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Poetry Winter 2014    fiction    all issues


Debbra Palmer
Bake Sale
& other poems

Ann V. DeVilbiss
Far Away, Like a Mirror
& other poems

Michael Fleming
On the Bus
& other poems

Harold Schumacher
Dying To Say It
& other poems

Heather Erin Herbert
Georgia’s Advent
& other poems

Sharron Singleton
Sonnet for Small Rip-Rap
& other poems

Bryce Emley
College Beer
& other poems

Harry Bauld
On a Napkin
& other poems

George Mathon
Do You See Me Waving?
& other poems

Mariana Weisler
Soft Soap and Wishful Thinking
& other poems

Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
& other poems

Jill Murphy
& other poems

Cassandra Sanborn
& other poems

Kendall Grant
Winter Love Note
& other poems

Donna French McArdle
White Blossoms at Night
& other poems

Tom Freeman
On Foot, Joliet, Illinois
& other poems

George Longenecker
& other poems

Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems

Rebecca Irene
& other poems

Savannah Grant
And Not As Shame
& other poems

Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Titian Left No Paper Trail
& other poems

Martin Conte
We’re Not There
& other poems

A. Sgroi
Sore Soles
& other poems

Miguel Coronado
& other poems

Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems

Tracy Pitts
& other poems

Rachel A. Girty
& other poems

Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems

Margie Curcio
& other poems

Stephanie L. Harper
Painted Chickens
& other poems

Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
& other poems

Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
& other poems

Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
& other poems

Tania Brown
On Weeknights
& other poems

James Ph. Kotsybar
& other poems

Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems

Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems

Writer's Site

Nicholas Petrone

Running Out of Space

Within the jurisdiction of the Atlantic’s salty breezes

the smooth meandering road


gobbled up

consumed by expensive running shoes

dissolving into glare.

I can see to the subatomic level

             I am intimately acquainted with the quasars

             Erupting from each tiny aperture

             of the blacktop galaxy.

Following the yellow line

I could run this walk this bike this

on my hands and knees crawl this from sea to sea

Oh infinite road

I utter


Proclaim clichés in your honor.

Or what if this shady curve

painted with gently dancing silhouettes

of scrubby crooked pines

is the whole road

the entire multiverse

or whatever they are calling it now?

I’d be okay with that

and can’t help wondering

whether we are naive

to expect another road around the bend

some infinite intersecting labyrinth

of highways . . .

It is more likely

that I am merely riding this piece of asphalt

like a treadmill in empty space

or at least it feels that way

as I stop for water.

Worlds Apart

A whole world is laid waste in the morning for a child to find. Evidence

of the murky underwater galaxy is everywhere so unspectacular

as if every terrestrial plant and animal were vomited onto the surface of the moon

each day and curly-headed little aliens run to see

the funny bones of Aunt Clara and the tall grasses pureed by the long trip

through outer space

and ask what that smell is daddy.

The jogger who took our picture has never been to the bottom

and neither have I. We know nothing—we just came to Wellfleet for the oysters.

Those stupid clams have never seen the Grateful Dead.

The mollusks missed my daughter’s first words.

That jogger has never seen me naked

nor the mollusk.

untitled poem about rain

Rain is perfect

             no matter how it      d





where it


rain drops

belong to no one.

We all daydream from similar quiet corners—

             gray, always gray, solitary

             but not unhappy.

When it rains                                       I can breathe

When thunderstorms roll                  we hold our breath.

Sometimes a storm looks like night

             feels like drifting opiate slumber.

The drops fall

             They do not look for distraction

                          direction             or                  definition

Rain sounds like rain. There is no metaphor.

Sometimes they die in puddles

             are reborn

                          as ripples.

Sometimes they are lost in the ocean

Sometimes they zigzag race

or dance

on the window of cars when you are young

and the ride doesn’t seem so long.

Nicholas Petrone’s poems can be found in many places, including The View From Here, Willows Wept Review, The Ranfurly Review, Poetry Superhighway, 3 Elements Review, Weird Cookies, Straight Forward Poetry, The Tower Journal, Vimfire Magazine and in many other damn fine publications. You can also read his poems at He teaches American history in Syracuse, NY.

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