Stanzaic Stylings

Dreams One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams. You'll be dead by then, unable to protect them any more. They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams. They'll want them for sure, they'll want them. They'll want them to try and find you, to try and discover who you were. They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt, seeing what they can find. Digging up the dirt to see what they can find  in there. They'll discard this piece here, another piece there. Dross from the dried up remnants, They'll hang on to the moist bits. The juicy bits are worth further analysis. You may be in there. In your dreams. Someone else will scrabble to catch  the dry pieces, those fragments of dreams thrown away. The little pieces blown away in the air. Little snippets, dreamlets. But there are flakes of gold hidden there. I hope they don't find them. First published in Anti-Heroin Chic, February 2016 Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is i...

TWO WOMEN IN A CAFÉ TALKING Two women in a cafe talking honestly. "...like an attempt  to murder," one said. The sun lifted its mane behind the clouds. "More like an attempt at suicide," replied the second, and when she laughed, her front tooth wiggled. A soft drizzle rainbowed down the window. "...an attempt at love," answered the first and a blue river opened a path within the clouds. "Yes, that's it. An attempt at love."

THIS IS HOW YOU COMPOSE A LOVE POEM The sparrow hawk in the tree is not who I am, lemon seed, flicker brush, the decay of skunk grass.   I follow to where the path goes through the belly of bark into the skinny trail of hammer thronged ants,   wheel bird beetles and a flourish of sapsucker bees. Here the way is blocked, here the way continues,   This is how you compose a love poem from the sighting  of a bird on a tree near the cone heads and boulders,   the end of a plain and a playing field, a thin waterway,  the land of flesh eating darters and mud bottom bass.

Sorry to bug you again, you know I’m a PITA, Got some leftovers of light for us, God? It’s Whitsun today  - OK, it doesn’t show, but I can’t blame you Can I, only I sorry need blue blankets, It’s May’s fault, he’s running amok To breed cold lights, coughs, Wild skies, our only option On the outskirts of a light we die for, On the fringes of a light where we snuggle up Nonchalant to heartburn and trinkets  - Know what, God, sometimes our souls Are sort of lawns suburban matrons In slippers and bikinis trample  - See how the smashed cows stumble  - Or maybe it’s warriors in chukka boots Who trample, leave pitch black prints, Oh, and toddlers running riot on trikes, Toys anywhere, alien contraptions all over To bite and bruise, nope, I kid you not  - Green? Maybe a lovely veneer, But lilac and periwinkle went AWOL Or lost in action  - Ancient stones are hissing They spotted them hidden in ladies’ hair, Or so they sigh in a disturbance of colours, McDonald's ba...

quiet envelops the trees leaves speak foreign tongues ancient manuscript joanneolivieri.weebly.com

Skeletons In The Closet by, Melissa R. Mendelson Green light seeped through the closet door as the door knob slowly turned, and I tossed and turned in bed. Darkness turned green as the door slowly opened, but the coldness shook me awake in time to turn on the lights. The door slammed shut as I jumped out of bed and approached the closet door. My hand hesitated on the knob before pulling the door open to reveal nothing. The dust bunnies greeted me while my clothes were pushed together, but there was nothing else in there except for corners of spider webs. I closed the door and headed back to bed, but something made me pause as I glanced back at the door. I pulled my wooden, brown chair over and leaned it against the door. I then curled up in bed and turned off the lights as green light appeared under the door, but the door remained shut. I shuddered beneath the white covers as the door knob continued to turn and whispered ...

Burning Kisses by, Melissa R. Mendelson His lips brushed my neck and caressed the skin until it found the spot and bit into me. His teeth gnawed into the skin as I stared ahead into a harvest moon while he drank my life away. He lowered me to the ground as he slid like a shadow into and through my shivering body, and his face filled the moon. His lips brushed my face with red as I licked my lips and stared into his eyes while his lips settled on my ear. He pulled me into him as my skin shivered in the moonlight, and I held him closer as he bit down into me again. He was gentle like a lover while his bite was sweet like burning kisses upon my flesh as I moaned for more. Then, he just held me as my last breath slipped into the breeze, and I opened my mouth to drink his love from him into me. http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com

