Stanzaic Stylings

A Vibrant Newness   The last vestige of winter lingers, as we await impatiently for spring to break forth Releasing in its majesty new life, as we recall from the deep recesses Memories of a vibrant newness brought in the rolling back of a stone.   Still ice crystals on my window when Aurora shows her smiling face The pale sun gingerly reveals herself, shy little beams of her precious light Inhaling the subtle fragrance of early confident red and yellow tulips. bravely defying Winter's last breath   The moon reflects in subtle hues, a blanket of calm, where turbulence is stilled. An undeserved gift- Respite from the maelstrom of daily life, which we will not allow being extinguished.   Warming my hands on my cup of hot tea, I wonder how the tulips sleep, set at rest by the shimmering moonlight Dreaming about another day where they can spread their petals flirting with the blushing Spring sun Jack Waller is a 79 years old resident of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. He has a Diploma in

The Moon and the Star He sleeps with the moon Exists in another world He is but a dream She is the starlight Shining bright All he ever needs

Wilbur the barn owl photo by Joanne Olivieri new moon new moon – the silent swoop of a barn owl Bio: Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, short fiction and nonfiction. Dozens of her poems and short fiction pieces have been published internationally online and in print. She strives to find sparks of wonder in the ordinary

Haiku Against the moonlight She flutters her wings breathless Kissing the night air

Shakespearean Baseball Sonnet #7 Lo, in the Orient was the graceful light: No words left for him to conquer at home, He would become an Occidental sight. Playing the game with sacred majesty, He would scale the top of the outfield wall And sit there to take a homer away. And he would dare the baserunners to run On the arm from the Land of the Midnight Sun. And facing the fastest pitches with care He could deftly place the ball anywhere. On base he'd disrupt a pitcher's rhythm And then steal bases any time on him. And though late through the American portal, The beauty of his game is immortal. Bio:   "Michael Ceraolo is a retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had one full-length book (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press) and a few chapbooks published (among the chapbooks is Cleveland Haiku, from Green Panda Press). He has a second full-length book, Euclid Creek Book Two, forthcoming from unbound content press, and is continually working on new and existi

HOME GROWN      The Dust Devil family Spins Like a top, Kicks Like a mule, And won’t Ever forsake The past For last... BiO: Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer and musician has published several books of poetry,a novel and a libretto, and works with Arts Action For Peace. Poems have appeared inShot Glass Journal, Poetry Pacific, The Fib Review, Poetic Diversity and others.Stefanie’s most recent titles ‘Black Spring’ – Ginninderra Press; ‘The Vanishing’ WalleahPress and ‘Blanks From The Other World’ [due May – June] are available from Amazon.Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett- Shawnee] Stefanie was born in Queensland.Australia.

 Micro Poem The day is cold The sky is gray Beneath the covers is where I'll stay Warm inside my  snug cocoon I lie awake and dream of you

DECEMBER MORN Ice halos every bare bedraggled tree. Garden withers out of sight. The box-hedge browns but holds its shape. Along the fence sprout tiny pines, all ghosts of Christmas past, green candles flamed by sun. Morning rays glisten off snow mounds, melt the flakes on bedroom windows. Out of warm flannel sheets, a family emerges, a yawning but instructive lesson in how bodies come to be. The father wobbles and looms above all others like a bewhiskered moose. The mother follows in his shadow, a trail of trembling bones, chilly breath, on course for the thermostat. Children trampoline bounce to cold, unfriendly floor, dare the weather to slow their progress. The life in fields, in woods, is sporadic, maybe a hare, its coat winter white, or a squirrel burrowing aimlessly for its forgotten cache. But the people lead, fill the spaces of the house with cheery voices, clattering kitchen sounds, the hiss of water boiling, the ra

               July 14, 1881 Garfield: I once considered correspondence to be the great drudgery of my life, but now my goal is to recover enough to resume that 'great drudgery' Guiteau: "When all these matters, my life,              my address                                 etc. get before the public and they know just why I assassinated the president there will be a big reaction in my favor I don't know how long I will have to remain here It depends on how soon the president dies."

A Taint of Pity is a journey through poetic excellence. Ken Allen Dronsfield is constantly surprising me with his complex works of art. Yes, it is sheer art that when reading it becomes a canvas of words mingling in a masterpiece of truth, wisdom and beauty, This poet exemplifies the craft of poetry with his effortless strokes of ebb and flow. He writes a contemporary message with traditional expertise which is very rare in this day and age. Very few poets have been able to write with these extraordinary qualities. His imagery and story telling is exciting and has you anxiously awaiting the next stanza. His imagery as in the poem Lunatique brings forth the limitless bounds to which he can create these unique poems. Sylvia Plath comes to mind when reading many of his works. Works like Infernal ooze a heartfelt and powerful message with ease and grace. I am a huge fan of Ken's work and when I think about that old saying "You can't improve upon perfection" that sayi