Category Archives: Poetry

Rare ventures into the world of ad libs and jazzy improvisations.

Fall 2014 issue of Pea River Journal now available in print

If you follow this blog, you might have read my story “Ill Not in the Mind,” published online as a preview to the Fall 2014 issue of Pea River Journal. Or maybe you’ve ignored all this completely. Fine. But if you’re looking for a literary journal to hold in your hands, one that will twist you and turn you and make you ache, order a copy of the Fall 2014 issue of Pea River Journal, now available in print.

Order a print copy of Pea River Journal

The theme of this issue is the burden of home. Get’s you thinking, doesn’t it? There are so many ways to approach this theme, and some of the most compelling are represented in this issue of PRJ–the gut-wrenching, challenging stuff that I live for.

I’m honored to be a part of this issue.

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Filed under Featured Content, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Short Stories, Writing

The Partisan and the Train

I drift off … imagine a partisan in 1944.

He steps out to face a dark train headed at him full bore.

It won’t slow, no matter how its hungry patrons implore

It to turn back from the depths of hell it’s destined to explore.

He looks up, raises his weapon and opens on the engine.

Two rounds find the conductor, who shatters mid-sentence.

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Filed under Featured Content, Flash Fiction, Poetry

Words Underground

Scribe is submersed, subaquatic.

Scribe, breath held, is swimming like a jellyfish.

Scribe, at home in the moment, coexists amicably.

Scribe hasn’t thought to surface for air.

Scribe is landless, stretched thin.

Scribe, stride full, is sprinting like a cockroach.

Scribe, with shadow-born pallor, makes ready.

Scribe will jump toward daylight.

Scribe is airborne, flying.

Scribe, wings extended, is soaring on thermals.

Scribe, eyes closed and at peace, floats higher.

Scribe knows not of descent.

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Filed under Featured Content, Poetry, Writing

Here Today by Nicholas DiClementi

They’re demolishing
the house next door to mine.

The weatherboard cracks
and splinters
as it’s torn
from the building’s foundation.
Each piece is tossed
into a pile
like fallen soldiers
into a ditch.
The wrecking ball
crashes into the single brick facade.
“The single brick facade
gives the house character,”
a real estate agent once said.
Piece by piece
is felled or crushed until
nothing remains
but a cluster of grey rubble
where the neighbor children used to play hopscotch.

They’re demolishing
the house next door to mine.
It was here yesterday,
and now it’s gone.

It’s funny,
I think,
how some things are like that.

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Filed under Featured Content, Guest Author, Poetry, Writing