Poetry from Anthologies by Gerald Jatzek

Poetry, lately...

What are the names of the colors
of galaxies merging?
What kind of beauty
emanate colliding suns?
Seas evaporate.
Histories and arts
unknown to man are
thoroughly wiped out.
Billions of billions of beings
reduced to atoms
for the sake of poets
on an uninspired planet.

reading l.c. & w.r.

who the road & who the signs
who the code & who the lines
who the sketches who the plans
who that matches
little man
who the stocks & who the shares
who the shock & who the stares
who the fires who the ban
who that hires

little man
who the tales & who the book
who the nails & who the hook
who the adam who the cain
who to speak

and write in vain

Dedication

Sara name and amen
i serve you in my verse
i turn your sword in words
your thighs your lies my lines

Rocks

Still, it's rocks that I admire most.
These perfect beings
make good tables
and carry the temple the brothel alike.
They wait for none and nothing,
not even for a skull to break.

No mineral will move
for any  mister, master, or magnificence
(ladies the truth is
diamonds have no friends).
No stone will judge a woman,
a poem or a man.
And it's not the wall that's wailing.
It's us, seven times us.

Bio from 2020:
Gerald Jatzek is a poet and musician from Vienna, Austria, who writes in German and English. He has published books for children and adults, short stories, plays for radio, and essays. In 2001 he got the Austrian State Prize for Children's poetry. His books have been translated into Korean and Turkish, his poems have appeared in anthologies and literature papers in a dozen countries. He has been involved in nonviolent political action for many years.

2 Poems from Anthologies from Amy Barnes

(c) Geoffrey Wren
Wonderful Artwork from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen by artist/writer Geoffrey Wren

Making Change with Cohen

Notes fell into my fedora in
Too poetic of a way
Too synonymous with a busker I
once knew
Once was
And his
panhandled songs
Stolen from places
And books and letters and the corners of my mind where music stood at corners
begging
As if there is such a thing as too poetic or too musical or too big of a fedora -
stuffed with first notes and last notes and echo notes and silent notes and end-notes
Left behind by no crowd and all crowds and crowded crowds and invisible crowds
Maybe there is and
maybe there is not but the double f alliteration that rhymes with clef and marches -
next together
in fell and fedora
Almost made me laugh
But I didn't
Instead
I inhaled
One more time my notes that smelled of music and sadness and grief and crescendos and
whole notes and half notes and
scribbled idea notes on napkins and marble slabs and cocktail umbrellas and gray -
matter
Not of a million fingerprints on faded dollars left in hats and boxes and must violin -
cases
I hummed a dirge
of faded songs
That made no one laugh
And
left my fedora empty

The Arborist

My tongue is a root where trees grow at night. I practice play speaking
with a mouth full of trees each day with rapid rhymes and twisters.
The rain in Spain falls mostly on the plains as she sells seashells by the sea shore,
all through leaves and acorns that drop plop into my gut. I cut the maples and oaks -
and aspens down each morning, making paper for haikus and haibuns and stressed-
syllable sonnets.
Before I can swallow the sunrise surprise saplings, a new tree grows to replace it,
branching into my gums and teeth, caught in each birch breath.  I swirl oil colors
to make Japanese paper and anime character letters to speak for me.
I last wrote a love note on mouth paper a century ago. Ocean ink was free from octopus lovers.
I sent them black hearts that bled into the sea, floated away in tiny corked labelless -bottles that flung themselves at the sugar sand shore, to be found by small children I never birthed or loved or taught to climb mouth trees.

