You said I should write more love poems . .

photo: ralph murre

by Steve Tomasko

You said I should write more love poems and

I said, I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking about

sloths. Well, actually, the moths that live

on sloths. Nestle into their fur, take the slow,

slow ride through the rain forest. Once a week

the sloth descends to the forest floor. Defecates.

Female moths leap off; lay their eggs on the fresh

feces; jump back on. Their caterpillars nourish

themselves on the fetid feast, metamorphose

into moths, fly up into the canopy to find

their own sloths. They prefer the three-toed

over the two-toed. Who can figure attraction?

The algae-covered sloth fur is the only home

the sloth moths know. The only place they live.

I know it’s a Darwinian thing but fidelity

comes to mind. Commitment.  Patience.

The world writes love poems all the time.

~ previously published in The Fiddlehead

One of My Favorite Words

One of My Favorite Words

by Steve Tomasko

Would you be angry

if I called you crepuscular?

Such an earthy word—my deer,

my little mosquito—

so furtive and muscular.

Most active in the middling

between times, the dreamy

light of dawn and dusk

is what it means, my darling

nighthawk, my sweet platypus.

To parse it further,

my one and only bunny,

I can name creatures active

in the evening—vespertine.  

A hush of a word, don’t you agree,

my firefly? My little brown bat?

Then there are those who

prefer the morning hours.

Let’s call them matinal,

my fuzzy wuzzy bumblebee,

from Mātūta, Roman goddess

of the dawn. Early risers, they—

but even earlier to bed.

It doesn’t come up easy

in conversation, so

I hope you’ll excuse me,

my short-eared owl,

if I say you are the most,

the cream,

you are the twilight icing

on my crepuscular cake.

~ previously published in Corvus

Praying Mantis

Praying Mantis

by Steve Tomasko

Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly; insects, it seems, gotta do one

horrible thing after another.   — Annie Dillard

The horrible thing is not

that she eats his head

while he’s mating with her.

And it’s not that he moves

faster without his head.

Well, actually,

that is the horrible thing.

~ first published in Verse Wisconsin

Ci _ _ _ _ ; or, . . .

photoart: steve tomasko

Ci _ _ _ _;   or, They-who-must-not-be-named

by Steve Tomasko

The word cicada stops me in my tracks. Sorry. I simply cannot continue.

                                                                          —Billy Collins

It’s been a good year

for them. Those ci-

gar-stub-shaped insects

and their devilish red eyes.

With their portly green bodies

perched on trunks and limbs

they puncture the air above the ci-

ty with their electric trills.

As usual it’s the males

who bellow from their ci-

tadels at the top of a sy-

camore or other tall tree.

The female responds to the sy-

cophantic cry. They mate. She makes

a precise slit at the base

of a stem to deposit her eggs. 

Later, the stem falls to the ground

leaving behind a cica-

trix of her act, a blemish to mark

the spot. I’ve known people who

thought those calls were not  animate

but simply electric wires buzzing

in the summer heat. For some it’s a sick-

ening chorus. For me, the cries mark

the season. Just one more insect

doing what it needs to do—has done

for millennia without help

or hindrance from the likes of you or I

or those who can’t even pro-

nounce their name.

~ first published in Verse Wisconsin

Upon Reading Thoreau . . .

artwork: ralph murre

Upon Reading Thoreau’s Description of a Pickerel as “Animalized Water”

by Steve Tomasko

I remember the dock warped, weathered, worn

smooth from years of sun and water. Plunked

face down I peer between the gray slats

watch the perch slide by ignoring

my baited hook. My young eyes fix

on a shard of sunlight and color

that gradually resolves into a 2-foot pike.

Floating in place, its body ripples front

to back, front to back looking ready to lunge

for the perch. But with a quick muscular

flick it disappears, leaving eddies

of whirling sand. I shiver.      I was struck

when I read of a father who recently found his son

in their cabin boathouse surrounded by rods, reels,

fishing tackle—playing an electronic fishing game.

~ first published in Verse Wisconsin (online edition)

I thought it was sunshine . . .

I thought it was sunshine I wanted
by Steve Tomasko

instead, the misty gray damp brought
four tiger salamanders crossing
my path, and

later, cantaloupe. Sweet
cantaloupe. Damn
good cantaloupe.


~ previously published in Hummingbird

BLUE MORNING

photo: jeanie tomasko

Blue Morningby Steve Tomasko

Hoping to find God, I cut up the delphinium.
—Sharman Apt Russell


It’s an indigo-bunting-blue morning.

A delphinium-blue morning.

A forget-trying-to-pin-it-down-to-one-color blue morning.

A no-reason-to-cut-up-anything blue morning.

A here-I-am-smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-life blue morning.

It's a life-feels-so-damn-good-you-can’t-always-be-a-cynic-because-nature-really-is-grand-sometimes blue morning.

~ first published in Echoes