Stanzaic Stylings

Five Thousand Days   Dawn blooms in red sky morning chill pervades my soul frost on the window   Steely clouds loom low fragile lives hang by a thread unraveling fast   One final embrace the warm expanse of your arms grow cold as March snow   Your spirit soars free betraying my bargains with sullen moon and stars   Waves of emotion strong riptide pulls me under crashing on the rocks   Empty solitude as five thousand days slip by last light fades to black   Colleen Keller Breuning © 2017 For Bio and more information about Colleen and her works visit her page on this site at:  Colleen Keller Breuning Poet and Photographer

Fertile Ground The seeds of this poem were sown long ago, though it took years for me to realize it When I was old enough to walk to school by myself, either in second or third grade (there were two or three streets to cross without benefit of crossing guards), there was the prescribed way to go, and I usually went that way But not always                          Sometimes I would walk one,          two,                  or even three streets out of the way to make it a different way, arriving at school late on those days I would look to see if anything was different on any of those other streets I didn't notice a whole lot different: the sidewalks were a similar mix of concrete blocks and slabs of the local bluestone; the houses were mostly the same and the roads were similarly paved, though on two of the streets it seemed that there were a few more taller trees These occasional excursions led to further explorations, this time on non-school days There was another street where the

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music while chirping down coffee and scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in many places (including the trash bin), but also at In Between Hangovers, Duane's PoeTree site, and recently at The Rye Whiskey Review and Under the Bleachers. Saturday, Outdoor Shopping Mall There was a  Fall tide in the afternoon, the hours melted away, with busybodies and shopping bags floating and coffee cups bobbing. I wandered with a best friend  across scarred cement  amongst stores of every type of clothing and every type of everything. My pocket change rattled, was almost high school football  team tackled by a small crowd. Threw comic bubbles. I'll never forget it. Even if I made eight  figure-eights and followed every  diagonal arrow of where the bathroom swore  it should have been.

Linda Imbler’s poetry collections include “Big Questions, Little Sleep,”  “Lost and Found,” and “The Sea’s Secret Song.”   Her newest e-book “Pairings” is due out soon from Soma Publishing.  She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee.   Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com .   Colors Change The unseeable sun in Autumn, Summer births the Fall. Do the grass and trees see the difference? Green, yellow, red, They should.

Moon Secrets   The planets rotate and revolve black holes collapse into dust stars may come and stars may go but Luna always returns.   From fields of velvet indigo her alabaster face beckons she soothes me with moonsong and I spill my secrets.   As the words flow forth the soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts and my heart bleeds emotion.   Exposed, expunged, extorted beneath the shuttered moonlight she breaks her heavy shroud of silence and laughs at me.   The winds rise up at her command as she flashes her twisted smile sinking beneath cold mountains to gossip with the sun.   Colleen Keller Breuning © 2018 April 19, 2018 For Bio and more information about Colleen and her works visit her page on this site at:  Colleen Keller Breuning Poet and Photographer

Poetry of the Heart Vast as the ocean depths unknown, is the heart that loves- beyond  its own A treasure to impart Humble and true The gift of my heart In bravery to you It is the hopeful heart of the dreamer, still  waiting for love's true kiss- who will shine  a light into the  darkest abyss  https://zolanymph1.blogspot.com/ Poet, writer, aspiring novelist, daydreamer and believer in the impossible Contributing artist @hitRECord.org and Scriggler.com Published in the following Ezines, Publications and Online Journals: Antarctica Journal Duane's PoeTree In Between Hangovers Stanzaic Stylings Poetry Poetics Pleasure Whispers

Fall Equinox   Morning light reveals silhouettes of branches against a dove grey sky.   Hurry, pick gardens of bright vegetables. Time to cook big pots of soup, yeasty breads.   Wearing red, orange, yellow leaves, trees sashaying in the wind.   Countless shades of leaves, shapes of leaves, sounds of leaves.   Children come from school jumping in piles of foliage shouting with delight.   Flying carpets of sugar maple leaves unfurl along our road as frost draws closer.   Amazing how many stars fit inside my windowpane alongside a harvest moon. Joan McNerney Resident Poet

Linda Imbler is an internationally published poet.  Her poetry collections include “Big Questions, Little Sleep,”  “Lost and Found,” and “The Sea’s Secret Song.”   Her newest e-book “Pairings” is due out soon.  She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee.  Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications  can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com .   Anansi Anansi smote Pegasus. His reason was clear. There can be no heroes. His motto, crystal clear, if all cannot fly, then none will fly. His logic toxic.

Mystery That footprint in the garden Someone claims she saw a prowler But when I walked out, bare footed on the dew I heard a morning dove -- http://patstoll.org/story/

surface thoughts i d caress your soul if I could, massage your brain, kiss your heart  but i have to settle for surfaces and your breasts, thighs, belly and ass do just fine. Bio: Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Nets. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including  Revealing Moments , https://issuu.com/pearnoir/ docs/revealing_moments   a collection of flash stories. His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film. https://vimeo.com/18491827 .   

Wings   Glider of the sky, dragonfly Perched on lily pad, clouds float by Water ripples in gentle rings You are the wind beneath my wings.   Morning rises with yellow rays Sweet promises of sunny days Flutter as the mockingbird sings You are the wind beneath my wings   Reflecting colors, stained glass art Shot of moonshine straight to the heart Steeped in beauty that summer brings You are the wind beneath my wings   Glider of the sky, dragon fly You are the wind beneath my wings.   Colleen Keller Breuning © 2018 August 17, 2018 For Bio and more information about Colleen and her works visit her page on this site at:  Colleen Keller Breuning Poet and Photographer

From:  American Labor:  An Episodic Epic  Boston Corbett Some of you may have heard of me: I am a footnote in American history, the soldier who killed John Wilkes Booth (There were those then,                                     and those now, who maintain that Booth wasn't killed in the shootout, yet I was the one called crazy  and institutionalized)                                      Some of you, those who have read Scott Martelle's book, may also remember I was a preacher, and also know of some of my quirks Some of you may be wondering what I am doing in a poem about labor, considering me not even a footnote there I couldn't disagree more:                                        to me, anyone who ever belonged to a union is more than a footnote in labor history I was a proud member of the Hat Finishers' National Trade Association, working as a silk-hat finisher during and between preaching gigs                                                      And that, unknown t

Linda Imbler Poetry Blog Carnival The carousel went on and on and we knew we would also, but then it moved on and so did we.

The giving in. The letting go. The cascade into a pool of dark ink. The shadow in the well. Sightless. Stillness. Noiseless. The "I am" in its deepest sleep. The shrugging off illumination. Minus the tresspasding of time.             Such is nirvana And all the while, deep within. Restoration is burning the midnight oil. May you be free from birth.