Stanzaic Stylings

I thought I saw your soul gazing into mine And, for just the  briefest moment I was somewhere else in time A place I'd forgotten where memories  still remain A place of long ago where once, I spoke your name Soaring high, above the sky My heart skips a beat In the feelings I so denied, now suddenly, let free I thought I saw your soul gazing into mine It was just a glimpse, a memory lost in time Lynn Long is an aspiring writer/novelist.

Skyward Another hot day at the playground filled with shrieks from kids tumbling down slides.   Shouting boys hop on and off the whirling carousel as girls sing songs to double dutch jump rope.   Waiting for my chance on the swing.  Finally one is free as I clutch the metallic link chains.   I pump myself up pushing pass trees, feeling cool breezes brush over me.   All the noise is far below as I rush towards blue skies.  My feet are walking on clouds now. 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

Moon over sad Cuba What have your blue moon eyes seen Upon this land of revolution   Where nothing has changed for over fifty years   What have your blue moon eyes seem Over hot Cuba Hot sex along the Malecon   The mist off the Strait of Florida Tasting the kisses of love   What have your blue moon eyes seen Over sultry Cuba Where dancing leads to love leads to sex Leads to life Where soft breezes touch the soft breasts of love   What have your blue moon eyes seen Over sunny Cuba Yes hot love hot sex And And cold- blooded murder Arm and arm in the sweaty breath of death   And the living love   What have your blue moon eyes seen Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally. He has Five books published: Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down, Blues For a Mustang, The Life and Lies of Calamity Jane and Bus Stop Bus Stop His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was

Askew   (after the painting by Kenneth Noland)                                                          In the perfect roundness of our space degree by degree in equal measure inequities abound      imperfections so slight no device can   calculate and rectify.     The earth’s orbit almost circular the planets’ elliptical and in life no reincarnation from birth to death and birth again no karmic echoes of our sins. 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 world.  He has been nominated twice for the  Pushcart Prize  and twice for  Best of the Net. Editors Note :  This is an ekphrastic poem and based on a work of modern art. The title of this poem is that of the original image 

What use is poetry? Last few dusks Have stolen the beauty On this stale evening The colors are a pale shadow of themselves The music Has forgotten its own voice The instruments whimper Melancholy clouds hope The air is heavy Sitting on my chest Breathing is an effort The oxygen is making me work With it And without it They have all given up Finding a sanctuary within their various addictions Abusing everyone and everything including their souls The onlookers only call a foul I am still here Sitting on my rocking chair Reading aloud poems Waiting For the new dusk to bring back the colours ©. Gauri Dixit A software professional from Pune (India), Gauri started writing poems couple of years ago. She writes in number f Facebook poetry groups. Her poems have been featured in multiple Indian and international anthologies. She has also contributed to a number of e-zines including Learning & Creativity, Glomag and Mind Creative (published from Sydney, Australia). She loves to read, write a

A MAP, A HISTORIOGRAPHY   The map of who we might be  binds itself to the paradox of the dead duck and lamb decompressed near the back fence. How did they come to be this way?   A swamp of flesh, a tide pool of artery and heartbeat, rind of cacti, rind of lemon, rind of orange the green taste of river gourd thick with mucus and algae inner workings of bile  the meat of the core all of the wisdom from the merchant of the moon   This is the map of foreplay the cartography of what comes after.

spring breeze... walking the curve of the labyrinth Bio: Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, short fiction and nonfiction. Dozens of her poems and short fiction pieces have been published online and in print internationally. She strives to find sparks of wonder in the ordinary.

For details and ordering instructions CLICK HERE It is such a pleasure to read work by a writer who understands and has a firm grasp on traditional poetic styles.  Basho, Bison and Kyoshi would be proud. This book delves into the everyday and ordinary life on the streets and suburban areas of Cleveland written with a classic yet modern view of the sights and sounds within the city. It is a testament to the poetic artistry Michael Ceraolo is able to express within this particular genre. A few examples: Winter scene --- my exhaled breath freezes on my eyelashes April --- bird shopping for food on my lawn Signs proclaiming  that land is available--- they'll kill the trees for you Economics depression --- even the dollar store goes out of business An uptempo tune --- the trees dance erratically to the storm"s music The haiku in this book tell stories with insight into city life and reflect wit, inspiration and compassion.  Each haiku delivering a message and/or statement. Reading

Night Ninja I was a night time ninja In my dreams. I woke up in a sweat, With nightmarish screams. Ninja warriors came at me From every direction- Punching and kicking My midsection. I hit the ninjas with A karate chop. Now all they do Is flip and flop. My poems have appeared in Oklahoma Today Magazine, Literary Yard, Poetry Pacific, Whispers in the Wind Blogspot,  Spillwords, Duane’s Poetree Blogspot and numerous other journals and newspapers. Mary has been wring since the age of twelve and has had two books of poetry published.

On Dying In A Mass Shooting  Bloody Chaos The door swings open rapid fire storm ensues my body hurls to the ground chaotic screams deadly thunder pops permeate bitter air pockets and I lie still. My friends, classmates scattered around me breathing dust, residue a warm sea of blood mingles with others saturating wooden floors and I lie still. I am slipping away soaked in death blood tears escape my eyes and I cannot see fear embodies my being I cannot move and I lie still. Mom and Dad, I love you my friends by my side, I love you don't let me die in vain resist the hate, the fear do it for me, do it for us the chaos stops and I lie still. All I ask is why,  please tell me why why, why? And I lie still forever.

Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer and musician has published several books of poetry, a novel and a libretto and worked with Arts Action For Peace. Poems have appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Poetry Pacific, Poetic Diversity, The Fib Review and others. Stefanie’s most recent titles – ‘Black Spring’ – Ginninderra Press; ‘The Vanishing’ – Walleah Press and ‘Blanks From The Other World’ [due May-June] are available from Amazon. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/ Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia.       HEARTS THAT DIE YOUNG for Vittoria Anna-Maria    [Stefanie Bennett]     I clutched the vision Of the magnolia, Fine as pollen... The coloured halo Of your hair.   Some hearts die young Without wilt or piety. These are the ones Mater dulcissima I offer you now.   And this you’d known all along. You took me walking As a child, and through Child eyes you pointed To the Imera’s silken flowing...   Ever young – “forever there” You said – and as I fingered Blood oranges By t