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Best Poems Written by Steve Fecser

Below are the all-time best Steve Fecser poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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I aint got no money and I'm goin' down fast

My heads in the toilet and my life's in the trash

I wish I had a penny for every bad thought

I wish I could steal without gettin' caught


Wanna be able to buy my own smokes

I'm tired of "shorts" and two hit tokes

Don't wanna be a rich man don't wanna be a star

Don't need my own plane just wanna have a car



The beat goes on but the beat don't pay

I'm cryin' all night I'm tryin' all day

I dream and I wish I kneel and I pray

I know I gotta reason

Just gotta find a way

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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Ode to a broken bowl

Sorrow befalls me upon first glance

Heartbreak bemoans my shattered soul

Tears on my pillow bespeak pain in my heart

All for the love of a broken bowl

While memories may dwell in a fractured mist

And some will never be whole

No one if any will ever forget

My ode to a broken bowl

~Piece out Man

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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My acquaintance with poetry in general and the simplistic literary brilliance of Robert Frost in particular, came at a relatively early age. My mother would ambivalently imply that I was too young to remember, however an acute preservation of innocence and memory, dictate that I'll always be too young to forget; distant echoes of placid verse, maternal soothing, methodical repetition, non-nonsensical rhythm and rhyme. Perhaps it was then that the seed was planted, a subliminal attachment to my virgin soul, a burgeoning requisite, a swelling commodity of insatiable thirst with a gleaning notion to one day harvest a fruitful bounty somewhere down the road.

My initial exposure to the pastoral charm of Frost's prose emerged in the early 1960's during summer visits with my Grandfather in rural Connecticut. As a native New Englander, crusty seaman and former assistant to an eminent Yale University English professor, Grandpa was long-winded and well versed with a colorful menu of fish stories and Frosty delights. His gravelly voice, punctuated with a lilting resonance and earthy nasal twang, fused together words like a master craftsman. Firmly anchored in his billowy La-Z-Boy recliner, hypnotic gaze cast somewhere in a sea of time, reeling in memories line for line, verse by verse, as if under the spell of some Svengali maritime dictator.

"The road not taken" surfaced frequently and from time to time in those days, however my ability to comprehend and appreciate the enigmatic essence would not manifest until sometime later.
1963 was not a good year for my Grandfather, his road was coming to an intrusive end. An illness known as “old age” had descended upon him, and with a bereavement in force from Mr. Frost’s recent demise, combined with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, apparently was enough to take the wind out of Grandpa’s sails permanently. He never made it to 1964. My wellspring of youth evaporated that year. Once a raging tempest of turbulence, I was now reduced in a heartbeat to a puddle of tears, soaking in a pool of sorrow and despair, with a sad realization that there would be no more tomorrows with my Grandfather, only yesterdays. I never returned to Connecticut, however some years later I did return to “The road not taken’ with a modality of reminisce and reflective inquiry.

At the precociously ripe age of 22, armed with BS Degrees, no ammunition and a powder keg of displaced ambitions, I realized that the collegiate road I had taken was not going to satisfy my adventurous, idealistic inner being. After no real serious deliberation, in a blazon fell swoop, I effectively discharged with precision abandon, all uncommon nonsense and unavailing verbiage by dropping out of graduate school. While my mother recovered from the initial shock of my abrupt academic desertion, I braced myself for the ensuing storm of censure and admonition that was inevitably forthcoming. Evidently there was an unwritten law in my family of snobbish academicians that frowned upon a lineal member departing a University before securing an advanced degree. Doing so was at the very least politically incorrect, and at worst a mortal sin. Fortunately, my degree of sedition was middle of the road, although to this day, more than a quarter century later, on ceremonial occasions and dysfunctional family socials, I hear my name in a sequestered hush, with the assignment of a dark ruminant mammal. Baa….Baa….
As it turned out, my departure from the historically trodden road of generational academic tradition and familial intelligentsia was neither a blessing, nor a curse. An appointment to the papacy never materialized, nor did a circle of hellish condemnation. Perhaps one day I will examine, from a slant not too left of center, the trials and tribulations I’ve endured, with a perspective of obscure clarity, of two roads that diverged.

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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Labor Day

Lonely hours, seems
You've lived quite often
Silence in the shame
Of your sacred day
Blue light through your eyes
Shines an open coffin
Gleaming miracles on the way
Broken windows
Winter broken windows
False visions have you seen
Ice melts softly into tears
In your fluid still life scene
Wasn't it you who said "nothing Matters?"
It wasn't you who said
"Life''s a holiday."

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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remote viewing

Piano tuners and honeymooners

skipping to the music of the offshore ballet

sea-side sunshine coordinates the rhythm and timing

waves in motion and gulls

wide-eyed and whispering

viscerally evocative

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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Nightish Mares

Incantations, Acclamation's

Wicked whispers searing malicious lips

As thou wrench in Satan's slumber

Dream incest, unholy unrest

in a night of crimson passion

Weigh upon me your Godly visit

with a Saint to my own be true

Yet faint in my heart and love torn apart

I'll  always be dreaming of you

signal non-locality

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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My friend JESS

She's got cat eyes but she sees with her mind
A feline vision of a curious kind
A calico beauty with a purpose to ascend
She seeks to encounter our alien friends

Bewitched or enchanted? I really can't say
The universe knows she has her own way
When the sun dims bleak and the moon shines bright
Her astral body will soon take flight
To the outbound regions, netherworld's sublime
A feline beauty of a curious kind

The sum and the total is no more or no less
It all adds up to a girl named Jess

Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2016

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Copyright © steve fecser | Year Posted 2017