Stanzaic Stylings

SeaScape II Let's dive in ocean hiss swish riding with blue whales, bluewaves. Brush of foam and windy ripples sunbeams chasing quicksilver fish. Floating through our shining world fragrant clouds, feathery clouds. We weave one arm after another wearing bracelets of salt pearl. 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. 

Bolivian Rhythms I remember these tunes so vividly in my mind Bolivian rhythms wafting across the square. Haunting flutes echo against once forgotten senses. The memories linger sweet incantations swirling pulses throughout my veins. Ethnic vibrations chanting strings tell of the stories hidden in my soul. joanneolivieri.weebly.com Website

IT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR DYING ON ME She lies in bed, near death, her face pale as a wedding veil. I used to think of death as Africa, a country so far, so mysterious, where I or no one I knew would ever set foot. A wedding veil? I must be recalling the photograph in the album - half her face hidden in lace. And Africa... a car stops at a red light, its speakers thumping like jungle drums. Only the past wears wedding veils now. Today's bride must be seen to be believed. And Africa is front and center in the brochure I pick up from the travel agency. I can get there in a heartbeat, not in a heart that beats no more. Beliefs don't die. They just get more ridiculous. And comparisons don't wear so well. Or are lifetimes out of fashion. Here is someone with the sense draining out of her, who cannot speak or remember, whose arm-tubes feed her like she's in a womb. Ah, babies -there was one -just one - snapshot ...

THERE IS A BIRD There is a bird that sings outside all the time as the sun begins blazing away. Inside I keep cool. The bird sings of desire. It wants to tell its tale. The tender song gets me out of bed. I fight the sun and make my way outside to start the day. In July 2016 Kendra Steiner Editions published my latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine.  The chapbook could be ordered through Kendra Steiner Editions, who also publish music as well. https://kendrasteinereditions. wordpress.com/2016/07/15/new- poetry-chapbook-from-luis- cuauhtemoc-berriozabal-make- the-light-mine-kse-364/ Bio: Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA.  His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in online and print journals.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. 

WETTING THE IVY I can’t stand people who love certainty, but I’m definite about how I want the ivy watered. You can begin by filling the sitting-room samovar, and then both of us will lug it outside. We’re going to accidentally spill it at the base of the stucco wall, and you could do far worse than to take your cue from me: when I exclaim “oops!” and suddenly lower and drop my end of the samovar, you best follow suit, and we’ll both jump back and watch the silver top fly open, and I’m sure as anything the water inside isn’t going to procrastinate, ‘won’t hesitate a moment to flood a small area, ‘won’t hesitate a second to soak the swell ivy. William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as  Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanok...

  Without a Prayer “All we can do now is wait,” they say, but there was a time when they would have said, “All we can do now is pray,” but today we have devalued prayer and thus are left with just waiting, that void, that wasteland we fill with possible scenarios, those imagined outcomes we are full of, always ready to play out, pray out – the doctor coming in to say it all went well, or he says the opposite and things come tumbling down, or finally your child is pulling in the driveway with stories of why they are late, didn’t call, or the police pull in and grief is written all over the moment –  our imaginings play out all the variations, the good outcome, the bad; we fill in the blanks in our lives with stories we hope for, with stories we dread, with something that somehow seems like a prayer. J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermo n t and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in  Social Justice Poetry, ...

One Tuesday Morning  The world was moving, she was floating above it a painted fairy skirting wispy clouds silk cobwebs against a field of crystal blue as twisted metal rained down from the skies. Shattered glass pierced the coldest heart amidst bags of broken bone and skin and blood spilled on the ground the world crumbled right before our eyes. Night must fall now.... darker, darker pure evil buried beneath smoking rubble the dust of death filled up our lungs weary minds tainted with terror and fright. Feeble, we crawled out of the wreckage emerging from the dark of night and she was waiting there, lantern aglow  promising a new world of hope and light. Colleen Keller Breuning © 2016 Col leen Keller B reuning is a poet and photographer who was born and raised in Maryland. She currently resides in Purcellville, Virginia with her husband and cats, Tommy and Jordan. Her poetry, short stories and photography have been published ...