Bio from 2020:
Amy Barnes has words at a variety of sites including The New Southern Fugitives, Flashback Fiction, Popshot Quarterly, Flash Fiction Magazine, X-Ray Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Museum of Americana, Penny Fiction, Stymie Lit, No Contact Mag, JMMW, The Molotov Cocktail, Lucent Dreaming, Lunate Fiction, Rejection Lit, Perhappened, Cabinet of Heed, Spartan Lit, National Flash Flood Day and others. Her work has been long-listed at Reflex Press (3rd place), Bath Flash Fiction, Retreat West and TSS Publishing. She volunteers at Fracture Lit, CRAFT, Taco Bell Quarterly, Retreat West, NFFD, The MacGuffin, and Narratively. She is nominated for Best Microfictions (Spartan Lit) and Pushcarts (101 Words of Solitude and Perhappened). Her flash collection, "Mother Figures" is forthcoming in May 2021 by ELJ Editions, Ltd. And soon to be an associate editor at Fractured Lit

3 new poems from Linda M. Crate

hope he found joy
thought one day
maybe my uncle
could teach me how,
to paint,
always admired his art;
didn't know how
tortured his soul was-
he was thirty six
when he passed,
he had his whole life
ahead of him;
yet his mind had become 
a prison that wouldn't give
him peace -
so i hope now that he gets
to paint sunsets,
and sculpt stars and flowers;
i hope that he is able to
know joy as he couldn't know
on earth.

my beaches aren't for everyone
i was made to feel like
that nothing i ever did
would be good enough,

and i struggled on my own
to navigate my oceans of emotions;

there was so many tears and so
much anger and so much pain and the
constant question that gnawed at me:
why wasn't i worthy of love?

all i ever wanted was
to be loved,
all i ever wanted was
to be appreciated;
all i wanted was to be seen
for who i was-

& yet everyone wanted me to be
someone i wasn't so they could be comfortable,

but now that i have found my magic
and my power and understand the language
of my heart and soul and know the mythology of
my bones

i have left behind my shallows;
and if they cannot swim in my oceans
then let them sit on the sand and remain there

my beaches aren't for everyone.

beauty in my feathers
i have never belonged,
and there was once a time
i tried;
but i have always been
a wild bird
that never accepted the confines
of the cage nor the necessary
songs-

my music wasn't like those
of the songbirds,
and my colors weren't the same
as the canaries and parrots;

i was a raven in a sea
of birds that were taught
never to trust me

just because i was different-
i used to cry thinking i wasn't worthy
of love

but now i realize my weird
has and always will be beautiful
even if i am not always appreciated
there is beauty in my feathers.


Bio: Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has seven published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017),  splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019), and the samurai (Yellow Arrowing Publishing, October 2020), and three micro-chapbooks Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018), moon mother (Origami Poems Project, March 2020), and & so i believe (Origami Poems Project, April 2021). She is also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). She also has three full-length poetry collections, the latest being You Will Not Control Me (Cyberwit, March 2021).



Poems from Anthologies & new poems from Michael Igoe

Blizzard, City, Cold, Freeze, Frost
The Stellar Marine

I'm having much trouble
weeding out streets unfit to walk.
I tread slowly through the snows
of a recent nor'easterner.
as the recent customer
of a bottle of milk, and a dime newspaper.
I see fit to change paths,
past master of the clutch
a recent jamboree of poses behind me.
In a city that boldly confronts the sea
I stop for the traffic's beat
love letters roast in searing flame
outside the radius of wind and shore
stretching to New Bedford.
There, nor'easterners, I guess,
cease in sumps.
I wake up with your presence on me.
I turn over in the starry wind.
To feel my hands, tongue, and feet hush.
They report through lifelines and sinew,
extremities guide them, 
to recesses and removes.
They chalk up casualties.
Drink in each other's frames,
bound in a spiral,
we see the gust tamed
find ourselves without a rancor.
Gusts across water and sky,
equal to the stellar marine.
We cater to friends, they share
the same downward spiral:
to swap proofs and secret messages.

Highly Visible

We live it out in an era
with ferris wheel tickets.
We stand under viaducts,
paused in our grim march
toward that other Mayday.
A hope continues
for the secret vial
full of evidence
we look hard for.
Every biblical figure,
smashed to smithereens
roams under arches.
They plant a warm horror
on a rebel girl sunbathing.

