GAS Featured Poet: Amy Christine Matus

        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