Stevie's Law

Pleased to be part of the Pure Slush Beautifullest Anthology:

Here is the poem:

Isn’t She Lovely

Cousin Sarah
was plain as pine.
Every time she
walked by,
my friend Davy
would sing
“There she is
Miss America.”
He was 10–nearly 11
and his voice
would always break at “my ideal.”

If you did that today
I imagine someone
would call you on it—
tears, parents, sensitivity
training would follow.
But in Brooklyn, in 1954
bullying was only a big deal
if you happened to pick on
someone with an older brother.

Not that Davy was anything
to look at
resembling on his good days
a boxer pup.
He sang and sang
and over the years
a careful listener
could hear the meaning change.

In 1968, when Sarah married Davy
on the basketball court,
the ushers were all stoned,
and of course we sang
“Miss America”
when Davy took his place—
resplendent in his high top Keds,
under the netless hoop.

One Sunday a month,
I meet them
at the Atlantis Diner
in Canarsie.
Over 50 years,
they’ve produced
enough kids and grandkids
to fill a small theater—
and wouldn’t you know it,
they’re all stunning.

And every time Sarah
walks from the ladies room
to the table
Davy, god bless him, still hums it—
celebrating his many years
of living with her loveliness.

I had a new poem published today on MacQueen’s Quinterly. And here it is.

Message in a Bottle

I was hoping
you might read this.
Come upon it
unexpectedly

in that journal
with the intriguing name
you often fan through
but never buy

in that famed bookshop
on the avenue
in the city
you now call home.

Or in a dog-eared
and stained anthology
broken by age
on a crowded shelf

between Ammons
and Auden
in the library
just down the block

from the garden
apartment
you share
with your sister.

Or hear it read
on YouTube
accompanied
by viola and cello

by that old poet
whose once sonorous voice
is fading faster
than his face

as you wait for dinner
in that care facility
overlooking
the once scenic lake.

And you might
have the urge
to reach me
one last time

before the meter expires
on the lives
we have borrowed.
But, better perhaps if not.

And, anyway, how?
Still, I hope
you’re reading
this now.

My Poem, Endgame,was published yesterday by 8 poems. Here is the poem:

Endgame

That last year
Dad lost his
taste for food

and drink,
even for the
Cuban cigar

he once carried
everywhere
like an extra

digit. He
took to napping
in daylight,

something
he could
never

abide, and
staring through
the picture

window overlooking
the small mountain
lake in

the cabin
I had helped
him

build. Once
we fished
that lake

for crappies
and small-mouth
bass.

Butter fried
over an
open fire, they

were perfect
with beer
cooled

in that ice cold
lake. Today
the wind

hints of winter
as I pack
his tools

and grandfather’s
rocker and take
the gravel road

down.

I’ve two poems published by Hamilton Stone Review today. Here they are:

At 10

When
it’s very clear

and very cold
my mind makes room

for recollection.
Images

hidden for fifty
years crisp

as that first step
on snow

flash-sealed
by an unearthly freeze.

I’m ten
and my dad and I

have stepped into
the silence

of an iced-in
avenue.

The sycamore limbs
mummified

in sheathes of clear
crystal.

Just for today
I am

the only son
and even

that first stab
of arctic air

is reason
to rejoice.

Heartland

I

Some soft
summer mornings

we’d take
our little lane

west, on what
our parents

once called
a Sunday drive.

Roads here
were built

for horse
and carriage

and meander
like streams

searching for
a lost river.

When at times
the early fog

takes
possession

of the earth,
we drive

more from
memory

than vision—
secure

in our
obscurity.

II.

This morning
the fog

is thick
as Burma-Shave

and I imagine
an invading

army
padding silently

over the ridge
on elephants

and camels
to await

the blooding
of the sun.

But here
in the heartland,

we’ve little
left

to defend.
The young

and the able
long for more

than mastering
the s-curves

down Shawnee Ridge
and $7.50 an hour

at Burger
Den downtown.

They seem to know
from birth

that all our roads
lead only

to somewhere
else.

My wife has a poem up on The Drabble today. It’s her first published poem since sixth grade.

Bulle de Bonheur
by The Drabble

By Karen A. Deutsch

Before the plans have been sketched out
Before the seeds have been ordered
Before the bricks have been delivered
Before the garden debris has been raked
Before the roses have been cut back
Before the angled trees have been staked
Before the garage door has been repainted
Before we slather ourselves with lotion
We sit in chairs left out over Winter
Knees to knees, heads leaning back
Eyes closed, breathing rhythmically
Listening to the robins welcoming Spring

My poetry has always taken a back seat to my art practice; with Spring it sometimes puts out shoots.