Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Winter 2018    fiction    all issues


Cover Elena Koycheva

Bryce Emley
Asking Father What’s at the End
& other poems

AJ Powell
& other poems

Faith Shearin
& other poems

Claire Van Winkle
& other poems

Sarah W. Bartlett
Summer Cycles
& other poems

Nooshin Ghanbari
& other poems

Meli Broderick Eaton
The Afterlives of Leaves
& other poems

Jeddie Sophronius
& other poems

Paula Bonnell
In Winter, By Rail
& other poems

Addison Van Auken Waters
& other poems

Daniel Sinderson
& other poems

Andrew Allport
All Nature Will Fable
& other poems

Marte Stuart
What an Insult Time Is
& other poems

Matthew Parsons
My Father as an Inuit Hunter
& other poems

Emily Bauer
Gently, Gently
& other poems

Bruce Marsland
A once lovelorn bard’s final journey
& other poems

Beatrix Bondor
Night Makers
& other poems

Isabella Skovira
Lawless Conservation
& other poems

Juan Pablo González
Colombia, 1928
& other poems

Molly Pines
The Pillbug
& other poems

Jamie Marie
On the Lake
& other poems

William A. Greenfield
If You Show Me Yours
& other poems

Bill Newby
Tuesdays at The Seagate's Atlantic Grille
& other poems

Elder Gideon
Male Initiation Rites
& other poems

Joel Holland
Dear Gi-Gi
& other poems

Martha R. Jones
How Lewis Carroll Met Edgar Allan Poe
& other poems

Writer's Site

Juan Pablo González

The Tempest

Another abandoned thought

submits to a ruthless windstorm.

This cruel gale I have created

to make ideas prove their worth.

If all my little miscarriages

were somehow to have lived,

I could have painted the world,

and vanquished my own grey.

Colombia, 1928


The rocks.

The sea spray.

A friendly breeze.

And up the river,

where countries go to die,

the red in the flag spills o’er,

the blue and the yellow subside.

As the river mourns the death on its shores,

the violence borne by telegrams,

the derelict land where it flows,

shuns the cries of its children.

Carry this blood downstream,

O, Magdalena,

’til it dissolves

in the sea.

Washed by


Colombia, 2018

I remember the last day

before we returned.

The surf caressing your feet,

the wet sand between our toes

Two cliffs stood guard

to that unpolluted beach.

And the rustling palm trees

stood guard to us.

And we both danced with the sea,

with the tumbling from the waves,

as they rocked us from below

and turned us on our heads.

An ocean filled with you and me,

grew both angrier and tenderer.

Its silent, chaotic melancholy

upon the eyes of a dying emperor.

I thought about my certainties,

how they’re out of my control.

The ones I’d like to have.

The ones I’m proud to hold.

How I wished to spend my life

conjuring images and words.

Round them up with sounds

to make mementos of the world.

There are no lines upon the land

and no limits on the sea.

My mind is taller than the Earth

and wider than myself.

Hidden waterfront,

eternal eventide.

And all the centuries that converged there

to where you and I went to hide.


Sometimes it rains.

Once it rained when the sun was out,

and all the minute drops refracted the sunlight.

A cloud of diamond shrapnel floating in the sky.

Gleaming reproductions of the colours of the world.

Sometimes the sky is clear.

And I run outside, looking overhead.

For all that I fear is running to find out

there are not enough clouds to make it rain

and not enough life to write about.

Juan Pablo González is a journalist, musician, writer and designer from Bogotá, Colombia, born in 1995.

Dotted Line