,Too reckless, too Fast, embraced clouds.Crazy quarter-blood Indian dust devilSeded.Became Daddy

-Builder of sandboxes,

Holder of hands,

Hanger of Christmas lights,

Maker of chili,Teller of stories,'$7ho wore his tool belt like a gunslingert holster,lVho shook the windows like a storm when he was angry'Who told me that the spiders were more afraid of meThan I was of them,'Who madc it clear that no one, but no one

Is cooler than Johnny Cash,'S7ho taught me that to keep your balance

You have to peddle fmt -So, Daddy-As you lie in a strange bed,

Voice now thin and brinle like autumn leaves,

I am peddling as 6st as I can,

Remembering who you really are,

Praying -Scnding warnings to Heaven.

VictoryFarmerwille, Texas

85

The Feast

Suddenly you were a guesr

of my life for one night,when the world had slumberedafter your poems had been read.

I recall your name being said

and your voice that read poems

that afternoon were flute songs

that gave rhythm ro my life.The nighr watched us

enjoying a prodigal feast

rhrough the street lamp lit window.After you left I found dancingfootprints on my carpered floor

and the morning broke in smiles.

fuol<a'WeerasingheOttawa, Ontario, C,anada

86

Vinter's Child

He wanders into forest,c:rst away by icy limbs,reaches for grapevines,

dangling on frozen ground.

In spring, no wild flowers,

grazingdeer or flashing cardinals.

No summer shade

or glinting pristine pools,

only lightning scorched stumps,

bleeding fingers from grasping thorn trees

hiding sccrets & hives of attacking bees.

Fall no bed ofleaves.

Over the years, he backtracks

in his nighmares & dreams,

hacking through vines & weeds,

scarching for nests stolen by storms,

trail markcrs of rocks, anders & bones,

scarred initials carved in trunksof orphans'purgatory.

Gerald R. WheelerIGty, Ti:xas

87

Pantoum

The poets of old were wont to say

that moonlight gathers on windowsills;that starlight sifts through the Millcy'Way;and through open blinds, sunlight spills.

Moonlight gz thers? O n windowsillsit comes to rest, fruitlessthrough open blinds. Sunlight g/lfIt permeates, perhaps diffuses; listless,

it too must rest, fruidessas specks ofdust tethered to thc pane.

Dust permeates, perhaps diffuses, listlessin its abandon, clever in its gain.

Speckled with dust, tethered to the pane,

the poes oftoday are forced to say,

'Abandon the lighr." Clever in its gain,it's dust that sifts through the Milky Vay.

Scott ViggermanAustin, Ticras

88

Telling the Stories Back

\Vhen asked what kind of child I was,

my mother says

it was too long ago to remember.

I make her a sandwich

but it's the wrong kind of urkey,which she picks out with rwo fingers, like a child,

and eats only bread and cheese.

I tell her about the time they made me stay at the table,

a plate of eggs

geming colder and more congeded as I sat.

Neither of us remembers how it turned out.

I tell her the visiting nurse used to say,

when I wouldnt eat my lunch,"'W'hen she's hungry she'll eat,"

and I became a chubby child.

She remembers this:

the nurse asked how she liked it in the South of England,

and she replied that people took offense too easily

at her blunt Yorlahire tongue.The nurse advised:

"Say what you like

but laugh when you do it."

She took only half the advice.

JillWigginsAustin, Texas

89

Fish Eye Lens

To them we must appear related

to the suckerfish,

glued to the bottom byweirdly split fins,forever opening our mouths, drawn upto the light like we're dying.Vastly strong to covcr such distances

so fast, incornprehensiblethe vacuum we swim in.

Sometimes something out of our mouthsfloats up like bubbles.'We make the miracle of noise and move like gods.

If only our mouths were not so bigand full of teeth.

Our power overwhelms them.They can ncver love us

but they knowwho feeds them.

Ve just live in a bigger aquarium.Weeds wave tlrough dre window.

LaurenWilliamsVictoria, Australia

90

Why The Poet

fo, E. Eaans Prhchard

Inside the cloud ofproverb and reason

There is a season - a space

For acceptabiliry"utterance value"value in the utterance

even ifby chance alone.

