Tag Archives: Steve Klepetar

Steve Klepetar

The Boat of my Birth

They say it happened on a night with no stars,
a night of mist that was almost rain,

and when it was over, my mother held me
above the waves, her quiet face stained with tears

as I lay wrinkled and red, crying a little, then quiet,
as petrels soared and squawked above the mast.


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


 

Steve Klepetar

Dream Fish

A man fishes
on a quiet lake
in early
morning mist

casting out
into the dark
reflection
of trees

where dream
fish rise,
glistening
in the silver sun.


Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, which feels like a refuge in these dark times.


 

Steve Klepetar

What the Sirens Sang

We are lashed to the mast,
listening to the sirens sing
of oil and coal and creatures
dying in the shrinking woods.


Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, which feels like a refuge in these dark times.


 

Pushcart Nominee 2019

Steve Klepetar

On the Platform

The train was late, so we stood on the platform
staring down the track into darkness,
and my father said
“Don’t wish your life away,”

said it with a slight smile, a little joke,
a little wisdom I could have for free

as I walked down to the far end and back
just to feel my legs move, shake off the weight
of doing nothing, and then the train roared in

and we’re riding into night,
rain beating against the windows,
thickening, turning to snow as we travel west.


Steve Klepetar has cancelled his trip to Canada because they won’t let him buy Nova Scotia.


 

Steve Klepetar

Honey Cat

She fed him liver and cream,
her wild familiar—
bruised, bleeding killer of birds

and in the sky a sickle,
a scythe, and a boy falling
from a great height, his hair aflame.


Steve Klepetar watched two large deer stroll across the backyard just before the sun went down.


 

Steve Klepetar

The Other Key

I was alone, rain beating
windows black,
alone with your voice
as it echoed down the hall,

alone, but not alone,
book slipping
from my hand, words
like minnows scattering

in the house of dreams
where you held the other key.


Steve Klepetar watched two large deer stroll across the backyard just before the sun went down.


 

Steve Klepetar

Home Fires

We read our futures
in fireplace flames

listening to the snap
of burning logs,
eyes turning inward

as we breathe sweet
smoke, and after
many hours we speak

in a dead language
incised on our tongues.


Steve Klepetar’s father once told him that the Latin for “bang bang” was “bangum bangum,” and the poor kid believed him.


 

Steve Klepetar

Beyond Touch

Trees
caught fire,

sky
rained ash,

our hands
were flame,

eyes like coal
burning
in the grate,

hair roaring
in the wind,

until we
were beyond
touch,

all of us
smoldering
in the ruined land.


Steve Klepetar watches the news every weekday at six with his hand over his face.