Stanzaic Stylings

In Memoriam James Radley Mattioli March 22, 2006- December 14, 2012 Sandy Hook Elementary James, I never knew of you Til that dark and dreary day When a coward with a gun Stole your life away. Nineteen other children Were murdered that same day But yours was the face That swept my heart away. You had your life before you My! What you could have been You could have had a family And, I know, a ton of friends. There are no words to explain How your sweet angelic face Can flood my eyes with tears But, another time, another place... Happy 13th Birthday, James

Dream Whisperer Listen to catch whispers That once brought smile to heart To taste again the warm breath of life With every word soul sighs. Precious moments in time Do so sweetly slumber Waiting for the day to be awakened By love's never ending dream. Sandra Henry is a poet from Canada. She is a graduate of Trent University where she majored in English Literature. Sandra finds inspiration for much of her writing from the people and events in her every day life and from the power of Nature's beauty and fury.

Euclid Creek Book Four            A Hidden Memorial Even when the leaves have fallen you can't see it from the streets:                                                  the trees, and an earth mound,                                 block the view Nor, for some reason                                 (probably some ridiculous zoning regulation), is there signage by either of the drives entering the center's parking lot David Berger grew up around here,                                                     then...

Chasing Tail Pop your collar I have met the Mad Hatter Have you? Cut my lips on broken theories lost my tongue learned to shut up and listen Ears waxed with tomorrow’s ashes vital organs exposed in serenade Laughing at the blood and licking our way back to center plasma Seven layers of smoke coat your lungs I have witnessed all ten eruptions Have you? Enough poison fills those vials to drown our final prayer in slumber Morphine gods and silicone dreamers plastic kisses and crystal groans Scratches of sand sharpen focus forced to shut up and listen dehydrated in the desert The taste of halogen and furies mute, burnt, spent, extinguished Beneath the flames decrees fall silent judgment has no value in a void Stealth white rabbit safe with secrets never will reveal what isn’t sought Burrowed in the cold forgotten earth chewing on the cud of all our questions Bio : Scott Thomas Outla...

Warm Dreams As I close my heavy eyes Your words dance Throughout the night sky As bright and beautiful As the nearest star Bringing sweet and peaceful dreams To my weary spirit. March arrived cold While bright stars filled The heavens as I slept. Yet, as beauty gives warmth To blooms of colour and snow Your sweet words Touch my chilled heart. Peaceful dreams whisper In the coldest of places The gentle kiss of The sun's warm breath Awakens the promise The hope that is spring. Bio: Sandra Henry is a poet from Canada. She is a graduate of Trent University where she majored in English Literature. Sandra finds inspiration for much of her writing from the people and events in her every day life and from the power of Nature's beauty and fury.

Snow Bird A scryer of snowflakes grasping the bare branches meals of seeds left behind in the daily visits to the feeder. snow bird, o' little snow bird tweet tunes of spring's arrival Keep an eye above the oak, as a hawk waits for a mistake snow bird, o' little snow bird may another sunrise find you perched upon a little gray branch a day will come and you're gone we shall forever miss your essence our spirit reaps no colorful rainbow; if our whetted eyes shed no tears.    Biography:    Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He has been published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. A member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, ...

from THE TATTOO GARDEN OF CAPELLA A WALK THROUGH THE WONDERLANDS We hike the northern most trail near the glacial wall  of ivory and brass, rust and pyrite, a gold vein  through a spit of silver ore, the path passing under  roped purple vines, thick and settled, climbing wind stalk, the red ladened clay of storm sculpted paper birch. Everywhere a flutter of redwings and large velvet ants, yellow and crimson, a great green eye on each wing. The way goes into a small dip past a chocolate swamp, rising to a view of cotton candy arrowroot, mocha creamed asters. When we make the eighth turn, we enter a field of tall bone grass, iron shaped bent by sun and rain, a crisscrossing of shade and smell. The noises around us never deafening, but always present, chirps, geeks, glops, slocks, chings, slobbers, blimps, static and song—so many songs—and somehow so may harmonies. When we reach the ridge, we can see the Cloud Maker releasing clouds...