Stevie's Law

Published on Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

early morning snow

deer tracks through the apple grove

my fireplace crackles

On Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

Last day of Autumn

our path strewn with oak leaves

are you coming home?

On Lothlorien Poetry Journals.

The Arts

And, over time

I began to think

of the bench

as mine.

It sits grey-green

at the edge

of Spring Creek,

in a small park

rarely peopled during the week.

Weeping Willows

temper the sun

and tame the winds.

Last night

the temperature dropped

thirty degrees

and in the early morning

my bench sparkles

with hoar frost.

The park —

my poetry,

The creek —

my music,

and the willows—

my art.

On the Lothlorien Poetry Journal:

Bedding

It is long past time

to put my garden to bed.

Even plants that have

survived two hard frosts

look like patients 

on life support. 

Each year in the first flush

of spring—when I’m digging

in the just thawed earth

wearing a ski coat

and last year’s gloves,

I promise myself

that I will put this garden

to bed properly —

trimming here and there

and yanking dead stuff 

out by their roots

in the dimming daylight

of an icy November.

I never do.

It’s hard to believe

that there is just

one of me,

springing from bed

early each April morning

to plant little green nubs

in the clay soil

with so much

unsupported optimism.

To someone

who can hardly

look out the window

at the limp sadsacks

of the garden remains.

Ah, only six months

till spring.

I have two poems and two haiku up at the Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Here is the whole shebang:

Bedding

It is long past time

to put my garden to bed.

Even plants that have

survived two hard frosts

look like patients 

on life support. 

Each year in the first flush

of spring—when I’m digging

in the just thawed earth

wearing a ski coat

and last year’s gloves,

I promise myself

that I will put this garden

to bed properly —

trimming here and there

and yanking dead stuff 

out by their roots

in the dimming daylight

of an icy November.

I never do.

It’s hard to believe

that there is just

one of me,

springing from bed

early each April morning

to plant little green nubs

in the clay soil

with so much

unsupported optimism.

To someone

who can hardly

look out the window

at the limp sadsacks

of the garden remains.

Ah, only six months

till spring.

The Arts

And, over time

I began to think

of the bench

as mine.

It sits grey-green

at the edge

of Spring Creek,

in a small park

rarely peopled during the week.

Weeping Willows

temper the sun

and tame the winds.

Last night

the temperature dropped

thirty degrees

and in the early morning

my bench sparkles

with hoar frost.

The park —

my poetry,

The creek —

my music,

and the willows—

my art.

Two Haiku

Last day of Autumn

our path strewn with oak leaves

are you coming home?

early morning snow

deer tracks through the apple grove

my fireplace crackles

My poem, Camouflage, is in the current issue of Pennsylvania Poetic Voices. Here is the poem:

CAMOUFLAGE

In Khakis,

they crawl along a field

mowed clean

by machine gun fire.

From the air,

they resemble a sea of beetles.

Its hot,

and they sweat

through the heavy cloth

now more black than green.

What makes men brave?

When the machine guns begin again,

they rise as one

and rush the guns,

screaming the names of God

in every language known to man

My poem, Oasis, was just published by the Green Silk Journal. Here is the poem:

Oasis

     by Steven Deutsch

Long before the specialty

coffee shops,

we congregated at Sam’s

corner candy store.

We brought our nickels

and dimes

for penny candy

and leafed through

the current Superman.

On days of good fortune

we’d sit at the counter

and sip our malteds—

nothing better.

Sam had two booths

with plasticized seats

for the serious customers.

You could get a burger,

dog, or bagel with a schmear.

And for the connoisseurs,

Sam would make you a grilled

cheese worthy of Woolworth’s.

It’s where dad

proposed to mom

and where they

stopped for Sunday coffee.

The shops disappeared

in the sixties.

I doubt if more than one

or two survive

in the whole Borough

of Brooklyn. I wish

I might find one—

have an egg cream

at the fountain

and leave with

a Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy.

My poem, the Art of the Deal, was just published by the New Verse News. Here is the poem:

My cousin Bobby
tells me
the ultra rich
 
are negotiating
for more sunshine
on their compounds.
 
He reasons
that will mean
less sunshine
 
for the rest of us.
“They also want
a full moon
 
every night of the year.”
Bobby’s the nicest guy,
but thinks 2+2 is advanced math.
 
He read about the sunlight
in several feeds
on the internet
 
and now he owns it.
I ask him
who they are negotiating with
 
and he gives me
his poor dumb cousin look.
I drive home past
 
what we know as “the castle on the hill,”
and it seems to me
the hill has gotten higher.
 
The sun sets at my house
at 7:41 tonight—
it’s supposed to set at eight.
 
And I have to wonder
what else they might
be bargaining for.

I have two poems published by The RavensPerch today. Here is the first:

My ancestors prayed
their faithful hearts out
in a little shul
in the Steppes.

Prayed to their god
of gods in a language
as old as the civilization
they hoped their prayers might heal.

And still it snowed.
Snow over the roof
and through a window
they could no longer close.

It covered the floor
and oaken benches
hiding the poverty of place.
Snow on the sacred scroll

they recited from memory.
They chanted and swayed
and shivered in the deadly cold.
They prayed through the icy winters,

never asking when the healing
might begin,
or for a sign from the heavens.
And still it snows.

My poem, Bibliosmia, is in the current issue of PA”s Poetic Voices. Here is the poem:

BIBLIOSMIA

That groggy Monday
morning
I headed downstairs to my library

to check a passage
from The Good Soldier
I had dreamt

of that night.
Halfway down
I remembered

my library had been
dismantled
and carried away

in custom cardboard cartons,
courtesy of U-Haul.
In the library

there was nothing
but empty shelves,
dust defining

the line of books missing
from a lifetime
of collecting.

Does anything say aged
as effectively as downsizing?
And yet, the scent

of library stayed—
that musty smell of old books.
I sat and closed my eyes.