One Sentence Poems

John L. Stanizzi POND 8.2.19 7.44 a.m. 59 degrees Puzzling how one morning the air is packed with the industry of birds who obsess over the feeders, and other morning’s comprise the limited nomenclature of a single cardinal, and way off into the hills, Munson, detailed as a simple tree line, allows the occasional car […]

John L. Stanizzi POND 7.29.19 8.16 a.m. 76 degrees Pity is the shade of this morning’s heat, offended by my fleshy obstinance, and the non- negotiable parching of the pond bed, distinction of desolation and withering water. John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections , Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After […]

John L. Stanizzi POND 7.28.19 3.38 p.m. 84 degrees Painting the banks brown, the pond has been strangled, obloquy of nature, stripping away water like memories lost, neighbors concerned as the arid afternoon rises, and young frogs drowse on the dirt banks that two days ago were underwater. John L. Stanizzi is author of the […]

We’re fans of John L. Stanizzi’s ambitious POND project. John writes, “The poems are acrostics. Everyday, at different times during the day, I visit our pond with notebook and camera in hand. I jot down some notes, take a picture or two, if a good photo op. presents itself. Then I head home and write […]

John L. Stanizzi POND 5.6.19 11.32 a.m. 55 degrees Profligacies in orange and black, black and red, white and white, white and yellow, officers of influence, their color remains after they have flown, and the toads are a nimbus of sound in the bright afternoon, their chirring rising and rising to a stop, a dialogue, […]

John L. Stanizzi POND 5.5.19 10.57 a.m. 53 degrees rain Purest concerto of toads and peepers around the pond, the woods on the outskirts, everywhere, until I approach and they preserve their silence in the nooks in which they hide in the open, invisible right in front of us, like dollops of gray clay given, […]

John L. Stanizzi POND 4.28.19 7.18 a.m. 41 degrees Purple rosettes of the plum tree have just begun to emerge, the verdant opus of the skunk cabbage continues to slowly splay its wide whole notes, the nubbin leaves of multiflora roses are now everywhere, and a bluejay in the cedar distracts everyone with his incessant […]

John L. Stanizzi 2 POND Poems* 12.21.18 8.14 a.m. 59 degrees (incredible) -after Wallace Stevens, “Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour” (Married 28 years today. It has been as close to perfect as one can imagine.) Pluvious morning, torrential and warm, thawed mole-tunnels caving in, ordination of melting ice, the rain broadcasting itself over the […]