Stevie's Law

My poem, Reunion, is up at the Red Eft Review. Here is the poem:

Reunion by Steve Deutsch

Mom and Dad
loved lupine,
but couldn’t control it.

Year after year, they’d plant
the finest seeds
in the finest soil

but it bloomed where it would.
My brother left
home the day

after his sixteenth birthday.
I hear from him now
and again—chicken scratch

on the back of a postcard
or a long-distance call
from some place

in the California desert
where lupines are native.
Perhaps he is harvesting

some to bring home—
a handsome gift
for a nurturing couple.

The lupines come up
whenever they will
wherever they will

and my brother
just called
from someplace new.

In a better world the lupine
Would grow where they plant it
and my brother would walk in the door.

Just published in Issue 7 of Livina Press. Here is the poem:

My Poem, Long Time Gone, was just published in Issue 7 of Livina Press. Here is the poem:

Long Time Gone

I always leave one lawn chair
out to overwinter
hoping for a day or two
I might bundle up

and sit in a sliver
of sunshine.
Today as I watch the blue-
black clouds

move in from the west,
I rock gently in my chair
as if putting a garden
or baby to bed

were much the same.
The snow will be heavy
today—an official end
to the gardening season.

Isn’t nature clever that way
burying the remains of the seasons
so thoroughly, we are left
only with memory and a vague hope.

here is my poem from Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices:

ECHO POINT

I came here often as a kid.
We would climb the hill

whenever we liked.
The hike today had all

the spontaneity of an antarctic trek.
Wool socks and water,

a carefully prepared snack,
four kinds of sunscreen,

and half hour updates
on weather.com.

Yet my new hiking boots
left blisters that may never heal.

My high-top sneaks
never did that.

Three of the four of us
made it to the top.

The fourth waits halfway
a lump on a log.

We didn’t come for the view—
the echo here the best in the state.

First the standard “hallo”
but it quickly gets crazy.

The three of us screeching
and flapping our arms

just like too many years ago
just as if we were eight.

I have 2 new poems in Volume 57, Fall/Winter of the Schuylkill Valley Journal. Here are the poems:

For the Asking…

Strolling beside Spring Creek,
I look for trout in the deeper

water. It looks so cold
I would need hip boots,

hooks, lines and sinkers,
and a personality transplant

to catch anything other
than a lingering cold.

One summer day
Dad took us deep-sea

fishing. He was a born fisherman
with a cast iron stomach

and the patience of a saint—
Saint Cabbie of the Brooklyn

Docks. We always came
home with a pail full of flounder.

I knew I’d never meet you here—
yet I often expect you around

the next bend.
And though I know you’ve

been confined a thousand
miles away, stranger

things have happened,
as dad would say

while baiting my hook.
And that improbable

dream might be ours
like fish learning to fly,

you know,
just for the asking.

Out Loud

Last week—alone in the market
I began to talk to myself.
Simple reminders like don’t forget

the milk, that would normally pass
through my mind, I said out
loud. Softly first, as if testing

the acoustics, then forcefully
with the appropriate gestures.
I am more presentable than most street

people, so the looks I got
we’re not fearful—just bemused
as if people were telling themselves

“Just like Uncle Leo,
before they took him to the nut house..”
Truthfully, I liked the feeling

reminding myself, on the way home that
“I’m good at this,” in a fine falsetto
that made me laugh—out loud of course.

Tonight, after much discussion,
We ordered “Conversational Italian.”
We felt it was a nice touch.

My poem, Deadheading, is in the current issue of Thimble Literary Magazine. Here is the poem:

Deadheading

I woke early
this morning,
took down
the two

photo albums
that bookended
the mantelpiece,
and began

to cut your image
from each
of the photos.
I planned to bury

the remains
behind the old
shed—where
once our tire

swing sat.
But mom
caught me at it
and she hasn’t

stopped screaming
since. It’s been
a week
and no one

knows where
you are.
Do you?
I cut

the images
using the small
sharp scissors
you put through

your tiny palm
once. One
of our countless
trips to the emergency

room. What was
it you were
so desperate
to say?

Was god so distracted
he didn’t notice
the difference
in the clay

he held in each hand—
twins that bear
such little resemblance.
A bubble gum light

cuts through
the house.
An official rap at the door.
You’re home.

My poem, Winter 2045, is up at the New Verse News. Here is the poem:

Winter 2045

We bought the corner place
on Burroughs Street—
I’m sure you know it—
a stately two story
built when the neighborhood
was only good for grazing cows.

It took two years of construction
now that the summer restrictions
are in force. We replaced the windows,
added insulation and central air—
two bathrooms and a kitchen.

