Amy Christine Matus is a writer from Milwaukee, WI where she was
honored by The National Beat Poetry Foundation to be recognized as Beat Poet Laureate 2020-2022.
She is passionate about the cathartic and connective spirit of art and engages in creative events, literary festivals, and collaborative projects both within her community. Amy also is passionate about traveling to participate in those farther away. She was a featured poet in CT at BeatFest in 2008, in Toledo, OH of the same year at Collingwood Arts Center, and most recently traveled to Kentucky to participate in an arts and literary festival in the summer of 2023.
She plans to continue joining other artists and forming a community while
also highlighting the importance of the arts and staying connected and vocal. Her poetry and other writings has been published by New Generation Beat Publications, Good Japan Press, Rolling Thunder Press and other independent publishers. Amy also enjoys playing piano, singing and spending time in nature with her family and their dog, Hope.
Name Stake
She
no longer tries to
convince herself that this
is wedded bliss
no longer hides bruises
with pancake foundation
she will not lie to herself
or hide from him
his Trophies
At nineteen her mother had told her
she was lucky
to have found this man
Now, twelve years into her prize
Mother rarely calls -too busy living that UnLucky divorced life
on some fancy Florida beach
She Cooks -makes sure the steak is rare to his liking
musing as he stabs the meat with
cutting knife
counts how many nights she has stood by their bedside
willing it sharp enough
to slay sleeping dragons
-Interrupted
to pass the salt
He never apologizes
does not bring flowers like those
of daytime dramas
Instead
he glares at the mess
and she?
she cleans it up
picks up shards of broken spirit
split like toothpaste in their sink
She would never leave -the world not enough big
even in dreams
She wears her apron -tight.
yet some solace
her fingers find daily
as they open
secret stash
of
birth control pills
There will be no sons
to carry on his
NameSake
Lower Case Cursive
i am
writing
madly calm
pout pale
lips sealed like the envelopes
that are licked after filled
with
Cursive love letters
lyrics in screenplays of graffiti on acrylic
so quiet i am
and small
shades of nude
a bleached daytime moon
watching the flies
gathering to pause
voyeuristic
curious
oh...our shadows
and these walls!
on the Verge
a cat perched
~ cheetah confessions ~ no issues with metaphor ~ i will say pussy willow
and
then
think sideways, honeymoon
the hunt begins
windowsill curious
all cats we are on windowsills
contemplating
jumping
Off
how it will sound
when these stanzas hit the ground
nine life revival
and how they will
Dance.
deliberate. in alleys
calico and free
graffiti made by the
Heart Beat
let it be Loud
pulse pace breathe speak beat box hopscotch
handstands and
peace
signs flying with feet
i am throwing my words into the World
for
u n i to Verse
~
let’s see in Color
and feel
as we think
then
slow down, stand still
holy the glory
our chests
close enough to throb
a vibration
that is god
that is god
that is god
and thunder! come the lightning
poetic Leo cat
be on the verge
windowsill curious
chase . stop.
grace.
screaming Grace.
Inappropriate Clothespin
Then Everyone Was Shouting
for us
to look at the clothesline
at the yellow dress that dared
fly in the wind like a sunbeam
and all of the women dripped with frowns
pointing to the drab whites and off whites that hung
bulbs to berry
from their wooden pins
proper and quiet
made of nothing but
gravel and the scolding
the children
ran behind her garments surely their mothers would not look for them there
they could pretend
the dresses were wings to fly them far away from the endless rows of wrinkling foreheads and drying linen
the young woman new to the block
with head held high
walked to the row that was so scorned
placing onto it a red dress
that hung like lust from her clothespin
she placed it close to the yellow one
so they could hold cotton hands together
and walked smirking to her doorway
as the other mothers
gathered up their children
tssssk-ing like pigeons
to prepare dinner for their husbands -yet- feathers to fancy
perhaps tonight there will be peaches
Brave and Sensual
next to the stew pot