"Meaning" feigning gleaning consciousness

Links, equation to the "norm".Behavior abated,

Tied to maxims of truth,Sooth-saying 'tayer"sage of the Ancientswith wisdoms of ancestors toldthrough griots -

"seanced"

interlocutors, Vodunt horse,

conduits -

grinningand grimacing grievances

and great tales told "Tall"both through and aboutthe human computer.

\7hyIBe

"the poet"?

Genealogy and lineage

Computating much more than data

Butprocess...

Kimmika L. H. WilliamsPhiladelphia, Pennsylwania

91

The Visit

"Like refrigeragsl qumid6" -Your words like music

with Chinese tonesaccented with eyes

that hesitatefor understanding,a pivot awayfrom flight.

"Like warm sseys insids" -A thought caught loiteringhalfway berween my throatand lips, rumblingout of rhythm,out oftune.

Before I ask, you offerapologies for coming:the person I expecteddetained or called

^way -nonsense syllablesto divert mefrom the poetryofyour eyes.

From those I read deeplyand reach out to touchthe soul that guides them,eyes wide like "lotus leaves

dancing in the chaos"of "the white wave,'

Such courage you showto relay the message,to even ask, "Should I visit?"And then your surprise for me:a half-smile exposes the questionunspoken: "Do I dare?"

And the lotus leaves

rehearse r}reir next step.

TonyZarloArlington, Texas

92

di-verse'.iV

BoardofDtr#JI

93

La Carafe

Her smoky voicecrawling upstep by dark srep

exhausted on the worn landing,she sighs.

Piaf sings in the darksmoke rises slowly, swidingcurling back into itself,

her voice.

oldest building in Houstonwedged like a rotting toothbenveen the massive monolithsthe glass and chrome downtowna narrow bar on Market Street

a slice of dme, a crowded space

a fetid exhaladon of bayou gas

of ciry grit...a smoky darkness

billowing the ciry's underskirts

and late at night:

Edith Piaf on the jukebox

mourning the demise

of dusry old places

old dreamers

and dancers in the night

Deborah A. AkersAustin, Ti:xas

95

"FIo'w Do Poems Corne?"

Sometimes poems come in pictures,and I must puzzle out the words.'$7'ho are those women?

- who's that man?

rVhat are they offering? \Vhy choose apple?

Hey, now itt golden -

I know that one!

But which choice won't end bad as Tioy?

Your bride is fair both night and day,

Sir Gawan, thank you for example.

One fruit makes three for One-in-Threeshowing the star that's at the core.

Your smile wakes me like morning sun,

and no timet passed - and now for words!

Sometimes the words come pushed alongby the next ones, all in a rush.

And I never have time to think ahead

till suddenly the end has come in sight.

All the best poems I havent written,even when my hand moved the pen.

John BerryAustin, Texas

96

Lavender Moon

If I say I want you,the double-edged sword of you,

unfolding and permeadnginto my life, would you come to me?

And, if I tell you that I discovered your scent

quite by accident, and that it lingered

on my fingers long after we first met,my nose the beneficiary of that bitter-sweet moment,would you let me pause here, long enoughto find you in the morning mist?

If I tell you I sniffed you out like the wolf maiden

finds the scent of blood, a lusty thirst so salry

I can taste your sweat in my dreams,

And, if I confess that I've considered the ancient, secret arts

as I howled my praises for you to the lavender moon,

and threw a parry so the lunar faeries would come

and dance around your smlls, caress the velvet-sided crush

of your arms, the strong and pulsing rush

of your blood, purple and thick,the green and longing leafofyour face,

would you let me linger in the fragrance of your gaze,

e ma:ze of historical hurts reflected in the lavender stars

you wear as eyes?

And, would you watch me love your secrets well,

tell no one that I ve bafied in early ages in wine

made from your saliva, fermented by the passion

ofyour presence?

If I say I'll rendezvous anytime you call,will you call anytime you want?

Valerie Bridgeman Davis

Austin, Texas

97

Poetry Here, Over ThereAnd

Down l-Jnder

The English poet-storyteller,Long, white hair and beard

\(afting from side-to-sideIn warm, spring Texas breezes,'Wears top hat and tails'With colorful, striped vest

And red shoes.

