The Poetry Marathon

the fading wisps of smoke

from a dying campfire

are the sweetest

dying embers sputter

dousing sand sizzles

I miss that

we built a fire pit

in the backyard of my

old, small town home;

thirteen-tons of flagstone

and granite I moved from a

friend’s farm so a neighbor’s kid

studying landscape design

could get some hands-on

real life experience

thirty-by-twenty-foot

stone patio with

a hole in the center

if you build it…

early mornings often

found me starting a small

campfire in rock-encircled pit;

one, maybe two oak limb sections

enough to get the blood, soul,

creative juices flowing

sitting in nylon lawn chair or,

on days when I felt more rustic,

the large, ogtagonal stone

I had discovered in Pat’s rock pile,

and that Chris had anchored

in place; my fire-poking seat

eight years have passed

since I last sat there

I have moved on, physically

but like the aromatic

smoke from a dying fire

permeates a plaid flannel shirt

the scent of regret

still lingers

– Mark L. Lucker

©  2016

Every city has a place

all-nighter, regulars direct

from central casting

occupying the same seat in

Seattle as in Newark,

two cities never visited

but I have been there

you want your

hash browns crispy

coffee potent, in

heavy mugs (no cups)

bacon crunchy

sausage cylindrical

eggs runny,

over easy

over hard

scrambled

sunny-side-up

yoke-mopping toast

lightly burned,

isosceles cut

saves plate space

Hopper’s Night Hawks

still resonates

New York or Omaha

Denver and New Orleans

ambiance is in the heart

of the beholder

flirting with the

counter staff obligatory

anchor your tip to

the counter with your saucer

leave your greasy fingerprints

on the receipt as a souvenir

when you leave

just like home

even when you aren’t

Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

Dear Grandchildren:

There is irony in that the

last thing  you will ever forget

will be one of your firsts

crush

love

kiss

sex

broken heart

first to never be forgotten

first to stick with you

first to make you feel like that

first to make you hurt

first to make you feel alive

 

There is less irony, more fact

knowing that the firsts will

teach you the most

honor you the least

cause discomfort

provide perspective

be impossible to explain to others

yet explain everything there is to know

 

These things I tell you

because they are true

because I know

Love,

Grandpa

P.S.

Don’t tell your parents

you learned any of

this from me

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

Whispering in terror

fearfulness apparent in wide,

translucent eyes begging

the silent to hear

but she cannot scream

she cannot hear

there is only the nothing

that comes when unanswered

pleas become shouts of regret

there is nothing to be done

there is nothing to be learned

there is always something

that can be awakened

if we look with everything

save our eyes

which can only hear

silent screaming coming

from the shouting of

an amplified heart

• Mark L. Lucker
  ©2016

“Welcome home” they all said
like it was good to be back
like this place was really home

if home is where the heart is
I am currently homeless

“Welcome home” they all said
as if I had been off at war
or in prison, unjustly accused

“Welcome home” they all said
jauntily, as if the inexorable nature
of their positivity could erase all

“Welcome home” they all said
because it suited them, their needs
fitting their personalities, clichéd

“Welcome home” they all said
to their credit, it at the very least,
fell far short of “Have a nice day”

Which would have required the
only response I could possibly give;
“Pardon me.”

• Mark L. Lucker
  ©2016

I have known women

who could be

classified as animals;

tigers, panthers, mama bears.

Fortunately I never dated a snake

and avoided most of the cougars.

Most.

There were others who were cat-like,

reflexively, flexibly, stealthy. Fiesty.

Or exotic creatures.

As a younger man, I appreciated the

personification of men and women

as hunters and hunted,

aggressive and voracious.

Domestication of said animals said less

about my maturity than I would think.

Experience now tells me

the only animals I need compare others to

are those that they are; proud, daring

creatures of their own design

• Mark L. Lucker
  ©2016

The first heart I ever broke

was my own

you could call it a ricochet

I’ll go with stupid

though immature is a

reasonable copout when I

am feeling self-charitable

at nineteen, we were

in love – not lust

well defined lines obeyed

then one night she told me

a family secret

I should’ve rolled with

I lost her because

I didn’t know any better

didn’t know much of anything

could I have done better?

She left, I stayed. Should I have

followed? There were days…

Mutual friends said she

thought I could take the truth

why I didn’t remains a mystery

She broke my heart, as I hers

collateral damage

of unintended refraction

– Mark L. Lucker
©  2016

I counted stars once

not for any practical reason

not for romance

they patiently waited for me

to finish, as if they cared

I was sitting by a campfire

spitting it’s cinders as

part of the evening’s death throes

they fluttered skyward

before dissolving

I could not help but wonder

if that is how stars

came to be; not as burned out

remnants from elsewhere

in the far-flung galaxy

stars may be campfire embers

that made their

great escape and were

thus rewarded with eternal life

I counted stars once

-Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

The crowd at first thought it part of the reading
the gasp, the slumping forward over the podium
a bit melodramatic, but you expect that

surging forward, folding chairs flung to the side
they reached him, the first few able to cushion
his fall to the floor and they laid him on his back

shouts of ‘call 9-1-1!’ and ‘let me through!’
echoed throughout the small bookstore as a
woman pushed to the front ‘let me through!’

she was small, middle-aged; dishwater blonde
hair pulled back in a waist-length ponytail
stylish sunglasses were perched on her head

crouching down beside the stricken bard the
woman ripped open his shirt, felt his rib cage;
she took a deep breath, began CPR…and sang

“Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…”
“Are you a doctor?” yelled one bystander
“Are you a nurse!?” said another

“No” she huffed between chest pumps, “I’m a poet”
Stunned, the onlookers could only watch in amazement
as the man’s face began to lose its pallor. Sirens approached…

“Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…. Feel the city breakin’
and everybody shakin’ and we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive..”

Oxygen mask in place, the man was being wheeled to waiting
ambulance; the crowd applauded, he gave them a  ‘thumbs up’
with one hand, autographed a copy of his anthology with the other

The poet who had saved him was retying her ponytail while
wiping away the sweat from her forehead with a towel she had
been handed; everyone looked at her with curious awe

“You are wondering about the song; ‘Staying Alive’ has a rhythm
of 103 beats per minute which is close to the 100 compressions
per 60 seconds that should be delivered during CPR.”

Stunned, the crowd stood silently as the poet continued,
“In reality, most of the Bee Gees lyrics can be said in rhythmic
couplets that fit the standard CPR quatrains. Try ‘Night Fever’.”

The poet finished with her hair, picked up her shoulder bag
“Can the same thing work for giving someone the Heimlich?”
“No” she replied ruefully. “To Heimlich properly, you need Neruda.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked into the night

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

lichen rings protrude

from musky, forest pines

discs on the backbone

of northwoods life

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016