“Children In the Corn” Published by Sooth Swarm Journal

Back in January of 2018, my poem “Children in the Corn” was featured by Sooth Swarm Journal. Writing this poem really gave me a chance to reflect on a part of my childhood I had forgotten. Also, this poem helped me develop the concept for my Kingdom of Vanishing poetry collection. Starting 2018 with the publication of this piece felt like a good omen. You can read the full poem here.

love is love

My Voice #20

My Voice #19

My voice: a chorus of humming street lamps.


I’ve always been very shy and soft spoken. Often times, I let my voice blend into the background noise of the world. I also have a tendency to fall into silence and allow others to speak over me and forget the power of my voice. This series of small lines is a collection that attempts to describe and capture the range of my voice. This is my way of claiming a space for my voice in this world.

Six More Weeks of Winter, Please

Six More Weeks of Winter, Please 

Punxsutawney Phil fears his shadow
As much as I do but every winter
Morning is Groundhog Day for me.

I don’t know how to accept
My naked body but I know
Which fashions to wear this season.

Even though I shatter the mirrors
In my house, my silhouette stubbornly
Decides I occupy too much space.

Magazines teach me to squeeze
My contours into smaller shapes
Than Russian nesting dolls.

But I could be smaller. I donate leftover
Meals to friends and strangers.

One day I’ll make Barbie proud.

I avoid public places after ice storms
Because the world becomes a runway
With many cameras, broadcasting full body
Shots of my reflection to heaven.

God isn’t allowed to see my physique yet.
I’m not lean enough for the spring thaw

By Christian Sammartino

My Voice #18

My voice: a paint brush forming letters on the blank sign of a new storefront.


I’ve always been very shy and soft spoken. Often times, I let my voice blend into the background noise of the world. I also have a tendency to fall into silence and allow others to speak over me and forget the power of my voice. This series of small lines is a collection that attempts to describe and capture the range of my voice. This is my way of claiming a space for my voice in this world.

Prayers to the Steel Mill

Prayers to the Steel Mill

Whoever said New York is the only
City that never sleeps should visit a
Steel town to witness a graveyard shift.

Convoys of men climb into old
Chevy pickup trucks with dented
Tin lunch pails at sundown.

They carry leftover home-cooked meals and
The sensation of their lover’s last kiss down
Green Street and up Valley Road.

Their headlights are brighter than the glare
On the windshield of their buddies’ hearse
During the funeral procession last week.

The employee parking lot is
Filled with more souls than the
Church was for his service.

The crucible doesn’t care about the
Clockwork of their hearts and what
Winds their gears for this shift.

It gapes its flaming jaws and consumes
What the foreman schedules.

Their wives sit up late with the lights on
And set their watches by the echo of the steam
Whistle that marks the moment to stir the steel.

The judgment day they dread is not signaled
By the hoof beats of the Four Horsemen,
Nor Christ with a fiery sword.

It will arrive if the sounds of their
Husband’s tires never grace the stones of
The gravel road before morning light.

There is no sleep until the men
Rise from the graveyard shift.

By Christian Sammartino

Previously Published by Lehigh Valley Vanguard

My Voice #17

My voice: trains slamming on their breaks and coming to a sudden stop.


I’ve always been very shy and soft spoken. Often times, I let my voice blend into the background noise of the world. I also have a tendency to fall into silence and allow others to speak over me and forget the power of my voice. This series of small lines is a collection that attempts to describe and capture the range of my voice. This is my way of claiming a space for my voice in this world.