Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Winter 2021    fiction    all issues


Andrej Lišakov

Laura Apol
I Take a Realtor through the House
& other poems

Rebekah Wolman
How I Want my Body Taken
& other poems

Devon Bohm
The Word
& other poems

Gillian Freebody
The Right Kind of Woman
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Gravestone Flowers
& other poems

Laura Turnbull
& other poems

Andre F. Peltier
A Fistful of Ennui
& other poems

Peter Kent
Reflections on the Late Nuclear Attack on Boston
& other poems

Carol Barrett
Canal Poem #8: Hides
& other poems

Alix Lowenthal
Abortion Clinic Waiting Room
& other poems

Latrise P. Johnson
From My Women
& other poems

Brenna Robinson
& other poems

may panaguiton
& other poems

Elizabeth Farwell
The Life That Scattered
& other poems

Bill Cushing
Two Stairways
& other poems

Richard Baldo
A Note to Prepare You
& other poems

Blake Foster
Aubade from the Coast
& other poems

Bernard Horn
& other poems

Harald Edwin Pfeffer
Still stiff with morning cold
& other poems

Nia Feren
Neon Orange Tree Trunks
& other poems

Everett Roberts
A Mourning Performance
& other poems

Alaina Goodrich
The Way I Wander
& other poems

Olivia Dorsey Peacock
the iron maiden and other adornments
& other poems

Writer's Site

Alaina Goodrich

Song Lines

I light a fire in my heart

A torch

I am looking for something

Listening for something

The songlines of my ancestors

The wisdom

Of who I am

And where I belong in the world

Anger and hurt in my heart

For the break in the chain

Who left the wisdom behind

In this shallow culture

It is 2am

And I cannot sleep

I am like a child

Shedding tears

For the lullaby that I can’t hear

I clear my mind

And listen

Awareness on my heart

But all I can hear are the crickets

And the bullfrogs

Singing their songs

Simple songs

But simple creatures

Who know their place perfectly

Where they belong in the world

Living in harmony with all of life

Taking only what they need

Not trying to change the world

For their own good

So wise

Those small beings

Singing through the night

Their songlines for all to hear

Let’s hope we listen



Amidst this harmony I hear lyrics

In my mother’s voice “let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you…”

And in the voice of my father: “you are always on my mind…”

And my grandmother: “you’ll never know dear, how much I love you,

Please don’t take my sunshine away.”


The common thread

Though so unraveled

Not all is lost

Love remains

Pass it on

Wrinkled Up

It’s past our bedtime

but the sunset was so delicious

I wanted to bathe in it

to make a bathtub of light

bent enough to cradle us

or a sailboat to carry us

back to the sun.

I’ll take a flagpole

to claim my plot when I get there.

I’d take a flag for the whole earth

if there was one


I’ll put my life in my backpack

and make the whole earth my playpen

my raincoat on my waist

so when it pours I can continue to play

until He calls “come inside”

Father himself

then I’ll open the door

and greet Him

(when I am old and wrinkled up)


in the beauty of this all

one more time

a wick fully burned

ashes to ashes

to stardust all return

and I will try, as mother says

to take only what I’ll use

Rumi’s Moth

I think everything is a model

or a mirror

I look into my teacup

and see my porous body

my self dissolving

telling me to let go

and give thanks

for even the hot water

for especially the hot water

extracting my flavors

for the whole world.

They can have them.

Pour it on me;

the pain

of rejection.

I gave you my all

but I couldn’t force you to take it.

I surrender to the fire.

What good is a dry tea bag?

It’s like dry eyes-

the lesson’s stuck inside.

Don’t waste it.

Don’t hold it in.

I chug my tea

and take my eyelashes outside to dry.

I see the earth has done the same

each blade of grass glistening in the moonlight

washing my bare feet

giving gratitude

for the dark night.

Nahko sings “Wash it away”

and I dance down my moonlit street

my cell in hand glowing above me

casting light

I wonder who sees me waving?

A shooting star near Orion

burns up

like Rumi’s moth

finding heaven

on a moonlit street

while the whole world sleeps.

The Way I Wander

I want to write poetry

the way I wander

through the forest


following my fancy,

the critters, and their signs

The way I want to worship

the way my dog does

100% adoration

Max gazes up at me

and I see myself- in his eyes

a vision of who I aspire to be

The way God sees himself

in my eyes

when I wander

adoring creation

the way Max looks at me

his fountain of love overflowing

he sees me, as I am

The way I see my son

when he asks

“Will you tickle my side pork, just a little?

when he is supposed to be sleeping

“My side pork and my neck pork?

my heart, hungry and full, I cannot resist

I could eat him right up


The way I can’t stop looking at him

when he’s finally asleep,

I know he’ll rise again

I know death is not an ending

I know this moment is fleeting

and forever

but still my heart aches

for the passing of time.

I know time doesn’t really exist

but innocence does

and it too seems to pass

and I know my heart aches

hungry and full

I wanted to write this poem

about a picture I drew

   in the snow

          sliding around on the pond

     like a child

               in wonder         or   worship

                              my boots unstitching the blanket

            uncovering the water

                        that was already frozen


But there came a desperate squeaking


I wheeled around “I’m down here you guys!”

It came again, a moaning

from the trees, suddenly alive

cracking from the cold

I would have loved to linger


I left

my picture unfinished

And wrote this

the way I like to wander

and come back home

with my heart

hungry and full


but never alone

Still Burning

I wrote this one for you

dear Sixfold poet.

I suppose the other ones I did too

but this one consciously

pulled back the curtains of time

between us.

I played you a tune

on a Tibetan bowl

listen and you’ll hear it now

ringing in your heart.

I sent a whole lot of love

and I hope it made it,

So many vibrations.

(Can you feel it?)

I poured some peppermint tea

and lit us a candle—

“Stay Awhile Vanilla,”

it’s container badly broken

rough glass edges

wax exposed

but the wick doesn’t seem to notice.

I suppose that’s the way a soul is.

It doesn’t mourn a broken body

it just keeps on burning.

I had to reheat our tea

so I’m thinking of my grandma

she always drank it slowly

conversing while she knit.

I’m not much for knitting

it’s this poetry I burn for

soul seeking, heart speaking

that keeps me alive

what I’d like to leave behind.

I still have a lot to learn


I enjoy the burning

for freedom, wilderness, the wonder of it all.

When I do finally go out

it won’t be for lack of fuel.

I hope you’re burning too?

Whether in pain or pleasure

fully engulfed

a fervor for life.

I don’t mind the pain

it makes me feel alive

but I do prefer the pleasure

We ARE on a trip around the sun

Baby let’s burn together

Alaina Goodrich is a barefoot walking, wonder seeking, lover of all things wild. Those loves include her two children, her husband TJ, her 7th grade science students, nature, poetry, playing music, and extreme sports. She loves her Northern New York community where she was born and raised and still resides. Rumi, Mary Oliver, and Emily Dickinson are always on her nightstand. She has poetry collections she is pleased with but has not yet pursued publication.

Dotted Line