W.I.S.H.’s 2013 Runners

2013 is nearing a close, and the year 2014 will open up with some amazing work from poets and artists.  While the future looks wonderful, let’s look over some key poets from W.I.S.H.’s year.

The poets below are awarded as featured Runners of the year.  Runners are poets that stood out above the crowded scream of poems, walked honestly, and began sprinting with fury of cut-throat poetry.  

100s of poets started the race, and 5 ran their pens dry.

2013 W.I.S.H. Runners

Ben John Smith 

The Six Year Old Poet (July issue)

My wife

tells her school

we will be
going on a Honeymoon
next year.

One child asks;

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Another slaps
his arm,

He makes wild eyes



“you idiot!

It’s when you
Eat honey under the moon”

These kids

know much more

about the
importance of

i can ever hope


Paul Harrison 

the present anxieties of time (July issue)


am from the future
he said
a man without a past or country
hello i said
then the phone rang
and the reverie and line went dead



Diana Dragonetti 

Song for the Badlands Runaway (July issue)


My hands are red.
My skin is raw: I see the veins.

my knuckles bleed.

I don’t remember
where I came from.

I don’t have time
to come home and make love to my wife.

The birds out front
pick at the garbage. They carried my
shoes away.

A hooked bone
pokes out of my soup bowl.

 I see the face of Christ.


Douglas Richardson

Sidetracked (November issue)

feeling desperate
about the number
of missing children
I drove off
in my car
to find a new city
but was sidetracked
by the rows
between trees
in an orchard
and wandered off
on foot


Kieran Collier

He Thinks He Is a Sailor (September 2013)

Your skin glows amber in the room
of the boy with hair that has remained untrimmed
for too many months and the speckled chin
with orange wisps like fireflies if fireflies
hid in dark bushes while the children were playing.

His bed is bigger than yours, like an ocean
you cannot understand the scope of because
nothing is blinking on the horizon. You
don’t know what to do with all the room.

He spreads his body out and you try to fill
the empty spaces because that’s what you’ve
always thought you should do with him.

When the both of you fall asleep, you curl into
one tangled mess of sheets and elbows.

You call this making continents, he calls it love.


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