Winter 1972 The grass blades on the lee side of the house were crisp as over-starched linen; walked on they crunched like gravel, lapped by a tongue of snow that shelved to deeper water. By mid-morning the bird prints were arranged in neat, vertical columns like Chinese writing. The sky was the color of boiled rice. Meanwhile, my father, decked out like a submarine commander, practiced his short irons on the drawing room carpet. Keeping his eye on an imaginary ball he fantasized a succession of six-inch putts. “Don’t go too far,” he said, my hand already pulling shut the screen door. I imagined the distraction causing him to slice one in a greenside bunker. Outside the air was tense as stretched elastic. The frozen river had the scrubbed-clean look of a fishmonger’s table. With ruthless efficiency a snow plow filleted the boned road bare. Born in London, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet and  journalist whose work has appeared extensively in the USA,  UK, India and China. His m...

Small Worlds I Painting by  Wassily Kandinsky Small Worlds I (painting by Wassily Kandinsky) Not an iota      not a dot barely more than a particle of light a syllable      a single word a fragment of a sentence without a point       and yet contains  multitudes of meaning myriad colors on a never-ending wheel the shape of infinity in a drop of blood       on the hands of time— how small these worlds this universe       in the darkness of an amaranthine night waiting for the light      the word and the cries of a child about to be born. 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 an...

Dance Dance for me on the moon of equity Dance for me song of humility  Dance for ever to be free Dance with a shadow on my shoulder Dance for ever or for no more Dance at life's revolving door Dance on wings of light Dance both day and light Dance your dreams away Dance for years and life Dance through your strife Dance to become free Dance for anyone but Dance for me

Ghosts of Me Glimpses of a ghost tells me that she is there still, and time has not made her fade away. The black holes of my life have not kept her, and the golden skies of my dreams has not found her. She is there beside me, and I am her in a blink. Inside me, she sleeps along the scars of my mistakes and of my nightmares, and she looks out into a world that still doesn't see me. They will is what my heart whispers, and I can feel time drawing close. The future is coming near. I was hoping to leave this person that I once was behind, but she is there holding my hand, a faded picture of me. We are ready to take on the world and see our dreams found. http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com

A Place In Your Heart A restless heart, a starry night, a yearning still unknown For something I had yet to find I ventured out alone As I arrived an angel's voice rang out of the blue Suddenly I made my choice, the answer lies with you Is there a place in your heart for me Somewhere I could belong Something in your eyes says wait and see Is there a place in your heart for me Should I trust this certainty that fate has brought me here The magic and the mystery could quickly disappear But pictures dance inside my head of stories yet untold And all the things I've left unsaid I long to have and hold Is there a place in your heart for me Somewhere I could belong Something in your eyes says wait and see Is there a place in your heart for me Watching you I feel the music play inside of me Have I finally found the one to hear my melody Is there a place in your heart for me Somewhere I could belong Something in your eyes says wait and see This is the place I want to be Is there a plac...

The Pindaric Ode One of my favorite styles of poetry is called the Pindaric Ode named after the Greek poet Pindar. It is basically an enthusiastic and elaborately designed lyric which was composed by the poet Pindar. It’s comprised of a strophe and anti strophe and epode. I know, it’s all Greek to me too. A strophe is a turning as a chorus moving to one side. An antistrophe is the counter-turn as the chorus moves in the opposite direction. An epode is a standing still of the chorus. These were all used in plays and choruses. In general terms or plain English the strophe would consist of four rhyming lines with the first and third lines rhyming and the second and fourth lines rhyming. The antistrophe consists of two exact rhymed lines followed by two short rhymed lines in contrast to the strophe. The epode is the ending which consists of one line rhyming with the two shorts. I know this is confusing so here is an example. This is a pindaric ode I wrote several years ago for a religiou...

