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A Hunter Waits

He waits in the cold

with schnapps and a twenty-two rifle

in a wooden look-out tower

on stilts overlooking a clearing,

now the thin winter ice,

as the moon’s face slips across it,

hoping a wild pig or a hungry deer

will be suddenly caught by surprise.

Above the tree-line wine hills

with frozen dried out saps

still clinging to the vine

can feel the sifting wind

as it plucks its way through

the hedgerows.

He warms his body with alcohol

under the weight of the moon

as a deer slithers by

the thin dark trees gnawing

at bark and fallen leaves

and the shallow pools of water

the late winter night forms.

They look through the darkness

knowing that nothing protects them

but the warmth within.

Steven Pelcman

Fourth River magazine (A Hunter Waits-fall 2011)

Between the Lost and the Forgotten

The night comes

and someone always goes with it

as he shuffles by

dressed in only a diaper

unsure of where the bedroom is.

His hands know the music

of small things

as he walks, almost enchantingly,

on a pure white floor

full of a wife’s discipline.

He travels in circles thinking

that his is a little death

the dark will not grieve over

and tightens his face

as insects do to unknown sound.

He does not belong

to the silence yet

and goes on imagining

where a straight line

can take him.

Steven Pelcman

The Baltimore Review (spring 2012 edition)

      

 A Gathering

The night in winter

does not roll in lazily.

Instead it bursts over the city

like a dark wound

spreading quickly.

There is a park we pass

on the way into the city

near an old Russian church

off of Tulla street

where old men huddle

over a small fire.

Their shadows press tightly

like a clump of trees

listening to the darkness

chanting a prayer lost

in the wind

only the dying

would remember.

They are not alone

as black birds

like mobsters

stalk the snowy field

burying their own shadows

into the hard ground.

They congregate like rigs

on a Texas oil field

exploiting the earth

with their beaks

until the moon

is a piece of gold

  

hurtling before them

but they do not fly away,

they leap and stretch

their necks out as if drunk

on cold air, and the men

join in by stomping

to keep their feet warm

and clapping their hands

to shake off the chill.

This is the dance

of the forgotten

that silently migrate

and know no difference

between day or night.

One by one they leave

and drift away

to the sound of church bells

that echo against the darkness.

 

Steven Pelcman

The Warwick Review (winter 2013edition)

Acceptance

His frail body rises and saunters

to the sounds of Irish wind

over the bog stumbling at 4AM

without a care in the dark

to the bathroom

with a thankful lingering sigh

and whiskey-mumbling lips

still clinging to the last round.

He clears his throat

as if rehearsing for a final song

and returns to the dark

hallway and the stale smell

of his pipe that guides him

to the right room,

to where his wife had belonged,

to where her outline remains

but it is the unexpected prayers

afterwards that breaches

the joint bedroom wall

and takes even the darkness

by surprise and yet

how alike they are,

still, alone, godly patient

for the first single thread of light.

Steven Pelcman

Westview magazine (Southwestern Oklahoma State University 2016)

Andrej

Walking into the spring light
and out of the shadows
he left behind
to stand by the fire
made him a believer

in the dark secrets
grandma told him
he would understand in time.
And so he became grandpa’s
first responder;

the little helper
who inched his way
closer to the rising magic
of a barbecue flame
turning black coal

as white as sunlight.
He masked his face
against the smoke
with his tiny palm
and squeezed his eyes

half-closed and froze
in the burning glare
the way forest animals do
until grandma assured him
that the bucket of water

grandpa keeps nearby
will save them
and keep them safe
the way his fingers feel
in grandma’s hand.

Steven Pelcman

Poetry Salzburg Review (2012 edition)