Steven Stone

I am originally from Flushing, Queens. I went to Queens College and graduated in 1973 with a B.A. in Drama & Theatre. I began writing poetry when I was in high school. Also, I am a painter, starting from about 1969. I have been published in many online magazines and some print magazines.

RUNNING BY RIVERMOUTH

  1.
  
 I loved you when
 it was proper to love,
 wrapped in coats of red,
 the shine wrapped in
 cellophane, duct tape,
 sugar and salt;
  
 Viruses have spread,
 rocketing like demons,
 redeeming nothing
  
 Is it so proper anymore?
 Is the quarantine complete?
 Are we wrapped instead
 in our mutual demise?
  
  
 2.
  
 Sweat and excavation
 Lilith was a lady
 who bent the devil’s ear
  
 one who can endure
 excessive force
  
 hold on to yourself;
 my arms are the straitjacket
 I am buried in;
  
 we can go tomorrow;
 i can drive
  
 when the rain settles
 its grudge with the
 ground
  
 green on my heels
 the moss-laden
  
 question marks of
 bent knees, furtive
 kisses;
 hills that were
 bent up and out by
 tectonic orgy
  
 this is where i will
 bring you
  
  
 3.
  
 incorporate the dawn
 silence the giraffe,
 already neck-weakened
  
 the farthest part of the
 field for me
  
 it will come in may
 when i least
 expect it, the
 leaden dread before
 another hungry
 anniversary
  
 before the siege
 of summer
 lightning bends
 its forms to
 match my fears
  
 in a cloud of
 grey suspicion
 that covers my
 tired eyes
  
  
 4.
  
 1967. Chance
 of rain and heart-
 break. Camera,
 borrowed, burns
 a glimpse of love
 into my eyes; black
 and white no doubt
 the truth; brick by
 brick I shape the
 faces into my wall,
 life between sconces,
 chemistry of words –
  
 her mouth was
 his master; random
 notes of promises
 of conscience, of
 slipping and sliding
  
 lazy plants grew like
 weeds in my brain;
  
 no history here; the
 screen mends itself
  
 fire and shame of
 waking eyes; inject
 a life into me
  
 snowflakes by the bushel
 sprinkled on the corn
 I must be in a dream
  
 post-mortem for a
 slow-going past
 or future; looking
 at the clock with
 the temperatures
  
 full moon
 departure
 lowdown
 in the swamp
  
 lake haste
 lake broad barrel
 lake iron spigot
  
 barely reaching
 to the tower
 unswung
 upswirled
 sun will rise
 plastering the sky
  
  
 night howls
 save their barking
 for the death hour
  
 sun boils in
 its own heat
  
 running by river-mouth
 I stand where I once lived
  
 dying in the blaze
 of a once-sunset
  
 but do not die at all 

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