Stanzaic Stylings

Ballad of the Fish  he swam upstream slapping his body against fate they called him Sammy soon he wondered what dry land felt like and put on some sandals flash forward Sammy is married and has two children (modest amount for a fish) he hides his gills in public but they all know there’s something about him – you could say something fishy, but that would be too obvious Rita, his wife, especially suspects his secret every time they go the river or to the ocean or to the sink she lives in fear that what she suspects is true and then also lives in fear that Sammy will discover her secret she is a sharp-beaked predator at war with herself. JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His writing has recently appeared at Cacti Fur and Oddball Magazine.

Memorial Day Moment By Desiree Cady They stand and fight Put their lives on the line Give up everything they have Just to make sure our citizens are fine March into battle bravely Their strength pulls them through They lose their lives To protect me and you Some come home from battle Beaten and torn Scarred from their memories Their hearts are all worn They deserve our respect And yet so much more They are the soldiers, our heroes, The prisoners of war. ©2017 Desiree Cady All Rights Reserved Happy Memorial Day  And thank you to the many men and women who have fought, continue to fight, and will fight in the future to protect our America.  Words cannot express my love and Gratitude Bio I am a 33 year old mother of two beautiful girls who have been my saving grace. After a brutal attack a few years ago, I have been plagued by PTSD. After the attack and a few suicide attempts, I vowed to tell my story and help inspire others to

Casey at the Bat (Villanelle) Would he hit the circuit clout we would need to win the game? Surely Casey wouldn't strike out; Casey knew what he was about. One didn't get many chances for fame. He would hit the circuit clout should the occasion to arise. No weak grounders, no pop flies, and no chance he'd strike out. Two made outs, two got on base, and the look on Casey's face said he'd hit the circuit clout to win the Mudville nine the game and garner for himself the fame; inconceivable he'd strike out. He took two called strikes by the ump, and on the third he busted a hump. Today there is no circuit clout. Our mighty Casey has struck out. Bio:  "Michael Ceraolo is a 59-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet and baseball fan. This poem is from a current project inspired by recently re-reading Casey at the Bat."

New Love Wonder As the dawn of the day Seeps through the blinds I awake next to you With happiness in mind Not sure yet of what Our future will hold In my heart I hope next to you I will be growing old Our feelings are new Though We have just met I feel you understand me  Better than anyone yet I am scared of you You scared of me So afraid to fall and get hurt If only the future we could see Take a chance on me And hand me your heart I promise to cherish, love, and protect Each and every last part. ©2017 Desiree Cady All Rights Reserved Bio I am a 33 year old mother of two beautiful girls who have been my saving grace. After a brutal attack a few years ago, I have been plagued by PTSD. After the attack and a few suicide attempts, I vowed to tell my story and help inspire others to get help and to know that they are not alone.  I am currently wrapping up two manuscripts for publication and am set to be published in an u

A Sign Is Just A Start I see your sign-- Yes, I see you, marching on tired feet, filling the streets, raising your voices, singing, shouting; yes, I see you; we all see you. But, at the end of the day, when the sun has gone down and the singing stops; and the tired feet have marched all the way home; and the signs are put away in garages and closets filled to overflowing-- what then? I ask, what is your takeaway? what is my takeaway? Mothers are still losing sons; sons are still losing fathers; women are still going missing; men are still going to prison. Laws are being broken, by those who make them and swore to uphold them; the rich still do not care about the poor; the poor still see no relief. Yes, a sign is just a start, but I know teachers who are having to take second and third jobs just to make ends meet; I see roads and bridges crumbling all around us and we’re talking about paying for a wall that may or may not protect us. A sign is just a start, but I have friends who are ge

You You are the air that I breathe The fire in my soul You are what makes my life complete  You are what makes me whole. You are the stars in the sky The dawn's early light You're the one biggest reason  to continue the fight.  You are what God had in mind  when he created the mold Of His one perfect Angel  everything to treasure, cherish and hold. You're the warm summer breeze  or cool winter night, You are the sun in the sky Shining your eternal light. You are my daughters  pulled straight from my womb You were brought to this earth -- beautiful perfection to rid my world of gloom. Mommy loves you Cadylynn and Jasmine to the moon and back and around the universe a few more million times. ©2016 Desiree Cady All Rights Reserved Bio I am a 33 year old mother of two beautiful girls who have been my saving grace. After a brutal attack a few years ago, I have been plagued by PTSD. After the attack and a few sui

Moon Meditation  by Richard Pousette-Dart Moon Meditation (after the painting by Richard Pousette-Dart) Walking on the moon in the breathlessness of dust no wind, the cold cutting like diamond blades of ice through stone and skin the first perhaps the last I walk in the shadow of the gods who came before.   At the Sea of Tranquility I am alone with no one to guide me but the stars and no one to believe in but myself. Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey.  He has published numerous poems, more than 1,000 of  which  are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.  He has been nominated twice for the  Pushcart Prize  and twice for  Best of the Net. Editors Note :  This is an ekphrastic poem and based on a work of modern art. The title of this poem is that of the original image  (after the painting by Richard Pousette-Dart)

Have you purchased your copy of Dandelion in a Vase of Roses yet? You requested info when the poetry anthology was available. Thank U. If you get a copy, do not forget to leave a "Like" on CreateSpace and a reader review on Amazon.com. Editor-in-Chief Michael Lee Johnson/Co-Editor Ken Allan Dronsfield. Facebook poetry group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/ now over 12,930 members. https://www.createspace.com/7090612 504 "Likes" on CreateSpace http://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089 11 reader reviews all 5 stars http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1545352089 2 reader reviews all 5 stars Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, poetry anthology is breaking at the seams, 98 poets, 326 pages, representing 37 different countries and republics from all over the world. It is large 8 ½" x 11" large font size 14 for easy reading, poet photos and many illustrative pictures. It is a loaded anthology combining the best in professional contemporar

Cleveland Haiku #452 Storm coming--- wind-whipped whitecaps beneath dark clouds Bio:  "Michael Ceraolo is a 59-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet with a long list of credits he won't bore you with now, though he can't guarantee he won't do so in the future. After competing recently in a haiku contest, he was inspired to start writing haiku again after more than a decade of not writing any."

