Stevie's Law

My poem, In the Cards, is in the current issue of Sheila-Na-Gig. Here is the poem:

In The Cards

My grandmother read tea leaves in a storefront
on Belmont Avenue. Outside, pushcarts

lined both sides of the street,
selling thimbles and twine, potatoes and chickens.

She’d cradle a calloused hand to examine the lines
of life and grief and their storied intersections,

peer deep into the crystal for the recently lost
or long-departed to offer some small slice of hope.

Grandma liked to tell me she sweetened their lives
the way a small piece of flanken sweetened the borscht,

as we shared a pot of honeyed tea and slices of babka,
and a game of 500 Rummy she never, ever lost.

Syzygies

There was a full moon
the night you died.
You would have wanted that.

When we were 8
and 10, we snuck
down the fire escape

one night to walk
the length of Church Avenue.
From the first rise

we looked out
on the near
perfect alignment

of street lights.
The moon was full
and we told each other stories

of how the planets aligned
like streetlights
and the pull of gravity

animated the vampires
the werewolves and the creature
from the Black Lagoon.

You said you could see them—
crouched like ravenous tigers
on the streetlight stanchions.

But we were young
then and only afraid
of make believe.

*

Halloween

They came for candy
this evening from 6
to 8, as the city allows.
Their parents trailed

with flash lights, bottled water
and warm clothing.
Costumed for cute
they dangled decorated

bags or plastic
Jack-o-lanterns
to carry home
hermetically sealed chocolate candies.

In Brooklyn, we dressed
for combat, ready to do battle
with the feisty folks
in poorly lit tenement halls

that smelled of cabbage
and kippered herring.
Remember when old lady
Blocker baptized Pete

with a pot of boiling water
rather than part with a penny
sweet. Outside it was mayhem.
The older kids blowing

the covers off manholes
with cherry bombs—
screaming like banshees
on sugar highs

until someone got too close
and spent the evening
being stitched at Beth-el.
They lit things up—

my brother was the star
of the show
with dad’s zippo and a paper bag
of puppy poop.

Our parents ignored us—
preferring Sgt. Bilko on TV
to refereeing the goody wars.
But the candy was sweeter then—

as if it were stolen fruit.
As if we had earned the right
to ruin our teeth on jelly
beans and turkish taffy.

My poem, After Covid, is in the current issue of the Phoenix (Pfeiffer University). Here is the poem:

After Covid

I bought my mother a clock
with two fixed hands
and a face that said
“whatever.”

And “whatever”
became a catch
phrase we used
whenever.

A metaphor
for the pandemic years—
locked away and staring
at a clock

that might as well
have made the time up.
Today I listened
to a single

rivulet of water
drip from my front gutter
as my pulse
tried to synch

with the rhythmic
sound of single drops
beating the steps below.
There is a rhythm

to life
that eases our passage.
Those who never find it
we call mad.

Perhaps we are all mad now
scratching around like chickens
to recover a rhythm
that vanished with the virus.

My poem, Deadline, has just been published by Backchannels. Here is the poem:

Early sun surprises.
Eyes like ground glass
and my hand
asleep on the keyboard.

Remember the summer
before working papers
at your uncle’s
bungalow colony.

The murky lake
and an old woven basket
for a basketball hoop.
Bare chested

days that lasted
for weeks and
cares no more
worrisome

then a stoved
middle finger.
Ah, for a time machine—
I can’t help

thinking,
as I shake my hand
and rub my eyes.
Fedex at ten.

I’m very pleased to have my poem, Looking for America,” in the 2023 print issue of the Clackamas Literary Review. Here is the poem:

Looking for America

Let us be
best friends
one last time—

roll out the old
Ford
and take

that trip
we so often
dreamed of

when young.
Head to
the west coast

on those two lane
roads that once
were America.

Remember
when we were
America too?

Fill that old
Ford with
chips and beer—

the radio set
to the “Nothing
but Oldies” Station,

loud enough
to remind us
we are still alive.

Swap lies
with the locals
in pubs on Main Street

and sample
the biscuits and bacon
in dozens of mom

and pop diners
in what was once
the heartland—

a thousand dots
on a tattered
gas station map

long ago
bypassed
and nearly forgotten.

And when
the Ford
throws a rod

in Kansas
or Colorado,
as of course

it must,
we can unfold
the aluminum

lawn chairs
and sit on the berm
to wait for the sunset.

I have three poems on Literary Yard today.Here are the poems:

K

We knew back then
you would never
grow old.
Did you?

Today nature threw
a January thaw
as if in rehearsal for spring.
It is a time

to take stock—
kick off your shoes
put up your feet
and let in

the daydreams.
It is the occupation
of those of us
of a certain age.

How would you
have handled
the slowing of age?
Trapped as you

were in a constant
motion. Your arms
and legs tapping,
joints cracking

and your mouth
in constant monologue.
Now and then
someone would

knock you down
just to quiet you.
You had all the traffic
lights for miles around timed.

Stalled at the occasional
red light you’d bristle
like a cat in a cage—
foot on both gas and brake.

‘Til you misjudged
one on Eastern Parkway
and left pieces of metal and glass
scattered for half a city block.

###

For One Single Yesterday

You ordered steak
and eggs
and a full-bodied
red in that bar

and grill off
the avenue
in the city
that never sleeps.

And the waitress—
pretty in a way
I’d never known
before, made a fuss

over me—understanding
I was under age
and new to life.
Soft jazz

played in the background
and the steak
was a rare wonder.
The wine went

down so easy
that I never took
the trouble to
thank you for it all.

This evening
I had steak
and eggs
and a fine red

at the same grill
you took me to
some fifty years
ago—remember

when the waitress
had me up
and dancing
to something slow

and never –
ending as the sun
set on the city
that never ever sleeps.

###

Times

It’s just like old times—
the revolving door still needs
a Goliath’s push
and the serpentine coffee bar
built to the slope of the wooden floor
takes most of the room
in its meanderings.

Just like old times—
food so tasteless
I can fool myself
into thinking
my mother
cooked it
fifty years ago.

Like old times—
The waitresses,
too old to age,
still walk the woozy floors
balancing trays
heaped with bacon and burgers,
fries and onion rings.

Old times—
coffee like burnt rags—
remember the jokes
we tried to outdo
each other with—
my brother,
my friend.

My poem, Doo-wop, is in the Winter 2023 issue of the Remington Review. Here is the poem:

Doo-Wop

The temperature dropped
twenty degrees last night.

Trees stood full green—
stunned past blushing,

and on the college lawn
hoarfrost replaced

the sunbathers
who walked the ice-

slicked streets
dressed for summer.

On the corner
four young men huddled

and blew on their hands
as a concession to the cold

like that doo-wop group
that graced the corner

of Hopkinson and Lott
winter and summer

and sang of losing
a love they had not

yet known.
The music often found

an aching harmony,
which like that first love,

they would long for
the rest of their lives.

it’s been a good morning.

Congratulations.

We have chosen your manuscript, BROOKLYN, as the winner of the 2022 Sinclair Poetry Prize.

Barbara Bergmann, Editor (she/her)

Evening Street Press & Review
2881 Wright St
Sacramento, CA 95821
http://www.eveningstreetpress.com