As poets we have the ability to encapsulate our thoughts and ideas and create lasting impressions with words. There are literally thousands of poetic styles. The etheree is a strict form in which the structure is limited to ten lines and ten syllables. Much like a pyramid in form, the poem will begin with one syllable and end with a 10 syllable line. Or, it can be reversed with the first line employing 10 syllables and the last line one. It may seem an easy form however it is very difficult to write this style with the necessary components of imagery and flow. Below is a quickly written example to give you an idea of how the poem should be created and what it should look like when completed. Are you a poet of life who creates poems with love and passion? Who in nature is peaceful and serene as a tranquil waterfall flowing freely into the depths of the mind cleansing the spirit, caressing the heart. I wrote this very quickly without any attention to imagery but rather form and st...

THE LAZY GONDOLIER Rumor has it you’ve cast your lot With one lazy gondolier, a melodious jerk Who barcarolles with the very best of them, But isn’t worth a crap when it comes To finding treasure in the Lido’s squooshy turf At daytime’s lowest tide. Oh he can expertly Steady his boat into wasp-waisted slips And rough-sea piers, but give your guy a shovel— Even show him exactly where to dig or scoop— And damned if he’ll ever turn over one ducat Or even a corroded and encrusted bracelet. Moreover, everybody sees he never breaks a sweat, Never pants like a strung-out greyhound From genuine exertion, which is why I rush To call him lazy. But now confide in me, pretty- Pretty please: is he the selfsame way when he’s Practically all by himself? (You know, when He’s with no one except the likes of you?) 

SeaScape  I Hearing waves from a distance and feeling sea breezes brush our faces, it seemed a century before we came to the ocean. So blue and bright to our eyes its rhythm broke chains of unremarkable days. Over cool sand we ran and you picked three perfect shells which fit inside each other.  Swimming away in that moving expanse below kiss of fine spray and splashes. With clouds cumulus we drifted while gulls circled the island.  Together we discovered beds of morning glories climbing soft dunes. 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....

 Speech The problem with public speaking is the public part, That group there to observe, listen, absorb your words; You know them well, have played that part many times, You feel their discomfort with their passive role; at first They feel a moment of empathy, imagine themselves Alone up there about to speak, then they move on to Discover the nature of the speaker, you this time, and They watch for nervous gestures, any break in your voice, Before they begin to weigh what you have to say; you Know their part, and now at the lectern, podium, pulpit On stage you begin your part, the one you watched often Enough that you can play both parts out in your head, Speaker and the spoken to; you adjust the mike and then Search their faces, search the silence you need to fill and Begin; the things that sounded so good in your head mock You, form an echo, play out in a voice you don’t know, The voice of the stranger you have become, the words Bounce around, lose focus; the other you sits in t...

THE ORDINARY STARS So tired of looking at the stars that become so ordinary as I count them one by one. Perhaps I get tired of counting them instead of looking at them as something beautiful and not so ordinary. July 2016 Kendra Steiner Editions published my latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine.  The chapbook could be ordered through Kendra Steiner Editions, who also publish music as well. https://kendrasteinereditions. wordpress.com/2016/07/15/new- poetry-chapbook-from-luis- cuauhtemoc-berriozabal-make- the-light-mine-kse-364/ Bio: Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA.  His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in online and print journals.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. 

YOU ARE SO GOOD TO ME words & music Jerry Holland c. Heebalibra Music / BMI Life is hard, filled with stress But you treat me with such tenderness That's why I feel as lucky as can be My bones are tired, I scrape along And yet I sing a thankful song Cause you are so good to me Love is rare, time is swift And every hour a fleeting gift A gift that comes without a guarantee But when I'm down, battered and blue No matter if you're hurting too You are so good to me In silent hours I pray Never will I take your love for granted For at the dark end of the day You make my night a world enchanted Lightning strikes, thunder roars The wind it howls, and rain it pours But in your arms I'm wrapped up peacefully You're sweet and kind, never mean You make this girl feel like an English Queen You are so good to me You are so good to me... www.sonyholland.com

Morning New Day - my feet meet the floor - Smooth pine - The planks creaks from the Ancient - each step - a ritual of tones - our silent prayer. --Dianne Robitaille Dianne Robitaille is an editor for the Ibbetson Street Press. Her work has appeared widely in the small press. She was the secretary for the New England Poetry Club, and is a graduate of Regis College in Weston, Mass.