A Portrait of Ray

Seems like you touched someone,
right near the heart of the Hun.
Those guesses of yours,
as you entertained crowds;
in vogue, lucky, to entertain half price.
You tame them all to start, downtown;
hypnotized crowds, they all wonder
if they're flesheaters, just like you.
They kept a record: an electric image,
of your smiling shattered teeth
the death' head tattoo you got
one day before you shipped out.
You never look at it closely,
instead you collect tin foil wrappers
from under chrome bumpers
to stage your lavish midway spectacle.
Next time I saw you, same as before,
You had long since confessed to eating flesh
it was the color of the rouge on faces
of women who claimed to love you.
Your eyes, also red, both of us knowing,
the hand really is quicker than the eye.
We're so wary of the moves it takes
to heal scar tissue from wounds in the corridor.
And I rifle through the boxes you left
to slip further along the empty aisles.

Rage Between Equals

Do you remember
all what you said:
the electric guitar
is soon to replace
an automatic rifle.
Interlopers clinched
in the heat of battle,
they find out blindly
about greasy bullets.
Success as the fuse
to sites of extinction.
They saw everything
through rose glasses.
Only beleaguered
by the five senses.
The sound of a note
amplifies on strings
representing itself
as a whiz vibration.
It's faster than
a speeding bullet.

Think Of It As Fire

I'm past a barnyard,
that place of slaying.
I will greet there,
blanked children
who all too often
with eyes crossed
fashion phantoms
out of spare parts.
They live certainly
to thrive elsewhere.
A tiny venus as coach
working through mist.


Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

3 poems by Pasithea Chan : Fist in the Mist, Frozen Smiles & Melting Moons and Threading Stars

Moon, Night, Sky, Full Moon
Frozen Smiles

It took a while for me to learn to smile
from behind a pile of words I kept to myself.
For a moment, I felt them jammed
in my mind's cramped space.

My anger seared my soul waiting to be freed
But I weighed my chances against my defenses
And realized it was a fleeting moment not meant
to last as walked past times I had passed.

It takes a lot to smile when feelings pile
from a heart unto a mind put on a shelf
without feeling trapped or slapped
with a reality making a case go on for days.

But once my heart agreed my mind was freed
from hurt's trenches climbing reason's branches.
I learnt to smile without being bent -
over a past that won't last beyond shadows it cast.

This goes to say it takes a while to file
tone's claws without losing one's self
in cramped spaces from situations based
on erasure when a frozen smile can erase words that debase.

Fist in the Mist

I put my fist into the mist -
and carved a curved sunset's spine.
I aimed high, & bled it dry, across the sky;
like rain blows rainbows across ocean so divine.
It spiraled a crescent ring and pushed -
my soul behind my mind hoping to be whole.

I stepped into the mist to catch what I missed.
But I only watched my heart dart as it chased lonely
thoughts like rain drops falling on time's coats;
bouncing off worries' bejeweled pleats.
I scurried hurt's seams with my dreams -
but it seems what's meant to be must first be free!

Fist or foot, mist or missed are like the sun and sunset.
You can be light and travel the world -
or light your path to create your own world.
Walk or punch your way, but remember
to free yourself from what you miss or think you missed.
Don't stay in the mist but don't forget the sun sets.

Melting Moons and Threading Stars

Thoughts are honeycomb moons
surrounded by passion's stars.
Together they hang in inspiration's
skies threaded by hope's cables.

Minds are painters with ladders
anchored on will's winds.
They paint magenta over black skies
or pale blue over white clouds.

Some painters dab their brushes
in magenta skies other in clouds.
Others spread the spread honey combs
across these skies and clouds.

Many chase the brightest stars
until their moons melt away.
Very few capture the honeycombs
before they fade using starry threads.

I've seen some walk their ladders
across magenta skies with tries.
While others get blown like posters
by blue clouds blocking the moon.

It takes courage to put up a ladder;
determination to hold a ladder;
trust to chase the moon,
and faith to thread stars.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan