Hello and Welcome!

If you're one of the five people I imagine will visit this site at least once, I'm glad you're here!  A couple of notes:

• Please bear with me re: any formatting issues.  It's been at least four years since I've messed around with Blogger.  I imagine that my theme and fonts will be less lame in the future.  I just want to get things up and running asap or this will be one of those passing fancies I'm too busy for mid-February.  If you see any obvious problems, let me know!

• I imagine that I will update at least once a week, probably more to start.

• Most of these poems were written during weekly meetings of the Schaumburg Poetry Group (hi, guys!) in response to prompts, so much of the content is purely fictional and not about YOU or HIM, per se.

• I don't care about meter and have never cared about it, even when it was my business as an English major to care about it.

• I have been writing creatively for about as long as I can write, yet SOMEHOW continue to languish in complete obscurity.  I am proud to say that my work has been rejected by many of the best publications in America, and I look forward to collecting new rejections from poetry magazines and websites in the future. 

• If you would like me to link to your creative endeavor, leave me a comment!

• Questions?  Concerns?  I can do almost nothing about the current American political situation.  I will delete spam comments with joyful abandon.  I will obsessively check for comments.  I am already filled with self-doubt.

• Need to contact me?  Shoot me an email at karenmsteiger@gmail.com.

First, Some Good News!

Hi everyone,

I just thought I'd take a moment to toot my own horn, as it were.

My poem "Home" was selected to be read at the Jersey City Writers' "Genre Night," on April 21, 2018, which kicked off the Jersey City Art Council's Poetry Festival Week. 

My poem "What Gets Left Behind" has been published in the Summer 2020 issue of Kaleidotrope.

My poem "The Last Girl" has been published in Issue 4 of Arsenika.

You can now read my poem "Lethargy" on The Pangolin Review.

Also, my poem "Maida Vale" has been accepted by The Wells Street Journal for their April 2019 issue.

One verse of a haiku series, "The T-12 Chronicles" will be published in Issue 74 of Leading Edge Magazine as an "Honorable Mention" in their "Sci-Faiku" (sci-fi haiku) contest.

My micropoems "Tethered" and "Horsehead Nebula" have been published in Issue 2 of Black Bough Poetry. (page 37!)

My poems "Diagnosis" and "The First of the Plagues" have been published in Issue 4.2 of Mineral Lit Mag.

My poem "Stasis" was recently published at Pendemic. And you should submit your pandemic-related work there too!

"The Xi Movement" has been published at Rejection Letters.

You can find "Zoom" at ang(st)'s Distanced 2.0 project.

"Cotton Candy, 1983" has been posted in the inaugural issue of Perhappened Mag. I'm thrilled to announce that this poem has been nominated by Perhappened for Sundress Publications' "Best of the Net" Award for Poetry!

"bean sí" will be published in Twist in Time Mag.

"External Beam" has been published in the "Heatwave" issue of Perhappened Mag. 

My poem "Uninhabited" will be included as part of the Tales from the Trail YouTube project.

My micropoem "Momento Mori" has been published in Versification. 

My poem "A Bit of a Meltdown" recently found a home with Crow and Cross Keys, which was posted on my birthday, November 21, 2020.

My poems "First, the Rules" and "Mastectomy" have been published in Sledgehammer Lit.

I have two pieces scheduled to be printed in Bombfire Lit: "Toxicity" and "My Ongoing Dispute with My Long-Term Disability Insurance Carrier."

My pieces "Sophomore Year" and "Tarot Reading" will appear in the pop-up "coming of age" issue of The Journal of Erato.

I'll be sure to post links to my work as they get published!

Also, if you'd like to follow me on Twitter, here I am.  I am not, in real life, a dog.  I should probably have some kind of professional author Twitter profile, but that's more work than I want to put into that site right now.

--Karen

Buy me a Ko-Fi?

