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
Rebecca Irene
Woodpecker
Slit nostrils sense
what lies beneath.
This is what you live for—
sick wood giving way
beetle’s squirm
on long sticky tongue
the swallowing.
You leave behind tunnels
paradise for squirrels
nests for smaller birds.
How many holes
can a tree endure?
You recall your beloved
White Pine.
Her curved trunk at road’s bend
her thick sap weeping
every time you came a-calling.
Crow Raven
If you don’t know
the differences
between Crow and Raven
what good are you to me?
I find the secret of being
in nature’s details.
To you, they are a waste of time.
Crow marries for love.
Raven for money.
Crow gives any dying creature
water from her beak.
Raven pecks fading eyes out.
And if you had ever lain in forests
against tree trunks
felt bark press hard towards
your back’s thick skin
Crow would have watched
you with pity
Raven with menace.
Then as Raven shat on you in disgust
Crow would have offered you strength—
hair and bone
life and breath
fear and death
twig and stone—
of smaller creatures.
You would have recognized
that sweet saltiness in your mouth
my love.
For it is what you have been
feeding on for years.
Sitting Duck
All the others
sensed danger.
The dogs weren’t
even quiet
for God’s sake
and little Billy
shot off
his gun for fun
miles away.
All the others
knew to fly.
You were
mid-paddle
when steel
tore open
preened down.
Your last
dying wonder:
why red rainbows smothered you
as others touched blue of sky.
Humming Bird
I loved you when I was young
watched you sip sugar water
hover over my bright shirt.
There is no more sugar water now
or bright shirt
and I have aged terribly.
Poor trade for the genuine
is what I get.
Greta running nine miles
snorting nine lines
climaxing nine times
faster faster faster.
Greta starving
binging and barfing
chewing pills
thinner thinner thinner.
Greta drinking dancing
trying to sing.
No magic—
between monotony
and mayhem.
Summer Robin
How they search for her when the trees sigh for outer green.
How they smile for her when the stalks strain for sunny sheen.
How they supplicate for her when rains signal for spring clean.
Wonder, adoration, delight, give way to
pulling another worm—isn’t she fat enough?
Singing the same old song—hasn’t she said enough?
Springtime is so obviously over, my dear.
Really. A summer robin should have the good taste
to know when she ought to fly away.
Why, just last night I spotted one that caught my eye.
I almost lost my head until I saw her gray feathers
and wrinkles and wanting in the August sun.
Rebecca Irene
has finally accepted poetry as her tumultuous lover and taskmaster. Her poems speak to the simultaneous beauty and horror of this world, how every life is the same, every life is different and the ways our lives differ are not always fair or fathomable. She is a graduate of Swarthmore College.