Silver droplets fall As dusk meets twilight in kiss And I await night Lynn Long is an aspiring writer/novelist.

FRANKIE BOY He tethered his pit-bull to the last fencepost standing. He slept in an old truck on blocks. Scars struggled with tattoos for control of his surfaces. The stream behind the old mill was his personal washtub. His old man died drunk and in debt. His mother was a memory of bright red lipstick forever missing the target of her lips. He took odd jobs where he could. And panhandled. And dealt. And used his fists when convincing otherwise was required. He had a brother who either died in the Gulf War or was serving time in state prison. depending on who you asked. He tried to enlist but was turned down. He drove an old Chevy with an exhaust like a farting Goliath. Parents warned their children about him. He played two roles in the lives of those kids  - what could harm them, what they could become. The cops were always stopping him to give him a hard time. They were too late. He already had one. J ohn Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently pu

In Flight A tree waves wooing birds who fly from branch to branch looking for a home. Congregations of wrens winging off to choral practice stop at bird feeders first. An outdoor concert. Which is sweeter, the flute or bird song in woods? Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

A Portrait of Self     I am sound and fury, signifying everything; strurm und drang, wrapped in black skin; I am what a sinner looks like, broken by grace; the son, my father never had; the apotheosis of blues incarnate and undiluted jazz.   I am the love-infused truth of Baldwin; I am, Nina Simone in a man’s body; you read my words because you can handle the truth.   I am the city of broad shoulders, and all its Bronzeville residents, distilled to represent light and shadow, beauty and pain; my name is verisimilitude; my name is on the lips, unspoken by the one who preached the Sermon on the Mount.   I am not what you think I am, but I am, what you need me to be; touching you to the very core of your soul; I am the moral of the story; I am the riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, yearning to breathe free; what love looks like in public and in private; your fa

Starved Soul Take my skin and use it as an empty canvas;  write beautiful poetry  upon my starved soul.  Keep my spirit wrapped  safely in your golden light; your love is like a raging  river within my heart. (First published in "Apple Fruits of an Old Oak" Anthology) Bio: Blanca Alicia Garza is a Poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Her poems are published in the Poetry Anthologies, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", and "Dandelions in a Vase of Roses" now available at Amazon.com. Blanca's work can be found in  The Poet Community, Whispers, The Winamop Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Raven's Cage Ezine, Scarlet Leaf Review as well as Birdsong Anthology 2016, Vol 1.

A rainy spring day World reflected in a puddle Ripples grow outward Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware.  She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer.  She loves gardening, the ocean, and her cats.  Her poems have been published in poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies.  

THE JURIST The greenish roses that loop about a silver rain spout  in the rear of a Topeka railroad station that no longer services Kansas City or Wichita have been termed “darlings” by people quite a bit more muscular and brainier than me. These roses bi-annually grow rapidly, but I annually refuse to fall for the omnipresent bromide about how the promise of vivid color occurs lots of places in Mama Nature’s realm and always overtakes the optics of her dullish green, though I’m really not the jurist you’d want to be in front of were the growth and color of roses a life-and-death issue of your days here, or some predictor of your chances to go wild-west, lasso, and then hold onto a fortune. No, for that, you’d want someone along the lines of Adlai Stevenson, Mikhail Sholokhov, or Billie Holiday, and you’d hope like hell Katherine Mansfield and/or Edgar Degas had earlier been coaxed to be on standby, or, better yet, was actually waiting in th

Free I remember you once told me That I could not survive without you Well sit back and prepare for the amazing things  that I am about to do For years I thought​ that it was you That held me tightly together But now I look back and I see It was me who was withstanding the harshest weather When you left I was so lost I was just so damned scared But looking back I see now I was the only one that cared I had so much love in my heart Devoted to what I thought we were That I would've never found the strength to leave So I am thankful that you did it first I am finally free to be the woman That I once used to be I am finally free to smile again To find the beautiful side of me. ©2017 Desiree Cady Bio I am a 33 year old mother of two beautiful girls who have been my saving grace. After a brutal attack a few years ago, I have been plagued by PTSD. After the attack and a few suicide attempts, I vowed to tell my story and help

Cold Whispers His words, they were nothing  but cold whispers in the middle of the night Caught up in the moment But oh they felt so right I try to tell myself that with time  Some people's feelings change But mine never did And that's what I find so strange His words they cut me deep Right to the very core Such cold and evil hatred He'd never expressed before So now I am wondering That passion that I felt Was it always truly one sided Was that the hand that I was dealt? Though every lie he told me His words made my heart melt His lying cold whispers they've left My heart an empty welt. Bio I am a 33 year old mother of two beautiful girls who have been my saving grace. After a brutal attack a few years ago, I have been plagued by PTSD. After the attack and a few suicide attempts, I vowed to tell my story and help inspire others to get help and to know that they are not alone.  I am currently wrapping up two