Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
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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
Migration
& other poems
Cassandra Sanborn
Remnants
& 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
Nest
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems
Rebecca Irene
Woodpecker
& 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
Body-Poem
& other poems
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
& other poems
Rachel A. Girty
Collapse
& other poems
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems
Margie Curcio
Gravity
& 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
Unmeasured
& other poems
Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems
Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
Within the jurisdiction of the Atlantic’s salty breezes
the smooth meandering road
vanishes
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
Shout
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
r
o
p
s
where it
splatters.
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 http://winkingattheapocalypse.blogspot.com/. He teaches American history in Syracuse, NY.