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.
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
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).
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
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