He stands, kneels, and sits downIn pools of Bluebonnets,Marvels, with his cockney brogue,About Texas hill country blue vistas

Patchworked together with pink Primroses,Maroon lVinecups and red-orange

Indian Paintbrushes.'We take his photo,He takes our Texas beauryInto his heart and makes a poem of it.

The Ausualian poet/musician,'S?ith razor-thin body and eyes

Like an owl, blows his didgeridoo'$?ith

one ofAustint premiere jazz bands.He mixes water with local dirt samples

To make colored, thin, clay

And paints a mural of AustinAnd our poetry with his mud.'We take his photo, he paints our wordsAnd taken-for-granted scenery

On his mud painting.\7e all receive keepsakes

To treasure.

Barbara Youngblood CarrAustin, txas

98

Lagniappe

In the ripeness oflifci season

You are my harvest.

I eat you with kisscs,

Drink you like an ice cream float.No need to acquire a tastc for you -Greedy for your flavorsI have hungered liferimes.

A unique aperidf,lbu stir my appetitcFor a banquet, not a snack. . .

A small wonun of large passions,

I relish every serving.Enhancing dl acco mpanimegts,No clash ofwine with the savor,

Your evcry morsel eppeascs

Yet emboldens my craving.

A cuisine I can consume with impuniry,Your diet is one I can endure.

kt me parrrke ofyour courses,

My enuee, my man of all seasonings

\flith a nibble, a liclc, a swallow, . .

Soothe my hungcr with your peerless provisions:Make my palarc purr. . .

Vicki Goldsberry ColkerAuetin, Texas

99

Last Days

I lament the death of soul music:Born of oppression; riots; civil rightsSongs.

It was our marching music,The beat of OUR drums,As life was breathed into us'We gave NAPHESH backIn spirit-filled medley.

I lament the death of soul musicAnd the architects of its pentameter.

Journeymen and Master musiciansfu capable of ihe FUNK"fu arranging a philharmonicOrchestra

\Tithout sampling past hi$,Shocking lyrics, or lip-sync.

I lament the death of soul music'u7ith the sincerest tears;In rwenry years,

Music that calls our women b---s and whores.Music that calls our m€n gangsters and thugs;Lyrics so foul as toGain the label "PARENTALADVISORY. . ."

. . . r$(/illbe the OLDIES!

Footnotes:1. NAPHESH

- Erymology Hebrew, meaning'living soul'

from Genesis 2: 7, "And the LORD God formed man of the dust ofthe ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life: and manBecame a living soul."

2. Soul - A strong positive feeling, as of intense sensitiviry and

emotional fervor conveyed especially by American Negro performers.

3. Soul Music -

Music that originated in American Negrogospel singing, is closely related to rhythm and blues, and is charac-

terized by intensiry of feeling and earthiness.

Reginald L. GoodwinAustin, Texas

100

Hate Club

How does a small mindFind the time to cross the lineFrom innocent babe

To assassin on the dime

How do three little girls at seven

Thoughs unleavened, conspire with sistrenTo stab another little girl to death

And drop to hell from heaven

How does a six-year-old hold a gun

Somebodyt son, fire for funBlow the brains from his classmate

And never redize what's been done

'\07hen drawn to the nubThere is no sub

Folks are the hubTo prevent the recruitment of another mcmberTo the Hate Club.

Ron HorneAustin, Texas

101

Lincoln's Fields

Come, faithful sun,warm the patheven angels never tread.

Melt the tears

from hard men's minds,the cries of those long dead.

Bright, faithful sun,show the pathwhere soldiers never die.

Dry the tears

from Lincoln's fieldswhere bones of young men lie.

Hush the clangof armort steel

glistening in your light.

Help us allto save our souls

to tell the wrong from right.

Still the drumin tune with heartsthat cry for blood and war.

Pay heed to dove's

serene sweet songthat pleads for war no more.

Come, faithful sun,warm the pathwhere soldiers never die.

Dry the tears

from Lincolnt fieldswhere bones of young men lie.

Byron lGcen, M.D.Austin, Texas

t02

Glirnpse

Lighming flashes a glimpse of you.You beside me, close almost as breath.

The dark of the plane on take offdoesnt block you out ofview;your presence is here.'When

again the Captain lights the plane,

your smile plays beyond your lips,your inner reach of soul shincs throughfor me to view in its width and depthbecause you can no longer explain

I am not ofyour plane.