A Step Away by, Melissa R. Mendelson Behind the curtains of time, change is but only a step away, for without change, the world would be endless, caught up in the same routine. Swept up in time, we march forward to the tune of change, but those who no longer hear the winds of change are left behind in a world gone gray. Only in time do we find our true selves and possibly why we were born, but for us to discover that, we must keep moving forward. Otherwise, the world will move ahead of us, leaving us with nothing but the past, and then we must wait to slip back into time and retrace our footsteps toward the unknown future.\ http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com

Aftermath How can it be that someone I don't see,  only think  about sometimes, but never contact, or try to, leaves such a gap, in their final leaving. My life has not been changed. All is the same. So why the difference now that you're really in the past, when you were already part of my past and not of my future. Nothing has changed for me, not really, not in reality. So why do you occupy my thoughts in a different way. Why does my future feel different now you cannot be part of it, even though you never would be and I knew it. Perhaps because I can no longer dream you there. But why not when you could never be there and I knew it the same then,  as I know now. Why is it different, now even to dream? First published in With Painted Words, July 2015 Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy ...

THE GHOST TREE The ghost tree reflected in the window white as blood-free linen does not move to the beat of the wind. It forms no shadow, makes no nest for a family of squirrels, no flurry of leaves, no glitter of sunlight, nothing compromised, nothing overridden.   We look to the street to find its nature, see only yellowing blossoms on young trees a starting of green, but the ghost tree is nowhere. This is how it is when it is nothing at all.   Later we hear the scraping of feet, the breathing of air when the wind stops, the sudden fist of a limb cracking.   Somewhere violence happens: a tree limb in a window.

Seasons of Love Spring Tide Green I wore green that night when we danced how we danced at the picnic during     spring lustrous and green. Rainfalls flooded the air where we danced. You left whispering sweet words       kissing my eyes closed. Sliding under green green waters slipping sliding over night      hiding in nebulae turning we dance finding your hand how we dance this endless night. Last Summer Golden sunshine spilling over cathedrals of trees forest of summer. Your eyes are oceans of light beams of light soft beaming dancing through rivers of memory. Forest of rivers drowning in oceans of eyes. Your eyes when sunset spreads over sand dunes warm golden. Stars gliding past heaven as night explodes in cathedrals of light. We bed down together in forest of memories your body so strong golden last summer with you. Ap...

Hey, wassup, waiting for some lousy harvests After sowing tears? Afraid not, those merry darlings elves and fairies love, Haven’t got time for her gifts, no time no room, Only the odd smile, a sprinkling of sweet sweet words Then high time for bites when the cheap magenta sky Makes her dizzy - Here come rejections, the wild scene, a creepy set Scattered across mashed limbs and western souls - Why are the meadows your voice Loved to haunt so silent? Didn’t you know? It’s the latest fad, all the rage this silence Haunting huts, condos, mansions, semis, oh, and who built them, Unredeemed  hands perhaps? Sorry, can’t remember - No voices, great, nothing but her eyes Deeply set on creepy deals, no probs, trust me, Dancers or smiling parties alfresco don’t give a damn For  questions or shattering eyes, they’ll play dumb if you hand around Pats or yellow chrome – deal? No, I won’t cool down, I saw it all, I saw her gasping the name of God, I saw craven souls fretting over the sudden ...

painting by Joan Miró Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird (painting by Joan Miró) A little bird with its wings on fire by Neil Ellman beating faster than a hummingbird’s circles a woman afraid to move hears the beating of her heart and feels the shiver In her loins.    She knows the secret meaning of its courting flight       its twists its swirls        the hovering fancy of its desire the urgency in its blood to touch and be touched itself for the sake of everlasting life. A woman encircled by the flight of a little bird with its wings on fire is not the least deceived by its cunning and deceit. 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 worl...

HAZE by, Melissa R. Mendelson Forget is what I am afraid to do, ignoring the dreams inside my heart that cry out in my mind to not disappear, but disappear they will, if I allow myself to forget everything that I ever hoped to become and do. My dreams will vanish, and it won’t be time that will steal them away. It will be the cloud inside my mind, fogging my thoughts, burying my dreams, and if I am lucky, I might remember them. Otherwise, forget I will the dreams of my future that could have brought true happiness and meaning to my life. http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com