Hi everyone,

I drink a LOT of tea at the Corner Bakery every week to produce these poems that you (hopefully) enjoy!  If you are interested in sponsoring my tea-drinking/poetry production, please visit my Ko-Fi site at https://ko-fi.com/karensteiger.  Please don't feel obligated to do so, even if you know me in real life.  :)

Karen

Independence Day

When we selected instruments 

to play for school band,

I unwisely selected the drums.

A fourth-grade feminist breakthrough, sure,

but everything was too heavy for me,

the smallest girl in my grade.

The band teacher was too Whiplash-draconian,

and I had no concept of commitment 

to any kind of extracurricular activity.

For the next three years,

the Fourth of July was a torment,

sweat pouring in rivulets down my back

underneath my uniform shirt

as I struggled to carry the tenor drum 

strapped to my shoulders

down the parade route,

Broad Street in Griffith, Indiana,

lined with proud parents 

and children hunting candy handouts.

We inched down the street,

behind floats and in front of fire engines,

the St. Mary/Our Lady of Grace School Band,

the drummers never getting a break

but playing cadences between songs,

which I can still tap out to this day.

But once the parade ended, I was free!

Free from the oppressive sun and the noise,

free from my teacher’s scrutiny,

free from the harness that bruised my shoulders and hips.

Survivor Naani

Me, a one-breasted woman, 

walking Horus, 

a three-legged dog, 

each day such a gift. 

Crane Fly

Something that looked like a mutant mosquito

was climbing on our ceiling last night

with long, spindly legs and large wings strapped to its back.

You would think it had drunk some super-soldier serum

from a comic book and now had a ridiculous size and strength

for a reedy-looking insect.

“But it’s not going to suck our blood right?” I asked,

eyeing it with trepidation.

“Oh no, no,” my husband assured me,

“it’s not even a mosquito.”

It was a crane fly (he looked it up).

Harmless to humans, its only purpose in this life

is to be,

to reproduce and to be eaten by something else.

I briefly wondered how it had gotten into our living room,

concluded that it must have moved in as I was calling

out to our dog in the front yard,

scolding him for excavating the flower bed.

The crane fly is gone now,

perhaps a feast for the spider that resides in the corners of our ceiling,

perhaps weary of this life, it fell to the ground,

and was swept up with the dust and lint and dog hair 

of my furious cleaning,

or perhaps it made its escape 

and is quietly, invisibly saving the world

from an insect super-villain.

Fog

It was unnaturally still in the woods that day,

no fellow hikers crashing along the trail,

no birds chirping love songs and war cries,

no squirrels scurrying up the grey bark of a tree.

The cloud hung low among the trees and the vegetation,

masking the horizon

softening all the edges,

inviting me into the silver mist.

If I had heeded its call,

I would have been drawn deeper and deeper

to the blurred horizon.

I would have vanished along with the haze

when the sun peeked through the canopy of leaves,

warming the tender green plants rising to meet it.

Vision

“Look!” he cries,

eyes wide, finger pointing off into the distance,

words temporarily failing him

as to what exactly I should be regarding,

and I obey his command,

look in the direction his trembling finger is pointing,

and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,

just green grass in need of a mowing,

large shrubs, a rusty wire fence,

and a mostly empty parking lot just behind it,

and that is all I see.

I wouldn’t say that my eyesight is the best.

Without my thick glasses, my world is blurry and formless,

like the beginning of Genesis, 

before God started separating seas and firmaments and whatnot.

Even with my glasses, 

I can’t read street signs at a great distance.

Coupled with my hearing, 

which must be at least slightly impaired

after years of rock concerts with no thought of ear protection,

I make my way through the world mainly with educated guesses

of what someone has just said to me,

or what has been placed in front of my face for my inspection.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“Er…yes,” I lie, wanting to change the subject,

“Yes, I do,”

but he doesn’t believe me and says,

with greater urgency now,

“Look!”

After a moment, I shrug helplessly,

and he says, “It was a bird,

But it’s flown off now.”