Peggy Zuleika LynchAustin, Texas

103

Stuck ln the Mud

tJ(/,hen shall I from the clouds no moreIn senseless bits of blue come downTo slip away in soundless sightAnd disappear as light at nightV'hile aches my heart in guttered painA shattered cistern holds no rein.

Oh wound that will not mend or healBut throbs with pain no one can feelUntended with the balm of blissUnknown the hope of those who kissThe touch of other, same as you,That yields the bond of brothert glue.

Oh shell which knows no trespassed grace'\)7hose thoughts maneuver out the painrVhat is there left, when said and doneThe days deserve the clouds and sunAnd shoreless seas of desert sand'With emptiness on every hand.

Oh wasteland poet, sing your song,But know your poem is quite absurd. . .

Oh, others read it, ooh and awe,Yet still unsure of what thev sawThat gave them passion, trtubled heart.They're clever, but they're not that smart.

For what I m saying's mindless truth,Like beaury, love or faith and hope.No face has seen the face of GodAnd poems read return to sod.Thus sweet, perhaps, the ruth of earth

-The womb-way of our second birth.

Thus climb relentless vapors highTo Nimbus neighbors full of light.The Ancient eye will weep once morefu eagles perch, take wing, and soar\Xrhile life below which words escape

Resumes its shoddy, muddy shape.

Dillon McKinseyAustin. Texas

104

Founders' Biographies

John Berry':"As werewolf bites make werewolves and vampire bites make vam-

pires, I was bitten at a susceptible age by Robert Graves through his

book The\Vhite Goddzss, and was made a poet. Not immediately - as

I rcad it I could see it was well written, closely reasoned, and impor-

tant, but it made no sense to me. So I read it again, and, yes, it made

absolutely no sense. I decided to become a person to whom it made

sense, and I have been doing it ever since, by every sense. I have been

in books and magazines on multiple continents, translated into other

languages, heard over six hundred people singing my words, and showed

a blind woman the flight of cranes against the storm. Nothing is Prom-

ised That is not Performed!"

Sue Littleton:Sue Limleton hosted the multilingual venue Poesia 1 Calle and thebi'lingual venue Poesia 1t Sar, both under a grant from the Ciry ofAustin.Editor and co-editor of four anthologies, her work is published by'Waltsan Publishing, and she has published a series ofchapbooks of her

collected poems.

Herman Nelson:Award-winning poet Herman M. Nelson co-hoss an ongoing poetry

venue at Barnes 6c Noble (Arboretum) on the second Thursday ofeach month. He is a member ofAustin Poetry Society and Poetry So-

ciery of Texas. Over 100 of his songs have been published and his

Elksingert Perfected Throt is now scarce and much sought after.

Thom The W'orld Poet:A true bard of modern times, Thom The \7orld Poet has created 90

books, 15 CDs nd 35 tapes of original improvisadons. Touring En-

gland and Austrdia regularly, he has supported Bob Dylan, Kangaroo

Moon, Gong, and Russell Crowe. A writer-in-residence at Charles

Stuart Universiry and Dickinson Universiry he works with Gifted and

Thlented Students in England. \tr(hen in Austin he hoss weekly poetry

venues: Poetry Karaoke at Ruta Maya, Kung Fu Poetry and Expres-

sions (First Saturdays). A performer with \TordJazz and member ofInnocent Aliens, he also runs a writing workshop at Manchaca Library

on Saturday mornings.

105

About the Artist

Glynn Monroe Irby has created graphic designs for newsprint ad-

vertising as well as graphics for rwo poetry boola: 3 Sauanna BluebyIrby, Carlyn Luke Reding, and Peggy Zuleika Lynch, and Silltouette to

Unheard Musrc by Lynch. A professiond member of the American So-

ciery of Interior Designers, he dso belongs to the Galveston Poers'

Roundtable and the'W'riters' League ofTexas.Irby holds a B.A. in history from the Universiry of Texas at Aus-

tin, with previous studies at the Universicy of Houston, Brazosport

College, and Edinburgh Universiry in Scodand, with additional gradu-ate studies in architecture at the University of Houston.

106

rsBN 0-1b50?bb-8-?

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