The Poetry Marathon

“Two, please”
he had uttered the phrase
countless times
in so many places around town
squiring so many
different women

money never a problem
success, women
followed him all his life
joined him in misadventures
big, bigger – even bigger

a big tipper, gregarious
everyone liked to see him
his rotating cast of
companions, ever amusing,
keeping waiters, barkeeps
ever guessing as to his ‘type’
his only consistency being
his standard request
“Table for two, please.”

years passed
time took its toll
the world had changed
his kind were no longer the
‘go to’ for masculine
reference

he still haunted the same
places
knew some
of the same faces
still requested
“Table for two, please.”
though often as not
he dined alone

One night, a favorite
dinner spot, an old
friend having cancelled
“Table for two”
found him alone in his
duality
looking around, he
saw families,
tables full of
two, three generations

He ordered a cocktail
sat there, listened to
the din of
boisterous laughter
sons, daughters,
grandparents,
grandchildren

surrounded by a cacophony
he knew he
would never grasp
he just sat there, tightly
gripping, but not drinking
his drink
as tears rolled down
his face.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Lost,
he was for a long, long time
never stopping to ask
where am I?

Visiting locales covering
a broad expanse
he kept moving, moving
compiling souvenirs
at every turn
things he wanted,
had to have

insatiable
was his appetite
something to
bring home, knowing
the kids would ask, “Father
would did you bring us?”

He did not wish
to disappoint

But the longer
he stayed away, the more
his collections
and the urge to feed it
outgrew his resources,
the ability to
lug it all around

returning home
he was greeted warmly
the kids had
long ago stopped caring
about the gifts,
trinkets
they were glad to
have him home

yet he needed to share
what had become
so precious
all consuming
and he saw in an
instant how
wrong he had been

“We never wanted
an empire”
they all concurred, adding
to his immense surprise,
“We just wanted you,
at home,
daddy.”

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

“Sir Lancelot! Please

don’t put your ale upon the

round table. Leaves rings.”

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

It is said that Odin, god of
all Norse, discovered runes;
mystic language of the gods
painstakingly carved in stone,
for posterity

historians noting soberly that
Odin was tuned in to his time,
his people, for, in his name is
noted, in multiple ancient locales;
‘for a good time, rune Idun.’

Forever undermining his chance
for peace in Valhalla

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

The sounds of frogs
in the evening
my summer lullaby
jars of flitting fireflies
nightlight beacons
the mystery was not in
glowing insects,
amplified amphibians
but in how adulthood
peculated the wonder

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

If a super villain wanted
to destroy America
he would reverse the law
of gravity,

rendering most
cosmetic surgery obsolete
putting brassiere makers
out of business
turning facial creams into
scented lubes for bike chains

to reverse the law
of gravity
would negate having to
tell people to “Suck it up!”
make it harder for someone
to let you down
put a whole new spin on
the gravity of any situation

If a super villain wanted
to destroy America
he would reverse the law
of gravity,
crippling our economy
without us, ironically,
having to pick up the pieces

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

My strong nocturnal nature is
continually at loggerheads
with my propensity for early
rising, taking in a new day shortly
after it begins, racing the sun
squeezing in sleep after a long day
prior to quickly starting another
I have yet to reconcile my propensity
to extract the glory of fresh starts
while also savoring the still darkness

Sleep, when it comes, falls quickly
ends, ironically, in much the same way
there are always promises to keep
on either side, of nuisance sleep

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Fiddle music
someone playing a jig
or dancing one
I think of my grandfather

immigrant Gramps,
Norwegian as they came
would dance a jig
of celebration;
in front of the TV following
a home team victory
in the aisles of the ballpark
after a home run
upon winning a game of
whist, or cribbage

when bowling a strike

always sans music,
though he would
sometimes whistle
Gramps would simply jig
when the mood struck –
musicless, endearing,
gleeful, dance-of-one

arms, fists, elbows,
pumping by his side,
his feet shuffling, then
big finish –
running one hand over his
head, smoothing out
what remained of his
silver, Vitalis slicked hair

I have tried a little jig
from time to time with little
positive reaction
I lack the moves, the look –
the suave panache

But I got the DNA
so there is always hope

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

I have been green
with envy,
talked to someone
til I was
blue-in-the face
turned red
with embarrassment

generally an upbeat
guy, like everyone
I do have my
down days
from time to time
though not to the same
extent as others;

some folks live
he blues,
I just get the
periwinkles

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Those of us of a certain age
went to school with a
‘daddy long legs’
some tall, gangly, dude we
assumed would be great at
basketball, hanging stars
on Christmas trees

had I been married to a
‘black widow’
I would not be here to
wax poetic strands

even so, it is a tangled web
the world has woven
around spindly creatures
with an affinity for
waterspouts, dark corners

though to their credit
they were doing world wide webs
before the web was cool.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd