Stanzaic Stylings

THE ROOM OF MEDIATION I no longer can tolerate this repetition of speech as if As if You only visit the stone room.   The stone room?   The whisky spit, the beer gallows, the wine cells, vodka vodka, The noisy space of drunks Crushing the night with loudness and crow caws, Off-colored perfume breath, Off-colored odors of body  Too much of all things.   Oh.   Son, "oh" is not enough.   "Oh" is all I have.   The stone room is only one room from the bone board And the bone board is too close to the sea. You cannot swim. I have seen men drown is the flesh of air, Blood from carcasses and corpses, Broken glass and shards of shell. Oh. Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Po...

DUTIFULLY DROWNING Washed ashore tide pulled over me Comforting blanket cotton wool foam Hastily pulled back in leaving me frigid preserved in bitter brine Ocean goddess of mercy caught in your riptide Ebbs and flows Floating dreams Dutifully drowning Leanne Neill is a company director, domestic goddess, mother of three, and a self-confessed composer of words.  She has twenty-three years of experience in public libraries and local government. In May 2016, she started her poetry inspired Facebook page: LUST for WORDS . She lives in Melbourne, Australia

I've had to walk a mile In far too many shoes Had to fight some battles I thought for sure that I would lose Something deep within me wouldn't let me give up Just when I thought my strength was gone Something came along and filled my cup I've watched my blood fall to the floor In times I no longer wanted to live my life Some of the saddest scars I possess Came from the blade of my own knife I lay prisoner for hours While my captor left me bloody and bruised One thing all of it taught me Was to be strong, fight, refuse to ever again be used I lay there thinking my life Was surely about to end I prayed the lord for a savior But not one angel did he send In that moment I had to survive Had to gather all that I had The only one I could count on then Was me...it truly was so sad I lived through that moment And have struggled in every possible way The things that experience taught me Made me the person you see standing here today I will go on living I will never be broken again B...

LADY KARMA Tongue of wasps... Snaggled teeth... Stealthily she skulks... In search of fresh meat... Her hands always steady... No shutter... No shake... A doomed soaked performance... Featuring The Damsels of Dead Lake... Her tiptoes conjure earthquakes... Wretched devastation... Her seering gaze will lock you.. In your own devised damnation... So, if ever you should see her... Don't bother running away... Lady Karma's everywhere... She'll get you anyway ©Crystal Price ©2015 Bio:  Name: Crystal Price Age: 34 Residence: Fresno, CA I started writing poetry as a preteen living in the foster care system. Poetry was the oxygen that kept me from becoming an emotional vegetable. Poetry me & I it. Poetry is my life support, and my survival has, & always will depends on it.

having learned nothing                              for dave kelly     was lying on the couch in an empty room in an empty house when the power went out, and I could hear where the rain was leaking in   I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall above me   had things to say, but there was no one there to say them to   had points to make   had opinions to defend   could hear a siren getting closer & felt my way to the window   saw the ambulance stop across the street a few houses down, and I had no idea who anyone in this neighborhood was   wished the best for them in my own small way John Sweet sends greeting from the rural wastelands of upstate New York.    He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the need ...

November breeze a faint whisper rustling leaves joanneolivieri.weebly.com Photos taken at the San Francisco Botanical Garden.

Time to  sleep my little  one Time to fly in  midnight sun Time to  dance in  moonlit beams Time to  dream of worlds  unseen Time to wish  the day  goodbye And... Time  to sing this lullaby Lynn Long is an aspiring writer/novelist.