Stevie's Law

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.

A new poem published in Thirteen Bridges today. Here is the poem:

Pluviophile

Walking the steamy streets
of Alphabet City
after two days of heavy rain

I hope will never end,
the sidewalks smell
of a city left behind.

Friends lived here once
up on Avenue C
in a roach-filled, sixth-floor

walk-up protected
by three massive locks.
Yes, it was deadly here,

and the walk I take this evening
would have labeled me insane
or desperate. Yet I miss

the days when I might
meet a friend on any corner—
catch up over beer

and peanuts in that bar
on Avenue A —the one that catered
to roughnecks, punks, and poets.

I have two poems in the current issue of Hole in the Head Review. Here are the poems:

Vellichor

There was a time bookstores ran for blocks
along 4th Avenue—the air outside
seasoned with mildew and must.

Nowadays, you need a treasure map
to find one—yet I do, on a shabby side
street, next to dry cleaners

and across the alleyway
from a Chinese take-out.
Outside there’s a cart—

there is always a cart—stuffed
with paperbacks at 5 for a buck,
each by an author who struggled to find

just the right word. The owner
is ageless and wears a sweater
his grandmother might have knitted.

He is as unhappy to see me
as all those 4th Avenue book men
were so long ago.

Inside, it is as hushed as a church
at 3 AM and just as holy.
A floor and a half packed

with books of every description
struggling for notice on sagging shelves
and floor-to-ceiling stacks.

There is a basement
but no Charon to row you there.
I spend a happy hour

browsing. I buy nothing—
I rarely do. Truth is, I collect
these old shops like friends

collect stamps. Rickety rooms
of a million memories—
a million buried secrets.

What you told me

You told me it was a big
wide world and the road
outside our door
would take us anywhere.

We couldn’t have been
much older than ten
when you told me
you were ready

to pack a toothbrush
and head for Route 66.
You told me to expect
postcards from all

the places you might visit,
and I imagined a card
from Wyoming
showing you herding cattle

and branding calves,
six gun dangling from your hip
and a forty gallon hat
over your eyes and ears;

or one from Alaska
of you panning for gold
in an icy stream
and holding up a nugget the size

of your head. You told
me of Paris, Moscow
and Warsaw and I pictured
you supping Borscht

on the banks of the Vistula.
You told me of poverty,
famine, and war,
and I saw you leading

a calvary charge—saber
flashing as bright
as your smile—
or all in white, bringing

vaccine to the children
of Turkey or Argentina.
But it was 1953
and your mother told me

of polio,
iron lungs,
and how you would never
walk again