Stevie's Law

I have two poems in Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here they are, formatted correctly this time.

IN THERE SOMEWHERE

Truth be told, we bought the house
because the garden
enchanted us.

It stretched for 50 yards—
taking a gentle
slope down to a creek

that had no name, but burbled
and rushed as it should,
and probably harbored trout.

The garden was overgrown
by every weed known to man—
Strangleweed and Poison This

and Poison That
and Kudzu
that had smothered the trees.

But in this wilderness I could pick
out signs of a formal garden.
Flagstone paths and brick

beds—and even a bench or two.
And when I plunged in
I came out scratched

and bleeding from rose bush thorns.
This will be fun, we shared with a grin,
and ran off to gather the tools.

SCAMPER

It isn’t easy now,
you know.
That uphill walk
I’ve taken every
day for 40 years
has me stopping,
once or twice
to catch a breath.

And my left knee
wise cracks titanium
with every other step.

The garden
is first to greet me—
straddling the top of the hill.
it shakes its overgrown
head like a six-year-old boy
finally acknowledging
the need for a haircut.

We speak of entropy
like we imagine
scientists might—
one more disorder
like bad eyesight.

But, the walk will get no easier,
the knee no less creaky.
The garden will never return to its
well-ordered beginnings.
Nothing fixes itself.

It even affects our speech.
I imagine words
I will never need again.
The first to pop up
is “scamper.”
It’s a great word for the youngsters
I think, as I try to imagine I’m
scampering up the hill,
which has me smiling, then laughing
then coughing.

I have two poems in the current issue of Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here are the poems:

IN THERE SOMEWHERE

Truth be told, we bought the house

because the garden

enchanted us.

It stretched for 50 yards—

taking a gentle

slope down to a creek

that had no name, but burbled

and rushed as it should,

and probably  harbored trout.

The garden was overgrown

by every weed known to man—

Strangleweed and Poison This

and Poison That

and Kudzu

that had smothered the trees.

But in this wilderness I could pick

out signs of a formal garden.

Flagstone paths and brick

beds—and even a bench or two.

And when I plunged in

I came out scratched

and bleeding from rose bush thorns.

This will be fun, we shared with a grin,

and ran off to gather the tools.

SCAMPER

It isn’t easy now,

you know.

That uphill walk

I’ve taken every

day for 40 years

has me stopping,

once or twice

to catch a breath.

And my left knee

wise cracks titanium

with every other step.

The garden

is first to greet me—

straddling the top of the hill.

it shakes its overgrown

head like a six-year-old boy

finally acknowledging

the need for a haircut.

We speak of entropy

like we imagine

scientists might—

one more disorder

like bad eyesight.

But, the walk will get no easier,

the knee no less creaky.

The garden will never return to its

well-ordered beginnings.

Nothing fixes itself.

It even affects our speech.

I imagine words

I will never need again.

The first to pop up

is “scamper.”

It’s a great word for the youngsters

I think, as I try to imagine I’m

scampering up the hill,

which has me smiling, then laughing

then coughing.

Here is my third poem from the current issue of the New English Review:

Seven Mountains

At the top of this hill
is the cabin we shared
when so young
and unworldly

we thought that spring
would last forever.
It was beautiful here.
How could we know

how flimsy
our futures were.
Most nights
we’d sit on the porch

and watch a truck
or two struggle
up seven mountains—
long before the four lane.

Long before our lives
said hurry up.
Time knows
just one direction—

up and over
and on.
Remember the blues
harmonica I once

played. Tunes so
hauntingly sad—
we never understood why,
did we—until time explained it.

I have three poems in the June issue of the New English Review. Here is the second poem:

Roaches

Dad said the tenement shuddered
when the furnace finally
flamed out.
–
It was 1 A.M on a February
Saturday, and by sunrise
there was no way to stay
–
warm. We wore
everything we owned
and huddled over the kitchen stove.
–
Around us,
Brownsville burned.
The tenements
–
and brownstones
had not been kept up,
and needed repairs
–
that went beyond
string and tape.
The landlords fled
–
“to wherever cockroaches
go in the day,” mom said,
with her usual flair
–
for words.
We moved in with
mom’s mom
–
for the next few months
in a tiny apartment
on Riverdale Avenue.
–
My grandmother
hated my father
and fought with my mom,
–
but at night
and in the morning
I was warm.

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.