Tag Archives: Steve Klepetar

Steve Klepetar

To the Reddened Earth

My body fell away and I was glass
and air, a handful of sand tossed
against the window, then streaming
down in rainbow patterns to the reddened earth.


Steve Klepetar‘s three-year-old granddaughter looked out the big window at the back of his house and said “I love your view.”


 

Steve Klepetar

Before Bed

Bleary-eyed at nine o’clock,
I struggle to stay awake,

book slipping from my hand
as I climb out of myself,

wander in moonless dark
toward the pond,

where a million frogs
break their throats in velvet air.


Steve Klepetar‘s three-year-old granddaughter looked out the big window at the back of his house and said “I love your view.”


 

Steve Klepetar

Mirror

This is not a mirror,
it’s not a lake

turned on its axis,
it’s not the sky

drained of color
on a winter’s day,

but a door
to a thousand

lakes, each one
spread out

beneath a ring
of pines,

a door to the sky
you can open to race

at the speed of light,
your body both

particle and wave,
drinking the milk of stars.


Steve Klepetar agrees that “an aged man in but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick unless soul clap its hands and sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.”

Steve Klepetar

Excuse Me

But one thing you’ll never hear from a cat is ‘Excuse me.’
Nor Einstein’s famous theorem.

Jane Hirshfield

No, but if it could move
at something approaching

the speed of light,
you might see a red glow

in August, or green as it fell
to the bottom

of some extraterrestrial sea,
even if you couldn’t tell,

until you looked,
whether the cat was alive or dead.


Steve Klepetar agrees that “an aged man in but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick unless soul clap its hands and sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.”

Steve Klepetar

On My Wrist

I wrote your name on my wrist
with my bad handwriting,

and somehow the letters formed
a pattern of leaves, or vines,

that grew and stretched
down my arm, tickling my flesh

as tendrils spread, and purple
grapes burst out of every stem

because you have always been
wine, swirling in my glass –

such good legs – a vintage
fragrant, sweet, intoxicating, wild.


Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


 

Steve Klepetar

Sacred

The rabbi
of joy

and wakefulness
follows

his students toward
the library

where shadows
of books

slide along shelves
in fluorescent light

and nobody speaks
because the air is sacred

with words, scented
with the perfume of ancient poems.


Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


 

Steve Klepetar

W. S. Merwin

I knew a man
who transcribed
the wind

who etched
its song onto
rock ledge
and cliff

as he sat
quietly
by a window
in the sun

his lightning
eyes burning
the world to ash.


Steve Klepetar has a heart too soon made glad, too easily impressed.


 

Steve Klepetar

Will You?

If the wave gathering
strength over the western sea

churns, builds, rises
above coastal cities
like a giant hand,

if it roars us into deafness
or shines like a blinding wall,

will you stand with me
on the cliff’s bare face
to watch the old world drown?


Steve Klepetar has a heart too soon made glad, too easily impressed.