Stevieslaw: Who will stop the rain*

Stevieslaw: Maniacal Liberal Scientists Control the Weather

Trump tweeted early this morning that the fall in the Stock Market was caused by the election of Democrats hell bent on investigating his administration. He also disclosed that he is fully aware that the spate of torrential rainstorms, which forced him to cancel his Veteran’s Day appearance, was caused by liberal climate scientists trying to give him a black eye.

“These liberal-democratic climate crazies,” he went on to tweet, “have learned to control the weather. I am hugely concerned that they will threaten mid-Western farmers with floods or drought unless they swear that they will not vote for me in 2020.”

Fox News has promised a thorough and non-biased investigation, the results of which will be presented tomorrow morning in a show entitled, “How can we stop the climate crazies?”

*Creedence Clearwater Revival

As long as I remember
The rain’s been comin’ down
Clouds of mystery pourin’
Confusion on the ground
Good men through the ages
Tryin’ to find the sun
And I wonder, still I wonder
Who’ll stop the rain
I went down Virginia
Seekin’ shelter from the storm
Caught up in the fable
I watched the tower grow
Five year plans and new deals
Wrapped in golden chains
And I wonder, still I wonder
Who’ll stop the rain?


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Stevieslaw: New Poem—The Dying of the Light



My poem, The Dying of the Light, is in the 4th issue of the Borfski Press Magazine (print journal).  Here is the poem:

The dying of the light

We found my mother
on the third floor
of a hospital
that should have been shuttered
in the 80’s.
The lights were dim
and the walls and halls
so covered in filth
it seemed they
had absorbed the misery
of the past 30 years
and the anguish would no longer
wash away.

It wasn’t hard to find mom.
She screamed “Help me”
every couple of minutes.
We heard her from the elevator
above the endless beeping
and the garbled sounds
from the PA system.
The fact that we
were now with her
did not alleviate her need to scream.
Nor did reasoning.

She had fallen again
and broken her tailbone.
She was 95 and failing
and I was the good son—
the one who answered the call
at 2 AM,
booked the 1000 mile trips
and tried to find a place
where she could end her days
in comfort.
It was rewarding in an exhausting way.
Finding, unexpectedly,
I was the one to be counted on.

But, listen,
there is just so much
we can do for one another.
There are limits to prerogatives
of blood.
We practice love,
not magic
and when,
in a moment of lucidity
she stared at my face—
a face she had known
my whole life,
and said,
“I’m dying,”
“Save me.”
I was again
as helpless
as the infant
she had held
to her breast.

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Stevieslaw: new poem on Eclectica Magazine


I have a word poem in the current issue of Eclectica Magazine.  I had to use the words: mirror, demand, rain and settle.

Urban Redevelopment

They took down the tenement
I was a child in today.
We were all at the demolition—
the adults slouched in lawn chairs
and shrouded in a haze of Lucky Strikes,
Viceroys, and Pall Malls.
They guzzled coffee by the gallon
and shared gossip and good-natured lies
in whispery voices so indistinct
it seemed they must be speaking of events
of great moment.

The kids ran the edge of supervision
reined in by an occasional
“Don’t hit, Johnny,”
“Gloria, stop crying long enough to catch a breath.”

My best friend, Marvin, was “it” in red light green light.
Girls played hopscotch and jumped rope
and my long dead brother, a waif in short pants,
was already ogling the pretty girl from 4A
who was just old enough
to be checking her reflection in a mirror
every minute.

The Kleins strolled by arm and arm.
My mom and I would visit them
on Sundays for tea and radio concerts
from Carnegie Hall.
And the couple that lived above us
stomped past
with their four oversized children
I knew collectively as Godzilla.

I’d almost forgotten how happy we were there.
We demanded so little of place,
so much of home.
If we lacked heat in winter,
we huddled;
if it was too hot in summer,
we crawled out on the fire escape
and pretended to be camping.

I shook off the apparition
And stood in the rain
dripping from the blue-black sky
hands deep in the pockets
of my old corduroy coat
patchy gray hair lapping my collar.

