Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

In the Gentle Rain

 

A painter fell asleep 

in her garden. 

She had been painting 

all night, ships caught 

in a vast, angry sea. 

 

Last year she painted 

hummingbirds, 

their pointed beaks, 

their wings 

like demented fans. 

 

Now she rests in the soil, 

her head by the cabbages. 

Soon she will wake 

in the gentle rain. 

She will stretch and laugh 

 

at herself, 

go inside to dry off

and drink a cup of tea.

Her garden will swell 

with zucchini and beans. 

 

All the drowned sailors 

will return, 

night after night, 

as her long grey hair 

sweeps and puddles on the cold floor.

 

 

Rags and Oil

 

The lake has caught fire. 

My father works in the boathouse 

surrounded by wrenches 

and rags and oil. 

So quiet, but now

the frogs have started in. 

My brother with the dog 

in his green canoe, 

almost at the opposite shore. 

Clouds hang in the air like a warning. 

My mother steps onto the porch, 

singing a song about God’s burning rain. 

The world tips sideways and crows leap 

into the sky like arrows and smoke at the end of time.

 

 

The Honoured Dead

 

My hands grew cold touching the faces 

Of dead kings and queens.

 

Charles Simic

 

To grow cold is to stretch out into ice, 

or watch your shadow as it lengthens 

in late afternoon. Your skin seems to shrink, 

your shoulders shrug into your neck. 

In this regard, you are most like a cat, 

though at best you have a coat instead 

of fur. Sometimes you sit at the table 

waiting for a chance to nibble something 

salty or sweet. Whatever happens, 

you will not be removed.

Wind blows and windows shake. 

Maybe there is snow or rain, 

maybe crows have flooded the sky. 

All around you are fingers holding cards. 

Someone passes you a drink with plenty of ice, 

but you decline, your hands already cold, 

too stiff to feel the faces of the honoured dead.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Shire (Berkshire County, in Massachusetts, that is). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion and The Li Bo Poems.

Steve Klepetar is waiting out the winter and the pandemic in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.