Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Miguel Coronado
Body-Poem
i.
my body is a poem
it sings, reverberating as a tuning fork
reverb vibrates melodic
as a buzzing swarm
of lightning bugs;
as in a thunderstorm,
the bugs and frogs come out
to make the world
a damp and sticky place
for us.
ii.
my body is a poem
about my city in the rain, covered in fog
covered just like a child
under a great mountain
of blankets, white as death;
I was always afraid of winter,
how it roared
& crept up,
covering
my shoulders
in its fog.
iii.
my body is a poem
that had trouble sleeping last night, & woke up
startled by the rustling of bells
& the subtle click
of a door closing;
the way a funeral proceeds,
culminating in the closing
of the earth, the subtle
clink of a shovel
finishing.
Adventures of a Lost Soul
When I was young,
I fashioned a small halo out of hollow stars,
Insect husks and the love of my grandfather
In the rustic shadows of farms
I explored in search of a reason,
Any reason at all to continue exploring
Once,
I led an inquisition in my
Grandfather’s backyard
Against an insect insurgency
Swatting mosquitos in droves
& capturing buzzing bee drones
& chasing centipedes away
& banging on wooden nests
& watching the clover mites
bleed out in a frenzied splatter
of bright
red—
I ran away—
Afraid.
Today, I know
Clover mites are harmless little bloodbugs,
And I’ve long since quit the inquisition,
But I still explore for the same reasons:
The incentive to keep exploring;
& so I wear my halo like a badge
& set on out in search of home,
The place I lost, so long ago,
When I left those forsaken farms.
The Kiosk
red light kisses a neon tavern;
a block away, a bum ambles into the night
his body silhouetted hungry red, a ghost.
he rolls a shopping cart,
filled beyond the brim
with plastic
(transparent
bones)
he’ll cash them all in
for coins—he’ll recycle his life
at a kiosk.
The Sound of Distant Explosions
I am sound
emitting
as rocketfire—
distance
is drowned out
by a bonfire
in the night,
the hungry city
pulls the stars down
to earth with
skyscraping
razor-sharp
desperation
I eat sound
& sleep sound,
quietly fortifying
my body-fortress
to perfection; this vessel
for my mind and spirit.
Tempus Fugit
i.
in time, you will see
the glowing shell of day shed
into the evening.
(two lovers stroll along an esplanade,
hand in hand in secret hand of another
secret lover, the moon, peeking out
from a curtain of grey clouds.)
ii.
in time, you will know
how doors unfold into death,
how curtains cartwheel
light into a room
but also darkness—and why
windows wane away.
(farther down along the river,
an old man falls in love
with the coy moon—
he gazes politely, not wanting
to strip apart her innocence.)
iii.
in time, you will be
gone as memory in a
holocaust of thought.
(a slow cloud obscures thought,
and the old man, weary of love,
bows his head ever so slightly
and closes his eyes to sleep—
and then the lovers closed their eyes
to kiss; and then the river closed its eyes
to flow; and then the clouds closed their eyes
and began to rain; and then the moon closed her eyes
and disappeared into the night.)
Miguel Coronado
is an aspiring poet currently studying at New York University. He was born in the Dominican Republic, but has spent most of his life raised in New York City. He plans on pursuing a lifelong career in Journalism and Creative Writing after he graduates from college.