Neither loud nor dramatic—
the building collapsed with a sigh—
the debris settling in on itself.

I didn’t stay to watch them
haul it away.

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Stevieslaw: My poem “Stan”

My poem “Stan” has been published by Muddy River Poetry Review.  Here is the poem


He looked as if
he’d never caught a break,
worn through—in need of a shave
and a shower
and a hundred other things
only money could buy.
His lifeless eyes looked through me.
The knife was real enough.

I thought.

He recognized me first.
“Potsy,” he said softly,
using a nickname
I hadn’t heard in years.
“Stan—Stan the man,”
my voice rippled with relief.
Stan held every record
in high school track—
it was a wonder
to watch him run.
He joined the Rangers
right out of school—
Nixon sent him to Nam.

He lowered the knife
and there, on an unlit
street corner in lower Manhattan,
we shot the shit about the old days—
of Brownsville and the guys.

We didn’t pretend
we’d stay in touch.
To see him on his way
I emptied my wallet
and gave him thirty one dollars—
it would help him
do up once or twice.
The twelve hundred bucks
I earned in that night’s poker game
stayed hidden in my shoes.

I hailed a cab on East Broadway,
and had it take me
the four blocks home.
It wasn’t until I
climbed the stairs
and flipped on the light
that I began to shake.

And the link:



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Stevieslaw: My poem A View From the Ridge on The Drabble

My poem was just published by The Drabble.  Here is the poem and the link:

A View from the Ridge

It is a time of gathering.
Summer spent
with little gain,
we pick among the skeletal vines—
stuffing cheeks
with amulets to ward off
the weariness of winter.

There is a turning here.
Another year
discarded like a faded friendship
I fear the time approaches
when I would willingly sell my soul
for one more day
of wholeness—
to breathe the autumn in with joy.
and witness the harvest
with these two eyes.






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Stevieslaw: My poem, Untethered, on Street Light Press

My poem untethered was published today on Street Light Press.  Here is the poem and the link.

By Steve Deutsch

We all knew something

was not quite right with Mike.

What sprang from his mouth

had him spending more time

in the Principal’s office

than in the classroom

and angered the older kids,

who would periodically lay him out

in schoolyard beatings.



the year we turned 16,

he climbed the fifty-foot maple

just outside the Post Office

and neither his father’s threats

nor his mother’s tears

could convince him to come down.

The fly-catchers got him

and took him upstate

to the red-brick asylum

on the river.


Mike told me once

he felt as if he had left

all solid ground behind.

“On good days I was drowning—

sea-slimed and salted

on a relentless ocean.

On bad days I fell through the sky

like a kite some distracted child

had let fly off

to be steered untethered

by a sorcerer’s wind.

I fell and rose,

and fell again.”


He got worse after he returned—

though I didn’t stay to watch

his downward spiral.


I see Mike now and again


He lives in the half-way house

at the bottom of Gray’s Hill

and runs errands for a local restaurant.

We sometimes reminisce

for a moment or two

on the busy sidewalk.

Gentled now by the years,

he always has a kind word

and asks about old friends

while I search his weary face

for the child I once knew.

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Stevieslaw: My Voices of Central PA. June Article

Stevie's Law

The LAGuide to Voting in America

At Stevieslaw, publisher of the Less-intelligent- than- average American Guides (LAG), we recognize that many Americans do not vote. The statistics from the mid-term elections are staggering. In Pennsylvania, Tom Corbett took the governorship by a margin of eight votes—31 to 23, while Pat Toomey won in a near shut-out, 8 to 1.  Glenn Thompson was apparently able to elect himself, as nothing else can explain it. Corbett confided to Smokey Diamond, our intrepid reporter, that the reason for his victory was his ability to convince his cousin’s club to vote for him en-masse, at a dinner he hosted at the Olive Garden in Altoona.  The twelve student dominated districts in State College produced only one vote, a guy named Marvin who accidentally wandered into a polling booth next to a local bar—and, in the process, elected Scott Conklin.  In this week’s primary election…

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