The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178


Volume-3                                                  June -2013                                              Number-1



At the Well of Senses
by Steve Klepetar

Standing at the well
of senses I see mild
reflections of clouds.
On the rippling
face of this bruised water,
they seem to race across
blue sky, or is it only
another sea? A hole opens
in time, then another and
crows circle above roofs
and trees.  They have found
their way into the body
of night.  In dreams my feet
sink into drying grass.
I have lived through summer
and the hum of flies  against
screens.  I have grown tired
in service of dust and wind.
My teeth ache and signals
I receive from oak and birch
seem unbearable to me.
I will raise a flag here at the
border of worlds, where
chickens gather in a stony
yard.   I will watch old women
scattering corn from wrinkled
 hands, kerchiefs blazing red
in late summer heat
while young ones, oblivious
to onion mouths, hear nothing
of this crying tongue.
Beneath the surface, my world
ticks on, moving closer
and closer. Supple ears remain
tuned. Like fallen leaves
they rush in gathering wind,
each bending to a separate song.


Soul Balloons
by Steve Klepetar

All night sleepers hover above their bodies,
soul balloons bobbing in currents of hot air.
I was a lover once, and climbed an oak, feeling

the iron scratch of bark on tender fingertips.
Looking out, I witnessed a meadow of cats
and snails.  That was years ago, before the air

turned yellow and my breath hung in the cold,
a ragged patch of ice and steam.  Nobody
remembers now, but mountains pushed their way

up from boiling sea and gulls dove among waves,
spearing the wildest fish. November came
and with it a month of rain.  Or was it sleet and cash

and confetti torn again from the oldest news?
I would count backwards on my fingers
if I could find them where my veiny wrists end,

if I could write them on the blackboard of my stony eyes.