Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

All My Other Lives

 

To sun, to feast, and to converse 

and all together — for this I have abandoned 

all my other lives.

 

Robert Francis

 

My pirate life, lived wild on the open sea, 

my sword life, my star gazing life, my rough 

hands on the yardarm, my knots and gold doubloons. 

Gone my life in the tower bent over dusty tomes, 

my tea life, my eyes red and aching life, 

my joy in the multitude of words. 

Finished my convent life in cold halls, my singing life, 

my days spent writing a script that leapt to animation

as fire glowed in the hearth. No more my flying life, 

my cloud life, my life in the trees. 

All night we sailed beneath the moon, 

we hunted and sang. I left my life in chains, 

in mines and prisons, my life in the kitchens, 

polishing silverware. 

Once in a beautiful life I walked through walls, 

no more flesh than a shadow quickly seen 

and gone, nothing but a glimpse from the corner of your eye.

 

 

House Fire

 

When the house burned, I dreamed.

I watched as souls drifted skyward 

in the black smoke. 

 

When it burned, I felt nothing. 

There should have been terror, 

like lightning, like armies tearing 

 

through the forest toward the city we loved.

There was heat, of course, 

and somewhere people must have 

 

huddled together. 

There must have been mourning 

as timbers crackled and crashed 

 

to the ground. Maybe the stars wept 

in their distant cold, but I have my doubts. 

Maybe the sea swelled in sympathy. 

 

I wouldn’t take that bet. 

I wouldn’t even open my arms to gather 

ashes or flames. When the house burned, 

 

it was quiet on the street. 

Lamps glowed and the old woman who rolled 

her shopping cart stopped for a moment, 

 

looking at the bewildering scene, 

until she passed through shadows, 

limping toward the outline of her open door.

 

 

The Centaur’s Blood

 

The tree had no name. We sat beneath its branches 

eating fruit we had picked that morning 

in the orchard near the entrance 

to the Appalachian Trail. By now the heat 

had turned terrible. Together we savoured 

juices and bitter skins. Branches swayed 

above us in the hot breeze. 

Hercules once aimed an arrow at the sun 

because it shone too brightly on his lion clad body. 

Strong but stupid in all those stories 

our granddaughters loved. When he writhed 

in agony from the cloak rubbed in centaur’s 

blood, his mortality burned away. 

He became a god, so maybe there’s good news after all.

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.