Stanzaic Stylings

John Patrick Robbins  Is the editor of both The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers.  His work is often referred to as being outlaw poetry although he prefers to call it barroom instead . His work has been published in. Ariel Chart , The Mojave River Review , Red Fez, Blognostics , Romingos Porch , Synchronized Choas , Piker Press , Outlaw Poetry Network , Horror Sleaze Trash ,Blue Pepper , Academy Of The Heart And Mind,  A Beautiful Space,  Inbetween Hangovers . His work is always unfiltered.  Last Call Empty bottles and myself have much in common and little to share.  We stand as statues and are better thrown away than collecting dust . The party is over and another will be left to clean up after this mess I leave behind . I can imagine them cussing me as they survey the wreckage wondering how someone could live as I have . Judging me never knowing my truths . I wonder will they question why I never left any scraps of paper behind. Was I not a writ...

Lighthouse The lighthouse ruled the lonely peak Warning ships of danger Yet in the foggy night Came the cry of a stranger. Her name was the Fiery Irish Most beautiful ship on the seas A jealous mistress from Dublin Capturing sailor's hearts with ease. The sailors bewared of her anger None dared raise her ire at sea But the sailor who crossed her that night Would simply cease to be. They whisper her name in pubs still And ponder her link to the Fates So many sailors have vanished The lighthouse waits.

John Patrick Robbins  Is the editor of both The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers.  His work is often referred to as being outlaw poetry although he prefers to call it barroom instead . His work has been published in. Ariel Chart , The Mojave River Review , Red Fez, Blognostics , Romingos Porch , Synchronized Choas , Piker Press , Outlaw Poetry Network , Horror Sleaze Trash ,Blue Pepper , Academy Of The Heart And Mind,  A Beautiful Space,  Inbetween Hangovers . His work is always unfiltered.  Old Dogs And Young Fleas I respected the old dogs the most when it came to writing . They knew the miles saw through bullshit easily . They allowed me into the inner circle I listened when they spoke. Cause you never got anywhere in this life over time without being smart.  They bared the storms before the net . Kids found publication far to easy these days . Clowns and publisher's  were many . Those that held titles were seldom what they pretended t...

In The Distance by, Melissa R. Mendelson In the distance,   I can hear their cries,   their hopes and dreams,   their demise.   In the distance,   I can hear their pleas,   their prayers,   their unanswered needs.   In the distance,   I can feel their burning gaze,   staring across the barrier  and through the red tape maze.   In the distance,   I know that they are there,   seeking haven in a broken foundation,   stranding them nowhere  with tears and dirt stained faces,   wishing to call home in so many places  but stranded behind the wall, wasting  as Time comes to do its job, erasing  the lives that we may never know  because in the distance, we’ll never go. Melissa Mendelson Blog/Website

Reunited Christmas hovered near Watching Snow watching them What could such a cold being See in the light so dim? Then Christmas saw the angel aglow  Embrace the woman with Love Easing her pain in that moment Of missing her loved one above. Snow felt the whisper of someone Not of the Earth anymore She felt the tickle of the Sun And melted with a roar. All was as it used to be And ever after would remain For they were reunited And their Souls forgot their pain.

Bio: Michael H. Brownstein is the author of A  Slipknot into Somewhere Else (Cholla Needles press, 2018). Slipknot into Somewhere Else  available at: Amazon:  https://www.amazon. com/Slipknot-Into-Somewhere- Else-Borderlands/dp/1727462009 From the publisher:  https://www. chollaneedles.com/2018/10/new- book-slipknot-into-somewhere- else.html THE GIFT  How do we create love? Four days from the start of winter, five days from the great Ursid meteor shower, six days after the temperature climbed into the sixties, rain fell, froze on contact, changed everything to white ice, clean and smooth, clean and crunchy rugged. The man and woman stood outside of their small home, logs burning in the fireplace, candles lit in darker corners, thick sunlight heating everything through thin windows. It was cold outside. They listened to the scents around them, saw the sounds of life, smelled the fresh breeze swinging through the bare trees, arms around each other, scarves across ...

Merry Christmas and Happy New year from all of us at Stanzaic Stylings.

  the three of us were in calvin’s basement trying to sing the book of love and failing miserably calvin couldn’t hold a note and neither could i ryan could hold a note but only if he was singing broadway musicals in a high school play but we wanted to be the next r&b wunderkinds doo wop kids three white catholic boys from the suburbs suckered by r&b music and rap into thinking that we could be anything we were cultural appropriation before we knew that it wasn’t appropriate to appropriate we wanted something special that would get us out of the suburbs out of pittsburgh and into a charmed life we would’ve done better studying medicine yet there we were oh i wonder, wonder whooooooo….. while calvin’s sister sat in a corner rolling her eyes she said that we sounded like a pack of dying cats which might’ve been something but it wasn’t enough to catch the dream because this morning years later i’m sitting here in brooklyn soundless and hungover and calvin is out there in illin...

This is the first poem from Twenty-Three to Twenty-One , excerpts from each of the letters that one Julia Sand wrote to Chester Arthur, along with Arthur's imagined responses. from  Twenty-Three to Twenty-One               #1 "[1881 Aug 27] To the Hon Chester A.Arthur, The hours of Garfields life are numbered--- before this meets your eye you may be President The people are bowed in grief; but---           do you realize it?--- not so much because he is dying, as because  you  are his successor" "the thought rose in a thousand minds that  you  might be the instigator of the foul act Is that not a humiliation which cuts deeper than any bullet can pierce?" "But making a man President can change him!" "Great emergencies awaken generous traits which have lain dormant half a life If there is a spark of nobility in you, now is the occasion to let it shine Faith in your better nature forces me to write to you"...

