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Steve Klepetar
Hilltop Burning
I
saw the open gate, trusted rusty
light blazing
from an upper ridge.
On I trudged
through heat singed
grass and
smoke. Nothing forced
me to go on,
nothing in my blood.
My squinting
eyes burned, tears
wet and hot
down my face, earthy
smell of wood.
Every step led
higher.
Crows circled in the wind,
voices hoarse
as dust, or crackling
leaves.
Where will I find the well
of my heart?
In what deep
cavern does it
lie waiting for
my cupped
hands, sweet and cold
as granite
miles below the blazing
surface heat?
Every halting
step leaves me
empty, more
doubtful than the last.
Whose strange
voice will echo
in my brain or
even whisper as I
strain to
hear? What will my totem be?
Like many, I
have climbed. Even
at hilltop I
stand uncertain and
alone before
the burning and the ash.
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Generator House by John Thompson, Sr.
Steve Klepetar
Here in the North
Rain tap dances on the screen
room roof. Guttural thunder to
the west, sky clearing her throat
to sing. Listen to the emerald
grass whispering her velvet
thick aspirations to this curtain
of storm. Even frogs know
when to puff with wet air, spend
all their tongues have earned in
dry days. Here giants live by
riverbanks, hidden by willow,
oak and pine. Their shadows
descend on rolling water, blend
with fat mallards and white geese.
Dogs shake droplets from wet coats
in a wild spray. How much time
we waste envying the south, white
sand beaches and glittering sun.
Heat rises from streets, cement
sidewalks, hangs like a fever from
palms and close sky. Forget your
wings, stay close to fertile wet mud.
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