Stephen Jarrell Williams has published over a thousand poems here and there and distant places where the light still glows. He can be found on X Twitter @papapoet
“The Gotta Keep on Feeling
Even When it Leaves Me Reeling
'Cause I Can't Just Not feel Any More Blues”
A few months outta the incubator
this cooing preemie poet, supine in my crib,
couldn't turn over as my bro' grew irater,
belting me through the bars in his angry bib.
To strike a lyric impulse, born of joy,
may twist it into a worse little boy.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
If I turned mean early, I'd no chance to really live -
who showed new bro's such perfidy -
but then lightened up when they appeared to forgive,
seeing me draw Dad's fire, haplessly.
He sometimes whipped his sons in his drunken ire -
I liked to take 'em swimming through fancy's fire.
My bro's came down to the basement one day,
told me no more Flash Gordon would we play.
They'd let Dad talk 'em into studyin' TECH -
he said imagination was imaginary dreck -
so for Sci-Fi novels alone in their room
my playmates left me in the basement gloom.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
My new costar was my friend from the street.
At improv' play interpreting TV
our concerted inspirations fed hilarity,
so I naturally figured it'd be real neat
to have him meet my flame since kindergarten...
Why her liking him instead me so dishearten?
I started a fight in which he got beat.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
My Dad, mostly gone, moved us thrice in succession -
huge old houses, some ghetto neighborhood
where black or white bullies, at their discretion,
on the street or in class beat up stunned me good.
My kid brothers, though, didn't take defeat so hard,
but fought them to a standstill in our front yard.
How could I have thought, if I'd become who I was born
and had folks who shared a spirit of lyrical romance,
to have merited so roundly all my peers' epic scorn?
A brash pacificism was identity's best chance,
won a sympathetic friend who'd help keep track
of bully maneuvers. I think he was black.
Since math test A's, but not my essay ones
won my father's praise, his tuition funds
went to shrewder bro's when we left high school.
Dad made me, though, feel like a fool,
saying, "Good sons go to college, bullies never will."
So I had to join the service for the G.I. Bill.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Recruiter promised language school out in Monterey.
I signed my enlistment papers that very day.
But down in basic training heard Drill Instructor say,
“Recruiting Sergeant's promises you can just throw
into the shit-can – you're mine now, you know?
Our two-week clerk school's where you're going to go!”
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
My Colonel math Prof' from our isolated base
told his Airman ace-test student confidingly
my civilian English Prof was a queer disgrace -
though he'd lit up many a dark stanza for me.
When for pushing Air Force pencils my desire lost its clout
they gave me a court-martial and an early out.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Ya gotta grow sci-biz brains so smart,
ya really can't grow a mind with heart,
so after discharge I buckled down
for A's in math, made my brothers frown -
then I changed my courses to the English I espouse
and my bro's and Ma kicked me out of the house.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Drove out west where tuition was cheap,
got waylaid into a ghetto hippie commune
where free love proved a vow you couldn't keep,
though onto two non-jealous nymphs you glom, you'n
your artist pal. Mine starved to duck the draft -
and when I mentioned college the girls just laughed.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Footnote:
I'm the one who didn't hold free love together
in a world of possessiveness and jealousy,
though my buddy and I couldn't be sure whether
our girls, having ravished us thoroughly,
couldn't just up and do the same for another;
and, when we asked 'em, heard 'em agree
that my buddy and I could be those other!
Ah, we four had commitment and variety....
'Til the draft wrote my friend, and he grew quite thin.
So, since one of our girls had an Aunt who could cover
their expenses 'til his 4-F deferment came in,
they left. Four people, each with just one lover -
living as couples in estrangement's sin.
I had to use the GI Bill - as protests swept through town -
I quit my drugs 'n' smokes to try another way.
With clerical and class work's endless sitting down
I'd jog, skate or cycle miles ev'ry other day
after work hours of dummy-down ennui,
to revive me for lectures on creativity.
Snapshot of moi:
Here I am gliding downhill
toward an intersection,
making a sudden right turn
off the toe-stop of my left skate
to avoid slamming into a crossing semi.
Three years on, art student and guttersnipe,
in interesting times I found 'em seldom ripe
to take off work to meet with prof's after class
(or have an affair with some accommodating lass) -
only work days, then study for honor roll,
nights full of sirens as the riots take their toll.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Some hooker'd take me home to meet her mother.
They'd treat me with warm deference and regard,
but frequently they had one absent brother
and son - to speak of him was always hard.
So how that summer could I check where he was at?
Just join the poor some night, fight back - that's that.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Footnote:
Five wars ago I thought I might be big:
in solidarity with gangling guys
I'd seen through riots slouch, I hit a pig -
if you can't fight, this may not prove too wise.
In jail, my first week there, a bunch of dudes
jumped on a young grass dealer late one night -
who, next day, called the guards and me includes
as one of his attackers! So then right
into the compound rolled the paddy-wagon.
When I therein with five rapists-accused
had sat half an hour, my spirits flaggin',
the victim changed his mind – I was excused.
Could I my fellow inmates' taunts survive?
One turned me on to pumpin' iron – he,
a genie black, desired I stay alive -
who wonder why, still pumpin' irony.
Girls at the office may suspect a college man,
like classmate girls who see that he must work.
Incredibly, though, either place a fellow can
probably get lucky who flirtation doesn't shirk -
since, strapped for time and cash, with mere technique
I sometimes found a lover for an eve'ning or a week.
My black sheepskin was sent by snail mail.
They save the ceremonies for grads who don't hit cops.
Times changing, school job prospects fail
but Civil Service wants you if your test score's tops:
Humanities scholars toiling far afield,
so happy for a gig that makes us nothing but well-healed.
Snapshot of Moi:
These are the new class
of SSI Benefit Authorizers,
bachelors to doctors who couldn't find
work in their fields, chairs in an oval.
Behind the desk at one end
stands the Head of the Western Division.
I now stand in my turn -
stating name, College, field of study,
“Creative Writing” - at which he laughs -
the only pursuit to get that reaction.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Out of desperation, but idyllically,
as I seemed to have tuition benefits left,
I took some manuscripts to the university,
onto a prof's desk the stack of 'em to heft;
with my low GPA I didn't think he'd give a damn,
but his letter was my ticket to the the Grad program.
I was two more years in full-time academe
with low-pay part-time desk work again
when the government cut off the money stream -
so I dropped out, shipped out with lonely men
on a twelve-month voyage in the Merchant Marine -
then I made it back to the campus scene.
My friend's, our girls' and my hippie menage
once lent this monkish scholar Casanova panache,
whose sporadic lovers now made such a sparse collage
that I took a logic course and impressed a babe, by gosh!
When I had somehow caught, though, a cute singer's eye
and they ran into each other I was two girls shy.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
When your discharge and rapsheet trump also the M.A.
that another year of classes and some loans win you,
they'll take you eight years at clerk's wages to repay -
since Fed jobs aren't PC enough now ever to pursue.
All claim as young men the title of Master -
in keeping which art types court total disaster.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Snapshots without moi:
These photos are two
graduation ceremonies -
S.F. State seventy-five,
U.C.B. Eighty-four -
your poetry major couldn't attend -
units delayed, a technicality -
no gown for him nor any hood,
no traipse across the stage with his peers.
Footnote:
In far the most humiliating scene
I've e'er endured, the real Living End,
young Laura, roomie, tutee, cutie - mean -
her then main squeeze, my guts-mad biker friend,
and I our way we wended toward the tall
encrusted town. We escalating up
from subway, toward Three Stooges festival,
Chicano cat who'd one too many cup
accosted me and wouldn't let me pass.
I sidestepped, ran five paces, turned -
around 'n', like a fool, I called him "ass,"
but learned with what attacking rage he burned.
As soon as I began exchanging blows
with him, my motorcycle pal emerged,
who jumped him. From the crowd there then arose
a further swarthy brawler. When I urged
my friend to let me have my fights, the new
hidalgo went at him. As their fists rained,
this Juan, Ill call him, (though I never knew),
resumed his work to keep me entertained.
As student, swimmer, skater, clerk may fight
I stood and fought him even, as he me.
'Twas several minutes gone into the night
until I knew I'd not the winner be.
I made a bleak half-hearted lurch to flee,
he turned our battle into running one....
He tired. Again the odds weighed evenly.
Somewhere distant Jerry shared such fun,
while somewhere nearby Laura sweetly wept.
A quizzical surprise lit my foe's grin -
it seemed as though I'd actually kept...
my end up. Then the blame Police stepped in,
attacking, as pigs will, in out-sized odds
while charging us, as pigs will, from behind.
One seized my belt in back. I cursed his gods,
his chains, his bars, his heart so young gone blind.
They sorted us by seeming sides, then bade
us sit on low concrete retaining-wall.
They checked ID's, bestowed no accolade
to ask me whence I hailed, me winner call.
But balmy Jerry said, "Stop crying, Laura."
I, hearing, said, "Stop crying, Laura" too;
but n'er were saying when she donned her aura,
(nor pressing charges), something we could do.
Except for Juan, the pigs let us all go.
except the hombre I'd been flailing at.
He wore no guns, no cages kept, and - oh -
he fought me clean, alone, up front - no rat.
But since he had a "prior" he got hauled
away, and all because of me! But she,
that biker's imp, said I should not be called
a wimp, though, any more - and frowned at me,
a Kleenex patting gently on my brow.
Then Jer', his lover Laura, and I resumed
our way. She led, a goddess from the prow
of some old ship. I trailed, soul-entombed.
The only right or privilege my Parchment confers
that isn't cancelled out by my follies and crimes
is this Eternal Youth the credential ensures.
But you get that without school, using just the rhymes,
avoid the shame 'n disrespect, years' study gettin' hornia
where hard dreams come true easy here in sunny California.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even though it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Political Coda
Most citizens acknowledge reparations are owed
to Native Americans by our old Uncle Sam,
and that poor home-owners under tax burden bowed
were due for relief – but our sold-out leaders' scam
could grant the first wish only while they gambling
legalize,
the second just with industry's big tax-break prize.
Got the gotta keep on feeling
even when it leaves me reeling
'cause I can't just not feel any more blues.
Envoy: "Drugs from Within"
When gray hill skaters learn to cheat
and motorize the ol' two-wheeler
endorphin high they thought so neat
becomes adrenal thrill, much realer.
If you prefer drugs from within
you too might try adrenalin.
It floods you out upon a Honda -
of feelings few will you grow fonda.
Of course one wants, when one reflects,
hormonal joys that come with sex -
which thought makes workout fans most blush
who relish an endorphin rush.
As they navigate darkness, guided by hope’s length.
Their stories unfold, like whispered melodies,
Echoing through time, carried on gentle breeze,
Their resilience, a symphony of the human spirit,
A reminder of the power of love, we must inherit.
Amidst the sorrow, a glimmer of light,
Kindness and compassion, shining bright,
Communities unite, extending a helping hand,
For in unity lies the strength to understand.
Let us stand together, embrace their plight,
With empathy and love, we’ll make things right,
For every refugee, a story to be heard,
Their sorrow transformed into a song, undeterred.
A Village Girl’s Journey to Education
In a humble village, where traditions held sway,
Lived a girl with dreams, eager to find her own way.
Her grandmother’s favorite, she was cherished and adored,
But her spirit yearned for knowledge, a thirst she couldn’t ignore.
In a world where grammar held no sway,
She dared to break free, to pave her own way.
With determination as her guide, she sought to learn,
To empower herself, her village, and make the world turn.
She faced challenges and doubts, but never lost sight,
Of the power of education, shining ever so bright.
She defied expectations, shattered the mold,
With each step forward, her story began to unfold.
Through books and classrooms, she found her voice,
And discovered the strength in making her own choice.
She inspired others, igniting a flame,
A revolution of minds, where girls’ education became the aim.
Her village transformed, as dreams took flight,
Girls empowered, their futures shining bright.
From tradition to progress, a beautiful transition,
Thanks to the girl who broke free from tradition.
So let’s celebrate her journey, her courage, and her might,
As she paves the way for others, in the pursuit of what’s right.
For every girl deserves a chance, to learn and to grow,
To unleash her potential, and let her brilliance show.
A Heart Full of Hope
In the depths of the city,
Amidst the hustle and the noise,
There’s a heart that beats with hope,
A heart that’s been left to rejoice.
She’s an orphan, a little girl,
With a smile that’s bright and true,
Her eyes hold a world of dreams,
A world that’s yet to be renewed.
She’s been through the storms of life,
The winds that howled and blew,
But she’s learned to stand her ground,
And she’s learned to hold on tight to what’s true.