Inside of My Dream Inside of my dream there’s a bird flying from one nest to an- -other, without wings Inside of my dream there’s a man holding a sign that says, I have serious cancer Inside of my dream there’s one refugee with tears of grief because he lost hope Inside of my dream there’s a young lady smoking, and waiting for the train to suicide Inside of my dream there's a black cat staring at me, and waiting to the end of my dream BIO Ahmad Al-Khatat, was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.

Bio : Linda Imbler is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee.  Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com .    When not writing, Linda is an avid reader, classical guitar player, and a practitioner of both Yoga and Tai Chi.  In, addition, she helps her husband, a Luthier, build acoustic  guitars.  Linda enjoys her 200-gallon saltwater reef tank wherein resides her almost 19 year old yellow tang.  A retired teacher, who began writing in earnest in January, 2015,  Linda believes that poetry truly adds to the beauty of the world.  Much of this beauty she feels can be found in the night sky and, on warm nights, her telescope serves as inspiration for this belief. Trinity Angels, bearers of light, too bright, too bright. Demons of great beauty and mysterious allure. My soul,  whatever graces and deficits it holds,  is mine.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan  is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as:  Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Stanzaic Stylings, The Song Is..., Red Fez , and  The Oklahoma Review .                                                                                                     Never Mind the Zodiac No way around it, we are through it never mind the zodiac, there are other signs no friend...

Lola How I wish I could have known you When your hair was fiery red Before time changed it to a shade of gray And you forgot what you just said. I wish I could have seen you Hair in curls around your face Running swiftly barefoot Trying to win a schoolyard race. I wish I could have heard your laugh When you were just a girl I imagine how light it sounded You had no cares in the world. I wish I could have talked to you Before Time chased away your mind Before your body grew so tired And your thoughts you could no longer find. I wish I could have known the you That you were once upon a time The happy, healthy person, Now it seems I know a mime. How I wish I could have known you Before you were 93 Then maybe, just maybe Your mind would remember me

WOW!!! This detailed poetic story by Joan McNerney details the intricasies of a life well lived through two genres combined, both poetry and storytellng to present a poetic memoir with a sense of purpose and style. Reading this story is experiencing her life right along side her.  The image laiden prose have your own imagination soaring to new heights. Powerful insight tells this story in gallant style. You will not be able to put this book down once you start reading it. It is, to put it simply, an extraordinary write by an experienced and creative poet penned with exuberance and masterful imagery with detailed focus. You can read some of Joan's poetry by clicking the link below: Joan McNerney Poetry Page

Photo by Joanne Olivieri Winter Solstice By Joan McNerney   Hurry, short days are here, too much to do. Get ready, find gloves, hats, scarves, sweaters.   Stopping to see the shape of a snowflake.   Coming home to luxuriate in dim light listening to heat hissing and finding warmth from hot teas.   Bundled in bed comforted by mounds of blankets, books.   Finally succumbing to our northern goddess, whose black nights are long and silent as evergreens. Joan McNerney Poetry Page

Enthusiasm of a neo-pagan --- Sunil   Sharma   Staggering home from the moon-lit meadows now receding as magical realms far off  blending with the skies and stars where I glimpsed the Olympians laughing/dancing along with the ordinary mortals; the devotees working up a frenzy for their respective gods!   My feet are lithe almost air-borne heart bursting with joy antelope-like I fly across the uneven terrain a scented breeze follows intoxicated steps as I have already encountered the unicorn and the red-eyed Bacchus in the sacred grove near the stream and the Aphrodite beckoning Sappho from her entranced Muses in an uplifting instant!   blessed! to see them all in this fleeting moment in the year 2016 re-living all that is lost! ------------------------------ ------ Bio :  Sunil Sharma , an academic and author-freelance journalist from the suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 19 books: solo and joint. He edits  Setu : http://www.setumag.com/p/setu- ...

Poem by Eliza Segiet  Translated by Artur Komoter  True Fantasies How easy it is to rest in loneliness of fuzzy thoughts. To leave plans behind, to be there  - far, beyond real time. Just me and my true fantasies. To be free, yet trapped in the mouth of pulsating nature. Only the low tide revealing the nudity of the beach reminds that time flows.     Prawdziwe fantazje   Jakże łatwo odpocząć w samotności rozmytych myś li. Zostawić plany, być  tam  - daleko, poza realnym czasem. Tylko ja i moje prawdziwe fantazje. Być wolną, a jednak uwi ę zion ą w ustach pulsującej natury. Tylko odpływ odkrywający nagość plaży przypomina, że czas płynie.

Enjoyable Time By Guy Farmer It’s a small place They go to when They don’t want to Be bothered, a quiet, Out of the way eatery Perfect for their illicit Rendezvous. No chance of Being discovered, They talk about this and that Gazing into each other’s eyes, Loopy smiles on their faces, That is, until one of their Spouses comes storming in Demanding an explanation And ruining a perfectly Enjoyable time once again. ----- Brief Bio: Guy Farmer writes evocative, minimalist, modern poetry about the human condition. Visit him online at  https://www. unconventionalbeing.com/ .

( Photograph of “Maggie” by Linda Imbler, poet, writer, and musician ) Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera , Sheila-Na-Gig, Synchronized Chaos, Pangolin Review , Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks! , The Write Launch, The Stray Branch ,  The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)     Negative Space   Humming a tune, the song is never sung.   Strumming the cords, a melody is lost.   Counting minutes, hours turn to days.   Seeking direction, a course is all but set.