Poetry

Poetry - Excerpts From 'The POND Project' (By John L. Stanizzi) These small poems are from a one-year-long project called POND -- The poems are acrostics.  Everyday, at different times during the day, I visit our pond with notebook and camera ...
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Earth Links contrasts the work of nature with the work of man, often revealing our flagrant madness. Meaningful and constructive - Spectrum and Heart We love your poems - New Literary Journal Memorable and Remarkable - Terrene Magazine Earth Links ...
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At a Party I spoke with two people at the party Saturday. A young police officer, short-haired, fit, chiseled face who had two young children. He felt constrained by the law, without discretion to question mopes (perps) aggressively or to ...
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The Stop & Shop Strike The Stop & Shop strike v. Game of Thrones. In Game what’s not made plain is the condition of the people compared with warriors and queens. There is no mention of land-clearance, tree-felling, pruning, chopping, ...
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On Mixing Macarons and Vicodin That winter split me like firewood. I was smaller, splintered, Elliot Smith would play on cassette in my blue Volkswagen, while our breath coursed through flared nostrils and damaged lungs. * I hid my pain ...
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Insignificance Late in life I struggle against my insignificance When I should enjoy the freedom from performance before an audience. Applause is happiness but if they withhold applause, embarrassment. When Da Liu put me to work crunching hexagrams and spreadsheet ...
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Life Science If only I was older, wiser than gapped tooth, golden haired twenty-two, I wouldn’t have wondered, what whiskered man is this?  His hair like a peppered moth, he sat stubbing cigarette butts into the ancient ruins of the ...
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Mammo At first, the grief was bare, an unsheathed sword, its presence sharp. But then it turned, slowly, into a faded tattoo on a hidden part of my body. I tried calling your phone last night. I don’t know what ...
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Elizabeth, Mother of my mother, her knotted knuckles cradled my scraped elbows, the heaviness of my childhood heart. Her beauty unrepeatable, blistering. She stands hunched over the sink, peeling potatoes, buttering bread, in the yellow light of the pre-war kitchen ...
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Sylvia’s Son I was wrapped in a towel like a bad dream, wet feet on linoleum. I was too preoccupied to see the cracked blood, to hear the silence until I was knee- deep in your tomb. Sometimes, I dreamt ...
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