Stevie's Law

I have three poems in the current issue of New English Review. Here is the first of the poems:

Praying Mantis

We always celebrated Easter
with a bucket of KFC,
coleslaw, and biscuits
at the picnic table
in that little park
by the school.
–
No bonnets, no frocks,
no parades.
–
I was seven or eight
the first time
we pulled up in the old
Packard Eight
to unload lunch.
–
All of a sudden,
my potbellied dad
jumped backward
nearly losing the chicken.
–
He pointed to the windshield
where the oddest bug
I’d ever seen
sat goggle-eyed
and grooming.
–
We had learned
from an early age,
that mantises
were never to be disturbed.
“The cops will lock
you away,” my brother offered—
presaging his future,
–
I got up close to stare.
All angles—joints and eyes.
But, I was eight—
the skinniest guy in the neighborhood—
no meat, just joints and blue eyes
that popped from my head.
–
Two bugs sharing a windshield
as the sun starts down.

I’ve two poems in the current issue of Misfit Magazine. Here are the poems:

Best Intentions

I planted that copper beech
50 years ago today
for my 30th birthday.
It was little more than a stick,

barely surviving
its first three years,
although I watered
and trimmed it

and would have fed it
with a spoon
if I’d known how.
It’s magnificent now—

about 60 feet tall,
but entwined in power lines
and too damn close
to the house.

Tree surgeons are out back,
with their chainsaws
and mini-crane.
It will take a day or two

to cut it down.
Makes me wonder
if I was right to plant
it in the first place.

How responsible
are we
for what we nurture?
Trees, pets, children,

things we bring
to the world
or shepherd on their way?
Fragile as faith.

In the clearing stands a boxer
From Paul Simon’s The Boxer

My uncle Frankie talked with his hands—
a steady plume of cigarette smoke
bothered his eyes and yellowed
his battered face.

We rarely visited,
knew that Frankie had a past
so bad no one would talk of it.
But today he talked of my dad,

and about the Golden Gloves
he almost won.
So strange to imagine my father,
potbellied from pushing a hack,

with the fastest hands in Brooklyn.
But to hear Frankie tell it
you could barely see my old man’s fists—
flying so fast

they were unblockable.
“Why didn’t he win?”
we asked in unison,
but Frankie just nodded

at a picture of my dad
and lit another Camel
with the smoldering end
of his stub.

I have two poems in the current issue of The Coachella Review. Here they are:

After

When I finally left the stage
to little more
than polite applause,
I had no strength

of will
to wipe the makeup off,
nor any desire
to shed the costume

as dear to me as skin.
In years past,
I’d have moved beyond today
in minutes

and stepped outside
to take a long walk
home—all thoughts
on tomorrow,

sure to be even better.
Plans—I had them.
A million ideas
to sift through my hands

like flour for bread dough.
Where are they now?
I sit and I wait
for the crosstown bus.

Another gargoyle
decorating the bench
just outside
the theater of life.

Reflection

Mom weighs in
now and again.
I don’t mind.

She’s always been
more helpful than not,
and it’s nice to see

she is using
her dead time.
Just last week,

she spent an hour
marveling at how old
I’ve become.

And this morning,
she reminded me again
I was always “such a good boy,”

which left me
reliving all the times
I wasn’t.

Have you ever wondered
about the meaning
of the examined life

and when you might
find the time
to practice it?

Perhaps that’s what Mom
meant to say—
“it’s time.”

My poem, Story, was just published by Slant—a Journal of Contemporary Poetry. here is the poem:

Story

I read the last page
more than once
delaying for a time
the final closure —

when the book finds
a place on my shelves —
just another trophy.
So much pleasure

and no sequel.
Who doesn’t love
a good story — who doesn’t
love the storyteller

whose ancestors
kept the spirits away
from the fire
by spinning a web of creation?

I tell stories
thinly disguised as poems
about people and places
I might have known once.

Listen, I say,
here’s one
about my errant granny
who went missing

one weekday afternoon
while hunting for seeded rye.
We mobilized the neighborhood,
except for my dad

who whispered “good riddance”
under his breath.
We found her in Louie’s
sipping scotch,

mesmerizing the regulars
with tales of an old
country, she had never
actually lived in.