And now I think I know what he was talking about,

not that I really saw the bird,

just the past tense of a movement,

a flash of brilliant blue.

Kalahari Desert

An impossible tree

stands on its own

behind the tangerine dunes.

The tree stretches its bare, black limbs

to touch the cloudless azure sky.

Its roots run deep in the golden sand,

deep enough where it might be cool and wet

and nourishing.

But the tree has no leaves or blossoms.

It looks like a piece of driftwood,

as though it stands proudly in this desert purely by chance.

The branches cast ominous shadows on the ground,

like the spindly legs of enormous spiders,

and you might not even believe it was really there.

(inspired by the pic found at the top of the page here)

Tankas from Outer Space

The planet looming

before you glows tranquil blue.

Peaceful ocean world

oasis except you would

be breathing pure methane gas.

How many Earths and

moons and Saturns and Neptunes

circle yellow stars

millions of light years away,

out of our sight and our reach?

I have a basic

Star Trek understanding of

outer space. If it

fits my dramatic purpose,

then I assume it exists.

Library Lights!

The Schaumburg District Library is currently presenting their Library Lights program, featuring spring-themed artwork and poetry from the community projected onto their exterior wall.  Yours truly contributed three short pieces, scheduled to be displayed through May 2, 2021.  And here they are!

Anticipation

The email you’re waiting for,

it contains a yes or a no,

the yes that could completely change your life,

but it’s most likely, probably, a no.

The final episode of the final season,

of the show you’ve been watching for a decade.

The one where all your questions will be answered

and all the conflicts will be resolved.

Then they announce the spin-off.

A break in bad weather,

the one nice day of the whole week.

Bright sunshine and a gentle kiss of a breeze.

You make plans to have a picnic or go to the beach,

an amusement park or a baseball game.

and so does everyone else.

The guy at the office you have a crush on,

you see him only on Thursdays.

You dress just a little bit nicer,

put on some lipstick,

but you don’t want to go overboard

and make it look obvious.

He decided to take the day off today.

It’s no big deal.

VHS Ghazal

Streaming will never be the same as going to the video store.

Watching a movie at home was still an event when you went to the video store.

First you search the new releases, but the movie you want is checked out.

The scent of salty, buttery unpopped microwave popcorn wafts through the store.

Your mom starts to look at the old movies—Hitchcock thrillers and musicals.

Slowly you drift away from her to the other end of the store.

You peruse the boxes of films you’d never be allowed to see.

Screaming beauties, grinning skulls, dripping blood are what lies in store.

You find a row of ‘80s sex comedies: young men—our heroes!— peeking into a locker

room full of half-dressed teen girls—doesn’t this belong in the “adult” section of the store?

Speaking of which, it’s in front of you now, the little room sealed off with a velvet curtain.

You imagine what your mother would say if she found you in this part of the store.

Here is a comedy, but also a romance, but a nice one. No voyeurism, just John Cusack, who is everyone’s true love. Finally, you have found what you were looking for in this video store.

April into May

The pink and white petals of the blossoming trees

float through the air, dancing on the breeze.

The birds have returned, composing their song.

The sunset can wait; the evenings grow long.

The daffodils are wilting, but the tulips are strong.

Lilacs and peonies will be the next to come along.

I deeply inhale the gentle floral fragrance in the air.

I want to capture it, grasp it in my hand; its brevity is unfair.

Reluctant Aubade

I only see the dawn

if I’ve stayed up all night 

the night before.

Or sometimes I’m forced to greet the new day,

but I can assure you, I haven’t rested well,

my thoughts racing,

What if I oversleep,

sleep right through my alarm,

and I miss my flight, my surgery,

the mandatory meeting?

And I wake up multiple times in the darkness

with a hammering heart

and see that it is still too early to rise.

I make a note of the sunrises I see

because I feel at the end for me it won’t be that many.

Thousands upon thousands of sunsets I have admired.

Sunrises…I don’t know, maybe 15?