Her heart is full of hope,
A hope that’s pure and bright,
She knows that she’ll find her way,
And she’ll make her dreams take flight.
So let us stand beside her,
And let us hold her hand,
Let’s help her find her way,
And let’s help her take a stand.
For she’s a heart full of hope,
A heart that’s pure and bright,
And she’ll show us all the way,
To a future that’s filled with light.
The Firefly’s Whisper
In the stillness of night,
I stumbled upon a sight,
A tiny being, aglow,
A firefly, my heart did glow.
I reached out, with gentle care,
To touch this creature rare,
And whispered, “Oh, how I yearn,
To shine like you, my heart does burn.”
But life is a struggle, I know,
And tears fall, where hope does go,
I wish for a brighter day,
When I’ll be a firefly, come what may.
The firefly smiled, with a twinkle in its eye,
“You’re more unique than I,” it said, “Don’t be afraid,
The hard nights and days may seem bleak,
But stars shine more in the darkness, you seek.”
The seed may grow more in the mud,
And the future may seem far,
But you’re a firefly in your heart,
A shining star, from the very start.
The stars themselves may be jealous,
Of the light that you do bear,
For your burning desire to achieve,
Is a sight that’s truly rare.
So let your struggles self-own a shine,
And let the stars in the darkness align,
For you’re a firefly, in your heart,
A shining star, from the very start.
A Cry for Life
My body yearns to live,
But every breath is a struggle,
Pain consumes me,
As my sister’s life fades before my eyes.
Thalassemia, a curse,
A disease that steals life,
Its grip is tight,
And my heart aches with every beat.
We are the roses of paradise,
Innocent hearts,
But our pain is real,
Why won’t you let us live?
Life is not equal,
Death is painful,
But for us, it’s worse,
Your ignorance hurts us deeply.
We thirst for your intentions,
We crave your touch,
We are thirsty,
Please, do something for us.
Oh moon, come to earth,
And embrace me,
For life is a battle,
And I need your comfort.
From Mud to Stars
In a humble mud house, with no toys to hold,
A girl walks in search of butterflies, her heart so bold.
She touches pigeons, smells the rain’s sweet scent,
Opens her window, sits before the moon, content.
As she sleeps, her mother feels her tears on the page,
But she studies, never giving up, fueled by her inner rage.
One day, she becomes a hope giver, spreading light,
Embracing the stars, hugging her mom, day and night.
In moments of loneliness, she finds solace in their embrace,
For love and family are her guiding grace.
Through her journey, she shines like a star,
A beacon of hope, no matter how near or far.
Anila Bukhari: The Amazing Journey of a Trailblazing Advocate
Anila Bukhari, a truly extraordinary young girl, stands out as a beacon of hope and inspiration. She is a passionate advocate for children’s rights, a tireless activist for girls’ education, a dedicated teacher, a compassionate humanitarian, a philanthropist, the youngest peace ambassador, and an accomplished writer of 11 books.
At the tender age of 10, Anila embarked on her writing journey, captivating readers in 50 countries with her powerful words. Her exceptional talent has earned her numerous awards, recognizing her remarkable contributions to humanity.
Anila’s books shed light on worldwide issues and offer solutions, with a particular focus on the importance of girls’ education. Her impact extends beyond the pages of her books as she has personally educated 1,000 refugees and orphans in Uganda and established small wooden libraries in remote areas, providing access to education for underprivileged girls.
Driven by her compassion, Anila has also donated hair wigs to cancer patients, bringing smiles and comfort during their challenging journeys. Her poems have been proudly displayed in renowned art galleries across the globe, including Florida and the Philippines, inspiring countless individuals.
Anila’s groundbreaking work in advocating for girls’ education led her to introduce the world to the Girls’ Education Awareness Day, celebrated in 11 different countries. Her unwavering determination to educate every girl is a testament to her vision for a brighter future.
Through her writing, Anila instills hope and encouragement, empowering individuals to overcome obstacles and reach for their dreams. Her impact on the world is immeasurable, and her legacy will continue to inspire generations to come.
(Excerpt from The Apostasy of Proxy Godbot, whichis a misprision of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, divided into 52 sections. The protagonist, Proxy Godbot, is malware as John Milton, Black Hat Hacker.)