Aquatic Wanderlust Dancing waves ebb and flow to nature's percussion as I silently become entranced in aqueous vibrato pulsating gently softly caressing nocturnal rhythms. mypoeticjourney.weebly.com

No Longer Are You Mine Your piercing eyes see through A mirror to my soul Our love , my heart, we grew You were what made me whole I now no longer smile When thoughts of you appear Pleasure, but for a while Fades away, my dear. With lips as sweets as wine You kissed my cares away No longer are you mine Forever and today. Chorus: No longer are you mine Forever and today We simply sip some wine And toast our love away ~~~~~~~~ Your soft and gentle touch Soothed my every need I loved you, oh so much Now my heart can only bleed. We shared our every thought Each moment a fantasy Of late we only fought Unforgiving on bended knee. I must now thank you so For the joy you gave to me Seems a lifetime ago Again, I am now free. Chorus: No longer are you mine Forever and today We simply sip some wine And toast our love away joanneolivieri.weebly.com mypoeticjourney.weebly.com

IN HIS HANDS In his hands he holds the shadows and the sun that shines. Magically, he holds a rose and a yellow sunflower that Van Gough painted with his last brush stroke. He holds a gift that keeps on giving, a burning rose saved from oblivion. In his hands the world was born. In July 2016 Kendra Steiner Editions published my latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine.  The chapbook could be ordered through Kendra Steiner Editions, who also publish music as well. https://kendrasteinereditions. wordpress.com/2016/07/15/new- poetry-chapbook-from-luis- cuauhtemoc-berriozabal-make- the-light-mine-kse-364/   Bio: Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA.  His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in online and print journals.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. 

Wet Soil Beneath My Hand by, Melissa R. Mendelson  This world was haven once, and life was destiny to be written and remembered. And then the ground broke, and everything fell apart. Where forests stood now stand concrete. The taste of fresh air is now stale and congested. Dreams loved the silver lining on clouds now grown dark, and nature suffers, weeping still from what she lost. This world is locked in a vice that we call our own, and all those free to roam now run toward extinction. Ghosts are left behind in fearful eyes of the ones hoping that we do not steal them away from life, from this world, but we still hunt. No satisfaction lies within hunger of human nature, and extinction is our end result. But what will happen when time comes for us, and nature with all her fury unleashes all her spirit upon us? Will we too fade away, or will we realize this world once a haven is now being destroyed by us because we never seem to get enough of the hunt, of shopping malls, or endles...

ENCUMBERED  Forged sight conveyed a portrayal of lack,  Aged fingers grasped firmly around desire. She carried its burden upon her back, Perched heavily upon wearied shoulders. Eyes once filled with hope, faded miles ago, Now blinded to a path left abandoned. Walking the old road, in circles; she goes, Encumbered by a fate she imagined. Foolish is the mind which takes up the torch, Of worn travelers whose sight betrayed them. Licking the flames; dreams unwittingly scorched, A once budding rose, left only a stem. To break free from the grip of days gone by, Bears gifts, seen only through an open eye.

AS YOU ARE Music and Lyrics: Jerry Holland You’re a man of many moods Sudden silent interludes Like a summer storm that’s slowly brewing Morning clouds and  midnight  sun Mixed emotions on the run Can’t you see the hurt in what you’re doing Sometimes I don’t understand you I wish I could command you To let your feelings show through Heart to heart don’t you know I will always love you The light and dark sides of you I’ll take you as you are Whisper low in careless rhymes Like wind blowing through the chimes Let your blues become as light as laughter Lose yourself in sweet amore Lie upon my peaceful shore What more could you seek for ever after Sometimes I don’t understand you, I wish I could command you To let your feelings show through, Heart to heart deep down I I wish that I could save you, But I can only love you, And take you as you are Final chorus Sometimes I don’t understand you, Wish I could command you To let your feelings show through, Heart to heart don’t you know...