The dawn to me is a pink and purple sky in the east,

shoved offstage by a blinding yellow star,

Dear God, that’s bright.

Slow morning traffic on the highway,

the relentless beams sliding just underneath my visor,

I sip my scalding tea,

listen to the morning radio chatter,

and inch forward

toward some kind of delay,

road construction or an accident,

and it makes you wonder if you’ll be late,

even though you got up so goddamn early.

And you think,

there are people who thrive at this time,

who are awake and alert and most themselves at this time,

and what would that be like?

I would be a whole different person.

Probably not a better person, but completely different.

Much better to greet the dawn from your bed, I think.

A gleaming ray of light sneaking behind your curtains.

You lift up your head, scowl and groan,

flip to your side and close your eyes again,

and as you breathe slowly, you sink back 

into the incomprehensible scene of your dreams.

Leftovers

I open the fridge for the fifth time,

but nothing has changed.

I survey the leftovers—

several days old—

with a scowl.

I don’t throw them away

because maybe I will want them later,

but when I think of eating them now,

my stomach does a little flip.

Limp and lukewarm,

they would be microwaved sadness.

I would rather never eat again.

I want something new, fresh, hot,

its enticing aroma filling the whole house,

something so good

I want to eat and eat and eat,

and I have to force myself to put it away,

put it away for later,

and the container will sit on top of these leftovers,

and tomorrow I won’t want that either.

Awaken

The lilies of the valley,

for now just blades of jade,

are inching their way up, up, up

having emerged from the brown earth

and old red mulch

and the crunchy dead leaves of last year.

Observation

Extraterrestrials in a sleek silver vessel

slowly flew over the town of landlocked Ridgedale, Illinois,

and hovered over the subdivision of Bayside Lakes,

which was built around a small retention pond

next to a clubhouse for homeowners’ association meetings.

All of the streets were named after nautical concepts,

like Anchor, Regatta, Hightide, and Surf,

and all of the townhouses were identical,

with beige vinyl siding and uniform mailboxes at the curb.

It was 3:35 on a Tuesday morning,

and all the residents were asleep,

except for April Jenkins,

who had just let out her corgi, Dennis.

And only Dennis, while relieving his bladder,

was aware of these outsiders,

who floated noiselessly above his home,

their motives unknown.

And so Dennis barked

and barked,

full-throated, deep barks,

punctuated by protective growls.

But Dennis barked like that all the time

for no good reason,

and so April, half-asleep, 

opened the door and shouted,

“Dennis! Be quiet! Come inside!”

Dennis reluctantly retreated into his home,

and the ship vanished,

on its way to its home world,

faster than light,

to report its findings about the lush Planet Earth

and its complex civilization of carbon-based canine life.

Teeth

I held his heart in my bloody gloved hand,

my face drawn closer to it,

this strange cut of meat you’d get at the butcher shop,

pumping like an obedient machine just outside of his body.

It had an aorta and veins and arteries,

atria and ventricles, all in the right places.

The inner walls of this muscle were, however,

studded with sharp white teeth, hundreds of them.

It was where his soul resided.

What I Remember from Math Class

Pi is that 3.14 number, and it just goes on and on.

You use pi to find the area of a circle. 

In eighth grade Sister Rose made us memorize the quadratic formula.

 

(this image is fuzzy like my memory)

I have no idea when one would use the quadratic formula.

In geometry class, we had to write out a bunch of proofs,

to make sure that shit that mathematicians have known

since the days of the ancient Greeks is still true.

Sine and Cosine and Tangent…they are ratios of some sort.

You use them for trigonometry.

You do derivatives in calculus, but I don’t remember why.

In real life I can do basic arithmetic to balance my checkbook

and proportions to figure out how many minutes 

it takes me to jog a mile.

I calculate percentages for tips,

but I zone out when it’s time to split the bill at a restaurant.

Most important of all, I use fractions for baking,

like when I can’t find the 1/4 cup,

so I scoop out 2/8 of a cup of flour instead.