I have a poem in the current issue of PA’s Poetic Voices. Here is the poem:
MUDDER
I got 20 to 1
on that donkey—
Muddy Waters,
who hadn’t placed
in three years
and is rapidly
heading to gluetown.
It was my last five
and I’d have to hit
a buddy up for carfare.
Before that last race of the night,
clouds came
in from nowhere,
and it rained.
Not any rain,
but a rain that would’ve had
Noah crowing, “told you so.”
The track turned to mud
gooey, sticky mud,
and my donkey
won going away.
Published on Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
early morning snow
deer tracks through the apple grove
my fireplace crackles
On Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
Last day of Autumnour 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.
Stevie's Law 