Daniel Y. Harris is an extreme experimentalist. His The Posthuman Series includes The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (BlazeVOX, 2023), The Resurrection of Maximillian Pissante, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2022), The Misprision of Agon Hack, Volume IV (BlazeVOX, 2021), The Reincarnation of Anna Phylactic, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2019), The Tryst of Thetica Zorg, Volume II, (BlazeVOX, 2018) and The Rapture of Eddy Daemon, Volume I (BlazeVOX, 2016). His The Posthuman Series has received praise from Charles Bernstein, Harold Bloom, Andrei Codrescu, Kenneth Goldsmith, Daniel C. Matt and Marjorie Perloff. He is the Publisher of Var(2x). His website is danielyharris.com.
(This is an excerpt from Irene Koronas’ new work chiaroscuros, which is a hyper-minimalist écriture, melding its aporias with a mix of staccato posthumanism and the historiography of color.)
5°
The futurists timbres
clash with a curve
interlock the facets
that objectify
measures or capture optical
effects (electric prisma)
perception in synchrony
in a violent convex
The spiral brush
across straight lines
A discourse with fiction
in discrepant repeat
in hermeneutric circles
it engages a stopgap
a sheen ore and alloy
extracted by smelt
and leaves a stench
Silver whitewash foils
against mixed genres
it hallows out the satire
The analogy an opposite
chromo for luminaristes
separates and assures
an integral meme
in the blank bane
horizontal = kaio
ascend = joie
descend = melas
this night libretto
konnen
emphendung
phantasia
Lavinia’s ritratto
Artemisia’s necksword
Delacroix’s violenter
Bocklin’s chimera
Monet’s crosshatch
6°
Nannofossils in one cell
coccolithophores
chalk from marine pus
quarried in large blocks
the calcium carbonate
in skeleton algae.
Skeletons collect
the seafloor
lithify
scales fall off
mix with clay
the upper layer
found in pelagics
in hemiplegics
cement the refractive
index
crushed white
forms the scarp horse
a minimalist red Hergst
and the godling epona.
Denumistics stunt
a burial bucket
the scour
the grass manger
graze the foraminifer
the low magni
in aragonite the creta
in drill core.
Deneholes are ancaites
that daub tectonics.
Shatter the boreholes
the marble mass.
Accretion layers
in drifts and zig zag
blocky fossils
the a303
the totternhoe stone
faeces picked out
by brackish seeps
7°
Riffling through thick
brush with a fossil’s trowel
beige’s insidious vowel
settles its secretions
with neutral poison
a dilution at the core
the nenuphar covers
pale brown karki
as it falls back
on paste in blend
the bland uniform
the pale sandy fawn
tints the communis
with the empty
trouser trade
nihil’s cesspit
soils buff
soils skyvory
soils cosmic latte
dull against bleach
8°
Orpiment
works on a charred
rustic surface
rigorous in logic
and artifice
a double nihilistic
search for violent yellow
shatters the terra firma
Art is a cadaver
exhumed by all
done by none
under gravedirt
the conservator
guilds a borehole
in baroque frames
Irene Koronas is an extreme experimentalist. Her The Grammaton Series includes gnōstos, Volume VII (BlazeVOX, 2023), siphonic, Volume VI (BlazeVOX, 2022), lithic cornea, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2021), holyrit, Volume IV(BlazeVOX, 2019), declivities, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2018), ninth iota, Volume II (The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2018) and Codify, Volume I (Éditions du Cygne, 2017). She is the Publisher of Var(2x). Her website is irenekoronas.com.
You are a delicate flower Generous and good Noble in soul like a true king You are an odyssey of the Croatian seas Cili hvar has known you for a long time
My heart goes out to you when you walk And when you invite me to your place When you look at me with your eyes And when you tell me a lip ric:
“L’Amour C’est Toi, L’Amour C’est Moi, My dearest love”
Chez mes amies
Chez mes amies
Aujourd’hui je partie,je partie
Chez mes amies.
Qu nous jouons des instruments
Parce que ca fait nous trop de plaisir.
Qui est ce qui chant avec nous?
Oui est ce qui chant avec nous?
C’est un Hippohippopotamus !
Vous tous sayer, qui’il est!
Karmelina Angelika Kelenc Karmelina was born in 1966. She is a painter and singer-songwriter. She writes and sings songs dedicated to God, homeland, love….