Only this week, we found our way
to the attic. It’s a wonderland.
Skis and snow shovels
and sleds for children and adults.
And in two huge chests
clothing for a winter fashion show
on an air-conditioned stage.

It was cold here once—
although the children refuse
to believe it.
It was cold here once—
although I hardly remember.
Ice hung from the trees—
the snow so high
we could barely open our back doors.

My parents would go
south for the winter—
to Florida or coastal Carolina.
To places first scorched then drowned—
to places now as bare
as the surface of the Moon.

This is poetry moment on WPSU – a weekly program featuring the work of contemporary Pennsylvania poets. Your host is poet and author Marjorie Maddox, a 2023 Monson Arts Fellow, author of 20 books, and professor of English and creative writing at the Lock Haven campus of Commonwealth University.

Welcome to Poetry Moment.

December—a month of celebrations: Hannukah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, New Year’s Eve. There’s even National Short Girl Appreciation Day, National Twin Day, and National Ugly Sweater Day. With opportunities galore to celebrate and—for some—to shop, Steven Deutsch asks the important question of what some of us really want. In today’s poem, “What the Old Want,” he shares his answer.

After growing up in Brownsville, Brooklyn, Steven Deutsch settled in State College with his wife Karen. He was at Penn State for “about 200 years,” teaching thousands of students and studying heart valves, mechanical hearts, and drag reduction. Since retirement, Steve has concentrated on his first loves—playing cards for high stakes and reading and writing poetry. Poetry editor of Centered Magazine and poet-in-residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum, he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize three times. His book Brooklyn won the 2022 Sinclair Poetry Prize from Evening Street Press. He also has published four additional collections from Kelsay Books: Perhaps You Can; Persistence of Memory; Going, Going, Gone; and Slipping Away.

In today’s poem, Steven Deutsch reminds us of that the best gifts don’t arrive wrapped in fancy paper topped with a bow. 

Here’s —

“What the Old Want” by Steven Deutsch

– – –  
Not much—
friends
and family
I suppose—
for short visits
involving meals
at restaurants
with tablecloths,
or something sumptuous
simmered for hours
over a low flame.

How about a week
without a visit
to a doctor
or a single
medical test.
No MRI or EKG
or CAT scan,
or even
a tube of blood
with my name
in magic marker.

Time
is in free fall.
Like riding
an elevator
held by a single
strand of steel
down from
the 93rd floor.
Bring kindness.

And, when all
else fails,
a recliner—
well worn
in all the right
spots.
A coffee
straight up
and the book
I loved best when
I was young.

“What the Old Want” was originally published in The Bluebird Word.
—

Listen for Poetry Moment with Marjorie Maddox Mondays during Morning Edition and All Things Considered on WPSU. You can more episodes at wpsu.org/poetrymoment.

Our theme music is by Eric Ian Farmer.

My poem “What the Old Want” will be featured on Poetry Moment on December 18^th. Marjorie Maddox (Professor of English and Creative Writing at Commonwealth University) is hosting this year and will introduce and read the poem.

If you are outside of WPSU’s listening area, you may hear the recording the next day at

https://radio.wpsu.org/show/poetry-moment

Poetry Moment features the work of contemporary Pennsylvania poets and poems by those strongly connected to Pennsylvania. Each 4-minute episode includes a very brief introduction to the poem and poet, written by Marjorie, followed by Marjorie reading the poem. Poetry Moment airs live twice on Mondays in the WPSU listening area and is also available online. The recording of each episode, transcription of the same, and author’s photo, are archived on WPSU’s website following the broadcast. Here’s a link, if you’d like to listen to previous episodes and learn more about the show:   

https://radio.wpsu.org/show/poetry-moment [radio.wpsu.org] 

a little mom poem from PA’s Poetic Voices:

MOM

likes nothing better
than to sit on the sand
of Deerfield Beach
as the sun comes up—
coffee and smokes
at hand, she scans
the deserted beach
like Pharoah surveys
her realm—and satisfied,
she summons
the gulls to breakfast.

Fun poem today in Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here it is:

A LITTLE BIT OF A GOOD THING

You will wear purple
and I will teach myself
to bake bread.

It will take
that one part patience
I’ve rarely possessed

mixed with yeast,
flour, and water.
I will claim.

the long kitchen counter
that catches the sun
nearly all day—

we’d taken to calling it
Smokey’s perch for that’s
where she’d nap in the mornings.

No to cupcakes, cookies
and muffins, just peasant breads
with crusts you need teeth for.

I will spend my days
happily kneading
and punching loaves down—

my arms to my elbows
as white as my hair.
And the house will smell

of fresh baked bread—
is there anything better?
And as night comes on

you can join me,
bedecked in purple pajamas
for freshly baked bread and butter.