Stevie's Law

In the current issue of the Write Launch

Saudade
One last trip
on the New Lots Line
that trundles up
from its tunnel

just as the Brooklyn neighborhoods
turn to Brownsville,
turn to near ruin.
The train takes the 90 degree

curve on 98th Street—
where my uncle
and aunt once lived,
and where the train’s screech might

wake the dead
or make you wish
you were,
and deposits me

at the Saratoga Avenue Station.
It’s been more
than 50 years
since I last rode this train

and stepped off at this station.
Slowly, I move down the steps
where my friend Artie
was knifed to death,

and where my mother was held up
twice. I’m here to walk.
Take in what my ancient
senses will allow.

It’s my “not much of a victory tour.”
I look at everything.
Smell, hear everything.
I move at little more than

a geriatric’s pace now.
Remember how I strode these streets
like I owned them?
And in a way,

I suppose I did.
I pass the old elementary school,
the first tenement I lived in—
I bet the people still sleep on the fire escape.

The street names have changed—
as have the people
who live in these crumbling buildings,
worse for 50 more years of wear.

Yet things are much the same—
working people with families
and kids playing stickball
in the schoolyard.

Here is where I left my childhood—
who knew it was so easy to lose?
Wearier but no wiser,
I Uber back to my hotel.

Saudade
One last trip
on the New Lots Line
that trundles up
from its tunnel

just as the Brooklyn neighborhoods
turn to Brownsville,
turn to near ruin.
The train takes the 90 degree

curve on 98th Street—
where my uncle
and aunt once lived,
and where the train’s screech might

wake the dead
or make you wish
you were,
and deposits me

at the Saratoga Avenue Station.
It’s been more
than 50 years
since I last rode this train

and stepped off at this station.
Slowly, I move down the steps
where my friend Artie
was knifed to death,

and where my mother was held up
twice. I’m here to walk.
Take in what my ancient
senses will allow.

It’s my “not much of a victory tour.”
I look at everything.
Smell, hear everything.
I move at little more than

a geriatric’s pace now.
Remember how I strode these streets
like I owned them?
And in a way,

I suppose I did.
I pass the old elementary school,
the first tenement I lived in—
I bet the people still sleep on the fire escape.

The street names have changed—
as have the people
who live in these crumbling buildings,
worse for 50 more years of wear.

Yet things are much the same—
working people with families
and kids playing stickball
in the schoolyard.

Here is where I left my childhood—
who knew it was so easy to lose?
Wearier but no wiser,
I Uber back to my hotel.

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 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.