Stevie's Law

Snow this morning.
Flakes as big
as oak leaves flutter
in the eddying air,
as if their appointment
with the ground
might wait.

I watch them
from a window
that overlooks
a small porch
heavy with
garden tools—
artifacts

from a forgotten season.
I sip a third cup,
warm in the warm house
and curl up
in my easy chair—
looking no farther ahead
than lunch.

My poem, Beyond Wealth, was published today by OneArt. Here is the poem:

Beyond Wealth

On the deserted boardwalk

at Coney Island,

just before a storm roared in,

gray-black clouds peeked

over the Ferris Wheel—

waves strained the imagination.

On our Sunday holidays,

my dad would eat

clams on the half shell.

He seemed so delighted

by his little routine—

lemon, hot sauce, slurp.

The rest of us

would stuff ourselves

on Nathan’s Famous hot dogs—

the best in the world.

Later we’d sit on the beach

with a thousand others

and bake.

How mom and dad loved

that they owned the sun

and the sand.

They’d never owned

anything as majestic.

Dad called

the subway home from the beach

the Calamine Express—

filled with working stiffs

heading home

for Sunday dinner,

sun-burnt children in tow.

Some would swell the colleges.

Some would patrol the rice paddies.

Some still remember

the sun and the sand.

My Poem, Last Winter is in Issue 30 of MacQueen’s Quinterly. Here is the poem:

Last Winter

False spring today.

A mild breeze fans

the bare trees

as if in rehearsal.

I walk along the riverbank

lost in thought.

It has been a hard winter—

like living inside an ice cave

with a constant gray sky that lodged

in my bones.

And for friends

on the edge,

a final fall

into that oblivion

where not a single

bird sings

and spring is always

a day away.

Here is the third of my published poems by The Write Launch:

Here is the third of my published poems by The Write Launch:

What the Body Remembers
It grew back straight and soft
with the texture of
mulberry silk.

Surreptitiously, I searched old pictures
to test my memory—
those orchestrated black
and whites of me at 2

or 3 or 4, with
that “say cheese” smile.
And I
had to admit

I once again had the hair
of a toddler. Memory
of my mother
brushing my cowlick

into obedience
came back
each time I glanced
at the mirror.

In this old house
hidden away somewhere
is a tuft of my toddler hair
under glass.

I search haphazardly,
but still I search—
this drawer, that box,
as if a modern Ponce de León

I had two poems published in the current edition of The Write Launch. Here is the second:

Fine Art

After six generations in my wife’s family,
we were selling the house,
and I was assigned to clean the attic—
told not to get distracted.

By what, I thought?
Comic books from the ‘30s?
Old baseball cards?
But I stuck to it.

Towards the back
there was an ancient, ornate trunk—
so large I wondered
how it got there.

I twisted the old lock open
to find a collection of drawings and oils,
so wonderful they took
my breath away.

And when my wife
came up to join me
all hope of a clean attic flew off.
We spent hours admiring

the portraits and landscapes—
the brushwork so fine,
Cezanne would have ventured
a second look.

It was a mystery,
for not a single piece
was signed.
We primed the great

aunts and uncles
with gallons of tea
and honey cakes—
but no one offered a name.

We never did sell the house—
spent time framing and hanging the art
while searching for clues in every nook and cranny
of that fine old home where once genius had lived.

I have three poems in the current issue of The Write Launch. Here is the first:

A Turn Around Town

I take the cobbled path through town
that I have walked for years.
The streets are for the wary—
ice strewn here and there
as if they had tired
of the nagging shovels.
The air still
with the silence of February.

I have lived here so many years
you’d think I’d have
a story to share
for every building, every empty lot,
but the town and I have changed,
and like most my age,
I mourn
the way it was.

I scan the scurrying passersby
between hat
and scarf, searching
for a familiar face,
but so many of those
I once knew are gone.
Fingertips and toes growing numb,
I turn and head for home.

I have a second poem in the Schuylkill Valley Journal. Here is the poem:

Sounding Off

Most days my life
is hijacked
by the cacophony

of everyday.
All those quiet
things I love—

like raking leaves,
shoveling snow,
or sitting

in the garden sun
communing
with the birds—

have been taken
in torment by power tools—
manned by an army

determined to work
from sunup to sundown
in the service of a greener lawn

or snow-free sidewalk.
Most days my garden
is noisier than the flight

deck of an aircraft carrier.
Inside is no better—
my appliances all beep

to inform me
of God-knows-what
and I’ve caught

the fridge dinging
just for the hell of it.
My phone and pad

and laptop
announce in synchrony
the arrival of critical information—

such as the whereabouts
of the Prince of East
Yahupits—with pings,

haptic lights,
and haughty trumpet calls—
so alien to the human senses

it confirms we are
not alone
in the Universe.

Today, I half buried
my internet devices
in my neighbor’s

sidewalk snow.
His snow blower launched them
and threw a blade.

After, I took my lawn chair
into the icy air
and sat silently in the snow.

I have two poems in the Schuylkill Valley Journal. Here is the first.

What I’ve Been Missing

It’s a two-parka morning.
Bare beech branches
shiver in the considerable wind.

Yet, I am out on my lawn chair
in the back yard,
head tilted to catch that first sliver

of sun as it clears the cloud line
and caresses my paper-pale face—
like the blessing of a long-absent father.

I’ve two poems in the current issue of Misfit Magazine. Here is the second:

My Sister’s Memoir

I bought the last copy
out of the display window
at the bookshop on the corner,
where your face had smiled at me
every time I passed
as if promising a conversation.

But our last conversation
was long ago—long
before the whole world
knew your name.
Such different paths
through the forest.

You had made a life,
rich and rewarding,
and I had made a muddle.
I sat on a bench off 5th
enjoying a rare April warmth
and began to read.

I wish I could tell you
what I expected—
to be the star of the early
chapters, I suppose. Called out
and praised—that’s the way it was—
wasn’t it?

But you lumped me
in with all the Toms, Dicks
and Harrys of our youth
in what was a very short chapter
without a single anecdote
of the hundreds of adventures

we shared.
If I look up
and crane my neck
I can just make out
your penthouse apartment.
Amazing views of both rivers

and all of NYC I have
to imagine, since I’ve never
been. I placed your book,
picture up, in a handy wire trash can,
and scratched around for subway fare
to take the N line back to Brooklyn.