The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-2                                                  december -2012                                                Number-2


At the Well

by Dr. Steve Klepetar


I could neither spill, nor break the hearts

of those that do.

All this



you carry in spoons and broken sieves

liquid pulsing




and through

trap doors


of holes can only

serve to dot a dusty


with worlds



a tear-shaped


glinting with rainbow bands.




The Parlor of Mice

by Dr. Steve Klepetar



I can no longer escape into the parlor of mice,

that pretense of a place where frozen land folds


under snow.  Knee deep in too many fields, too

long a stay in this sour smelling hotel.  Footfalls


drum and end in corridors of trust.  I climb, go up,

I ascend, I am a soul in glass, butterfly pinioned


to walls of air.  Here is my thumbprint, my breath.

On the last day I sit in your hallway, drafting blood


oaths, almost friendly among broken and fiery leaves.





by Dr. Steve Klepetar



When you come to the gate, bow low

by river’s edge, that stew of mud and geese

and torn leaf rags.  Find the smoothest stone

to polish hard against your chest.  Hold it in

your hand – a melon seed, a shining moon

key, a gemlike word made flesh. There are

words hanging in April trees – willow

and oak and pine – a lingering breath, nothing

but wind’s gray smoke swirling in high branches

while you wait beneath heckling crows.

Let the river slip through your fingers, snow-cold

and open now where banks bend into lapping

foam.  Memorize the only prayer for spring:

a gentle thrust and a rising in the blood, a promise

of eyes and the yipping of frisky dogs in the cold