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Excerpt for Like Water To Stone by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

like water to STONE


like water to STONE


A Collection of Poems

by

STEVEN PELCMAN



Adelaide Books

New York/ Lisbon

2017


like water to STONE

A Collection of Poems

by Steven Pelcman


Copyright © 2017 By Steven Pelcman

Cover Image © 2017 Steven Pelcman


Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon

An imprint of the Istina Group DBA

adelaidebooks.org


Cover design & Interior Formatting:

Istina Group DBA, New York


Editor-in-Chief

Stevan V. Nikolic


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except

in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and

reviews.


For any information, please address Adelaide Books

at info@adelaidebooks.org


ISBN13: 978-1-950437-22-1

ISBN10: 1-950437-22-1



Dedicated to Mom, Dad and Bonnie


and to Jessica and Eric

and to all above who have passed through

all the days of our lives




Special thanks to poet, teacher and mentor,

Dan Masterson.


In the deep shadows

Still dark after they are gone

To share the warmth that color can give

Where the leaves darken

Against September’s wind


CONTENTS



A Dying Animal

A Hunter Waits

A Bat Invades our Summer Bungalow

A Gathering

A Walk with Miguel

He Needed to Know

Key Largo

Ireland

The Widow Maker

Taos Pueblo

The Stranger at 3AM

Lake Shrine

Goodbye

A Small World

Pool

Andrej

Thinking

Blind

Bee in Classroom

Between the Lost and the Forgotten

Left Behind

The Day Grandfather Died

Acceptance

The Young Wife

Sugar

Sunday Morning at Market Square

Jessica

Herbie

Saving Frogs

Summer Love

Mont Saint Michel

Falling

First Moment of Custody Visit

Home

Buying a Rug at the Istanbul Bazaar

Acroterion

KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa

An Impression

Mountain Lake in Fall

At the Window

Silence

Adirondack Mountain Lakes

Room 229

Station M8

Deer Frozen in Headlights

Tuscany

The Last Morning

Sunday’s Visit with Mom

Family Diary

Touch the Wind

Sweet Madeira

A Painting of a Woman

Born Again

like water to STONE

Passchendaele

Unknown Faces

My Bubbie

The Things Little Children Can Do

The Good Wife

Belonging

Memories of a Child

The Confessions of a Dying Man

Saturday Morning at Temple

Dreamer

About the Author

Publishing Credits


Poems


A Dying Animal



Her paw weighs

no more than that

of a leaf and trembles

at even the sounds of light


that rise from under

the snow in winter,

and there is little more

to expect other than


a brief moment for her dying,

so that her whimpering

can melt away

under the heavy darkness.


I put my hand

in the bloody footprint

and feel moonlight

roll over me like fur


ruffling in wind

and I smell the odor

of something damp

and sticky and wild,


and I know that something

had been alive, that it had sung

the same song as darkness

sings to itself when no one is listening.


A Hunter Waits



He waits in the cold

with schnapps and a twenty-two rifle

in a wooden look-out tower

on stilts overlooking a clearing,


now the thin winter ice,

as the moon’s face slips across it,

hoping a wild pig or a hungry deer

will be suddenly caught by surprise.


Above the tree-line wine hills

with frozen dried out saps

still clinging to the vine

can feel the sifting wind


as it plucks its way through

the hedgerows.

He warms his body with alcohol

under the weight of the moon


as a deer slithers by

the thin dark trees gnawing

at bark and fallen leaves

and the shallow pools of water


the late winter night forms.

They look through the darkness

knowing that nothing protects them

but the warmth within.


A Bat Invades our Summer Bungalow



In late August when deer feel it is safe

to wander across Sullivan Road

and black bears sniff out

the last ripe berries


before September’s chill

my mother airs out the bungalow

of stifling heat and wilted roses

first planted many summers ago.


She leaves open a window

and puts us to sleep

to the aroma of cold pine bark

and moss dripping wet in the moonlight


when it enters like a sudden awakening

to a nightmare and tumbles deep into itself;

a silhouette collecting darkness

as a wound discolors skin


to blanket the room with its wings.

Its madness drives my mother mad

with her one hand on top of her hair

in a bun while the other holds a broom


as the moon eavesdrops

against the wooden walls

and the sky thins into a faded blue

but this flying leech does not fly


and that’s the thing that scares her most

as she watches it spread out its body

like a lost continent on a map

of white and yellow plastered walls


with its tiny eyes bulging and gritty teeth

fangs whiter than the kitchen lamp light

beaming light house signals

to sea creatures on the horizon.


She turns on all of the lights

and locks us in the bedroom

while she chases this sticky chunk of flesh,

its heart beating against one wall


then leaping to another turning my mother

into a housewife Don Quixote with a broom

muttering words like a lost tongue

only she and it would understand.


They danced this way in the cold summer air,

she afraid it would nest in her hair

and it afraid the stars would not show the way

to the endless darkness it longed for.


A Gathering



The night in winter

does not roll in lazily.

Instead it bursts over the city


like a dark wound

spreading quickly.

There is a park we pass


on the way into the city

near an old Russian church

off of Tulla street


where old men huddle

over a small fire.

Their shadows press tightly


like a clump of trees

listening to the darkness

chanting a prayer lost


in the wind

only the dying

would remember.


They are not alone

as black birds

like mobsters


stalk the snowy field

burying their own shadows

into the hard ground.


They congregate like rigs

on a Texas oil field

exploiting the earth


with their beaks

until the moon

is a piece of gold


hurtling before them

but they do not fly away,

they leap and stretch


their necks out as if drunk

on cold air, and the men

join in by stomping


to keep their feet warm

and clapping their hands

to shake off the chill.


This is the dance

of the forgotten

that silently migrate


and know no difference

between day or night.

One by one they leave


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