Steve Klepetar
the lake, the last few cabin lamps
spill from
shore. She holds her moonlight
visions near
the haunted song of owls. What
comes will
come, dragged along the ragged
shadow
shore. Dragonflies dart along
isolated pools
of light. Through the dark canopy
summer
breathes adn still she keeps her
moonlight
peace. Blessed, alone and unafraid,
she
hears the voices of stones and visits
thin
air's secret seams. She keeps her
moonlight
shimmering, skimming lakeside
tension,
wound tightly in hidden places of her
peace.
Summer Night
gnats swarm porch lights.
Wailing train tracks riverbank,
silver winding south, dreaming
stars and wind hot as breath.
TV sets have vanished
from the neighborhood. Empty
blue flames swirl and implode,
wormholes cutting through
familiar space. Tonight your
lovely hair storms, smells
of lightning and rain.
You are amazing, a tornado
strand, a wild woman with killer
hair. Your hands open.
With small gestures you create
a chain of lakes, mountains rise
at your command. Your voice
honey-rich, salmon strong
leaps the stream of time.
Sun globe dangles
from your belt, your sandals
tread across rainbow. Virgin
moon sweeps through your eyes
like silk brushing beautiful thighs.
Oh, lover, I stand tall! Tonight
we see into the very dark,
deep into its swirling black core.
Stephen F. Klepetar says: Steve Klepetar has traded the �n� in his first name for a handful
of magic beans. Now he watches and waits.
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