Tell me a story please,
with timing and plot
and people so real
I can even believe they’re dancing.

I’ve a poem in the May issue of Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here is the poem:

FOGGY DAY

I drove through Penns Valley
in the thick of an early morning fog
like a chess master
playing blindfolded.

You see, I’d forgotten
how to sleep
and been nowhere at all
since the virus blew through.

Now I could only hope
my long history
with this winding road
would do, instead of sight.

Truth is,
I was nowhere
still. But perhaps instinct
makes the man.

After twenty minutes the fog
suddenly lifted—as if someone
had taken the cloth from my birdcage—
like an unexpected smile.

I have a poem in the new issue of MacQueens Quinterly. Here is the poem:

Give Them All to Me

But if somehow you could pack up your sorrows…

—Richard and Mimi Fariña*

It was the year of chili dogs
and reheated beans
at the encampment
under the interstate—
between the smoldering forest fire
and the sad little carnival
in the supermarket parking lot.

The year of departed parents,
of locust and gypsy moths,
of tearful love songs
picked on a guitar
held together by tape,
with voice and harmony
hollow with sorrow.

The year of counting coins,
bottles, and cans,
and playing on corners
for dimes and quarters.
Dinners warmed over Sterno
and nickel bags
in the alley beside the liquor store.

The year of sitting handcuffed
in the back
of a patrol car—
broken teeth chattering—
gigantic shadows
in the blossoming light
of cities burning.

The year I helped you carry
our brother home.
Cares and all,
he was less of a burden
than starlight.
That year he finally slept
through the night.

Up at Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices

YOUNG AGAIN

The storm that blew through
yesterday,
left a sea of debris,
and air so clear
even the pigeons
sparkle.

I trace
the path of today’s sun,
dawn to dusk,
kick my weekend’s work
down the cellar stairs
and declare a personal holiday.

I have a simple approach—
lounge chair, cooler, chips,
although I spend some time
finding the perfect spot
for my chair.
I will have a purpose—free day.

Like a day at the beach—
no need for justification
in triplicate.
Nah, just sand and sea
a few cold beers
and franks with mustard and kraut.

Surely you remember—
back before the busyness
grabbed you by the short hairs
and deadlines kicked
you in the keister.
I was a kid once—weren’t you?

my poem, Having Grown Apart, is in Issue 3 of Cool Beans. Here is the poem:

Now that I need not
wake for work
I rise at first light,

tired but present.
It is my time
for contemplation,

although my frivolous thoughts
might make the Buddha
chuckle. Sometimes

I think of you.
How close we were
and how the distance

has grown past reconciliation.
Would you even recognize
me now without prompting?

I’ve thought of writing to you.
I imagine you
still in your childhood home

anxiously opening the envelope,
worried it might be bad news.
I’ve tried, halfheartedly, but find

I have few words to share—
unsettling for someone
who made his way with words.

But, there is a slowing here—
I fear I won’t conquer
the world after all.

Have you?
I don’t suppose so.
Another class graduated

this week—so many plans,
so much horizon,
hourglass be damned.

my poem, Tripping, is in the Winter Issue of the Bond Street Review. Here is the poem:

Tripping

Three stringed guitar
and a cowboy hat for change,
you made your way
up and down

the New England coast
singing for sustenance.
You coulda been
a fine baritone.

had you not liked
the high life more.
Striding the sun-tinged
clouds at the white

water’s edge—
no one
walked with you,
fearing the things

you saw when the tide
came in might
swallow
them whole.

Pleased to have my poem up at the Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Here is the poem:

 Erato

Erato

I searched the town

and finally found her

at that ramshackle café.

with the tin roof

next to the boarded-up

train station.

It was teeming—

the rainy season just begun

and how anyone could stand

that racket was beyond

my ken—

but she sat at a counter

in the corner of the shack

muttering prompts

into her cardboard

coffee cup.

She looked like hell—

all resemblance

to that lithe greek goddess

drained by a million poets

complaining of writer’s block.

I thought to comfort her

and grab that cup,

but muses are fast as

lightning bolts.

She fled through the roof

leaving her cup of golden

prompts—written in a Greek

so old only Zeus

could decipher it.