Stanzaic Stylings

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 to continuously search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest collection is APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press). approximate wilderness by John S

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.

Plastic A cold wind blows  as I stroll along  the empty path  through the dollhouse  and through the plastic  buildings that surround it.  The world is behind me,  and the blank faces  of the porcelain dolls  gives me no comfort  for they can't see  the woman inside me.  If I could just melt away  this prison  that I have been trapped in  for too long  and jump  back into the water,  I could swim again  in the river of life  and feel  maybe the love  of one  I wish for.  In the meantime,  my time is spent  here in the dollhouse  and the plastic buildings,  listening to the voices  of those empty dolls  living a life  that I dream.  http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com

Humanity Within Cold nights  light the stage  of the loneliness  that I am imprisoned in.  The stars above still don't shine,  and your eyes still avoid me.  Am I the fear  of what could happen to you?  Am I your reality  if things get harder,  if your world falls apart? I am your shadow  as you walk past my cardboard box,  and I am in you,  the humanity  that you carry  but never tap into.  Here I lay,  starving at your feet,  asking for a few dollars,  or just for some food.  All you have to do  is open your heart,  open your mind,  and wrap me in the humanity  that you carry within.  Why should I  and those across the globe  suffer in poverty  when all we need  is for you to help  us stand back up  in this world?  The days would be warm,  and the nightmare would finally be over  as the stars shine again.  All that is needed   is the humanity inside.  http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/

Labyrinth In the maze of our minds,  the walls are etched  with what we do not  want to know  or want to remember.  The walls could paint  the best of our memories,  but some betray us  to reveal what we can't face.  Yet, the walls remain  in the maze of our minds  as we weave in and out  toward the core of our soul.  No matter how far we go,  we can't ignore  our true feelings inside  or moments that we want to forget.  They will always be there  until we face the wall.  Then, it will fall to reveal a road  not yet discovered  or a door that we could walk through  to our dreams.  As we continue to live within ourselves,  these walls etched with time  will phase in and out  until we are finally ready to become ourselves. http://channillo.com/series/ lizardian/ Click here for Glass Skies Over Home on Amazon.com

i n t r o s p e c t i o n I look down into the river, and I see an Old Woman staring back at Me. Her hair has been changed by the elements of time, and Her cheeks are dampened, by the bitterness in the air. But Her eyes glisten in the moonlight, just the same. She tells Me, in secret, that She will never allow Herself to be hurt like that again. And so Her mind lives elsewhere, making plans for the future, while attempting to put Her past behind Her. I try to console Her, but every time I begin to speak, She turns away. You see: I think She’s as wonderful on the inside, as She is beautiful on the outside. And sometimes, she can appear to be almost youthful and free. But she won’t hear My words; She won’t listen to Me. ~laura j. minning excerpt from “dear diary” published by vantage press c. december 2003 Laura Minning  began writing creatively at the age of nine. She’s become an award winning publi

Self infliction It's a pestering virus disturbing my brain waves. A continuous silent command compelling myself to elevate into higher levels, even when it wears me out, makes me sleepless and restlessly insecure The worst epiphenomenon of  this ambitious virus is DOUBT Doubt of one's own ability. When successes fail the inner self  crashes into a severe downfall, resulting in unmitigated apathy ... I think I will sleep for days now. © Daginne Aignend Bio Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne started to write English poetry four years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her website www.daginne.com

Identify This Man I’ve seen him some place before, the guy the TV news showed wheel a thousand inch flat screen out of Walmart without paying, I’ve seen him somewhere; I’ve seen so many faces and places, crowds full, lobbies and terminals, waiting in line for this or that, ball games and fair grounds, town squares, main streets, side streets, out a window, they all walk by eventually; new faces join the old more familiar faces, people I went to school with, people I passed on the highway home; I have grouped them, typed them, added new features to the old ones; I’ve seen him some place before like a face recognition program, I scan and lock in on him, seen him before wheeling a smaller set out of the same Walmart five years ago, one wheel on the cart wobbled just so and he threw down the cigarette he was smoking when he saw me scan him in, he knew I’d know him next time, this time, I know him, the type, his features, he blends with the others, becomes a

Train Wreck 9/29/16 Train wrecks, like this one, are apropos of nothing. If we could only prepare for them And have them occur when we are in condition to cope with their seeming abruptness, The surprise of them, have them occur when we can plan our schedule around them, Call off meetings and appointments, set aside other plans, other considerations. Have them occur when our emergency folks are primed and standing by, hospitals ready For the “walking wounded” and the others, operating rooms ready, ICUs and morgues. They are apropos of nothing, or perhaps they are apropos of everything we live with. Our morning is traveling on, on track, our day is set with routine, the expected, and Then they interrupt the regular program with a bulletin and then our day becomes yet Another train wreck, like the others we have lived through, or didn’t. J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have ap

November Morning Leaves are no match for me, Mulching mower and all Stepping out, following The design I remember From summer when all These leaves were in full Green, waving, blooming Seeming to cheer me on As the mower chopped and Spit out bits of grass, but Now they’ve yellowed and Quieted, fall slowly down Lie there waiting; I become The grim reaper, the chopper Down, the mowing mulcher, The dragger away, the sole Survivor cleaning up what’s Left of our term, our seasons; The grass, the tree and its leaves Go by, victims of these cold November nights, and I mow on Following the pattern I know So well, become a small part of This greater scheme of things. J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in  Social Justice Poetry,   Tuck Magazine, Yellow Chair Review ,  Synchronized Chaos , and  Haikuniverse .