As each day passes I realize that I was given one more day for whatever reason. May I find it. With each day I realize I was gifted with one more day, and that helps me want to become someone who does good things unto others, and treat today with love Blessings to you all and have a great day! You could be gone tomorrow, love today I still believe in respecting our woman... No one can take that away from me. Open her door, allow her to enter first, and be a Gentleman. “Remember, buying something is not the problem. The problem comes when we believe, for that moment, that the object we’re buying is going to make us happy.” “The world always pays you less than you are worth. Don't sell yourself short even further.” Life as Serendipity How much of yourself is really you? Construct yourself and build YOU. Knowledge is everywhere..go get some and apply it. The more you know the better off you will be in this world! READ, READ, READ , AND keep READING !

The Unpredictable Sea (previously published 2011 in Eye of the Needle) The sea, an angry huntress, thrusts itself upon the sea rover. Wild winds hamper massive sails. The ocean’s white foam curls; thunderous waves explode against the bluff. The sea is fearless and wants to be in control but the mariner is relentless. He struggles to assert his authority. As he shouts to the heavens. the mariner’s scream is carried away. His body crumbles; the ocean once more defeats man  and again assumes command. Bio: Pat St. Pierre is a freelance writer for both adults and children in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. She has had three poetry books published. Her latest is "Full Circle" and was published by Kelsay Books. Her work has been on in ezines and in print. She is also an amateur photographer whose photos have been on the covers and included in ezines and print. Her most recent photo is on the cover of Touch, The Journal of Healing" issue 19. Her blog is www.pstpierre.word...

MAKE AMERICA GRATE AGAIN           by Stephen Dreyfuss Let’s make America grate again, grate like grated cheese And shred that solid voting block, bring Justice to her knees Let’s make America Grate again, grate like grated cheese Bring our great democracy, down on humbled knees Just like grated cheese, the voting block is shredded bit by bit With our newsy infotainment, the truth does take a hit Those glory days those happy days, so difficult to resist Dreaming of times those gone by, but just when did they exist? Now when was our true greatness at its greatest peak? 1890’s…..1980’s, politicians dare not speak Or specify which time it was our enemies were proven weak And all our citizens worked together, like a pump without a leak Memories of the golden days, America was truly great Let me find my pen and paper so I can record the date… Was that when we shot the natives right off the prairie plains? ...

THE MEADOW  (c) 2008 Danielle Pierre Intently, she veers off a path of gloom, wandering into a meadow, soft hue, full in bloom. Tossed sporadically, flowers shading  tomorrow , amongst strangling weeds, breeding yesterday’s sorrow; she picks a flower while wandering through, its fragrance familiar, a scent fading; you. A drop of memory falls from her eye, watering soil with days gone by. A new path ahead leads to love, new  tomorrow ; she sets down the flower, and with it her sorrow; joyous anticipation accompanies fresh ground; she glances back at what was, as flowers wither; abound. http://daniellepierre.net

ONE MILLION EYES  (c) 2009 Danielle Pierre Weaving in and out I lost my way, distorted by my own soul grieving; yearning for sight to shed its light and direct me to where you stand; the sun did rise and lit up the skies, not to find you, but to see them. And before my sight cried one million eyes, damp and dimming, they waited. They probed my eyes where they found the sun, shadowed by their own reflection; as they turned away I swallowed my shame, letting it catch in my throat, whence I choked;  for one million eyes seeped, in vain. And before my sight cried one million eyes, damp and dimming, they waited. While just beyond the silent skies through this maze of dark and light, again came your cries where I found your eyes caressing their pain, and I wept; for the sun had set upon their lids, now dark and dry, they slept http://daniellepierre.net