The Poetry Marathon

Out of touch for years, Randy
never made a class reunion
couldn’t be located;
only child, his mother dead
father presumed so years before

Randy never married, had no kids

A few of us tried;
mail, Christmas cards returned,
undeliverable, no forwarding

one day a chance encounter
one old friend, another
Randy, a mutual acquaintance
his passing a few years previous
noted casually by one, to the
surprise of the other

he passed the word along

mourning took place
beyond posthumously, without
fanfare; a note on a reunion website,
information gathered from the
national death registry:

name, date of birth, date of death.

Ultimate finality

recently, going through
old correspondence from nondescript
cardboard box from my attic
a letter from Randy, dated two-years
past high school graduation
he spoke of his loneliness,
feeling invisible
using the word ‘lost’ as
both noun and verb

I don’t remember the letter,

but I remembered
long distance phone calls when
those were still a big deal
I remember his deep sighs,
audible even over old desk phone
his resignation at lack of progress
toward anything, anyone

reading, rereading his letter
from forty years ago
it became very clear to me that
Randy was lost long before we
were aware we had misplaced him.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

Summer nights at the lake
frequently found me asking
if I could go to bed early,
thus confounding my elders
who knew from others the
battles waged getting
visiting grandchildren in bed

but we were studious viewers
of the channel 7/12 news
with special attention paid to
the weather forecast in which
they always made note of the
status of that night’s moon

that crucial information
to the fishermen of Minnesota
lake country was also a note
of early-to-bed glory for me
my downstairs bedroom faced
Horseshoe Lake – a glistening
moon on gently lolling water
was the visual lullaby I
longed to fall asleep to

In the morning, I would
awaken at first light,
waves softly lapping at sandy
shore, as content to just
lay there in solitude as I
was to go to bed early
the night before to just
lay in my bed
watching the moon,
waiting for the sun
never once caring if
the fish would bite or not

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

Fourteen-stories of hotel towered

over downtown Minneapolis;

the massive pine by our back drive

stretched nearly to the tenth

the bottom boughs canopied out,

branches looping upward, forming

a cozy, sweet-smelling cave

we rented out rooms, not the tree

still, guests were often staying  there

most of the staff didn’t know

of our guests beneath the tree

like tourists in our regular rooms

they spent their days not there;

it was merely a place to lay a head

to relax and stash their gear

unobtrusively using dead of night

to slip into the lobby restrooms

using freshly cleaned toilets to rinse

soap-dispenser-and-sink cleaned feet

foot care key, to surviving the street

from time to time my boss and I

encountered our off-the-books guests

greeting them as we would any others

with a nod, a greeting, a smile

a few times, my boss Dennis

would ask them to wait, asking

if they were hungry, then going

to the kitchen, returning with a

sandwich, or piece of chicken

Like most of our guests

they seldom stayed long,

but frequently returned;

loyalty, as they told us in training,

was highly valued, and must be

constantly earned

the proof of that I can confirm

because the guests who never paid us

were the finest that I served

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

Keats was the guy our
English teachers fawned all over
‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ spellbound
many a napping student, when not
making their stomachs churn
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley
all dutifully took their turns
more recently was Neruda, in love
with socks – a sartorial, lyrical turn.

But those that write in praise of things
follow a lengthy line; Pindar, Horace, and
Solomon could turn a phrase quite well;
Ancient Rome gave us Nero, who did them
all one better; he sang his odes to music
he played, to his subjects mounting ire,
his ending was poetic: lyre, lyre, toga on fire

Shakespeare took a crack at odes; though
murder, betrayal, lust all played a bit  better
the ancient men who wrote at length
and in praise of beauty, form and such,
present imitators, they mostly, usually suck.

Still, without their eleoquent inspiration,
where would us writers be; we’d be
left to our own devices, describing love of trees!
But there is a place, though it may seem odd,
for the odes of olden days;  for were it not for
poems of praise, poets would’ve never gotten laid

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

Brought to a lake
six-thousand-feet up in
the Colorado Rockies
forty years have passed
and I wonder if it is
the altitude or the view
repossessing my breath
have found us goat-like
on the move, jumping from
rock-to-rock tempting
foot-soaking fate or worse

I would have scoffed at
a lake with a boardwalk as
being for lesser mortals
unaccustomed to really living

the silliness of that obvious
the caution born of experience
overrides residual machismo

I acquiesce to the boardwalk
take a stroll, stop. Discard footwear.

Feet can get wet on purpose here.

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

‘Round and ‘round the hatred goes

by day in the classroom, at night on the news

how or why it starts, nobody ever knows

even when it’s personal, haters seem confused

by day in the classroom, at night on the news

verbally, physically, my students are at odds

even when it’s personal, haters seem confused

ironic in their justifying, hiding behind their gods

verbally, physically, my students are at odds

they take no pains to hide their actions

ironic in their justifying, hiding behind their gods

proclaiming his protection even in fatal interactions

I intervene, negotiate – counsel when I can

verbally, physically, my students are at odds

no matter what I say to them I’m just teacher-man

ironic in their justifying, hiding behind their gods

 

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

Today another old friend
passed further on
to a place
I don’t know
depths
I can’t fathom

despair over politics
lashing out in anger over
villains not real
slights he imagines
typing out his anger
regurgitating
nonsensical rumors
sharing humorless memes

making mean comments
about others
mostly those different
from himself

at least in perception

too many things are
taken personally
shared in anger
without direction
or basis in common
sense or decency

where he has gone is so far
removed from where
he has been, where
he intended to go
long ago

I cannot share his
fascination with
conspiracy theories
dislike
distrust
disgust
with so much
so any others

asking him
where
he is going
and why
trying to bring
him back to where
he once was
only drives him
deeper into

that place
those places

I am not a lifeguard
I cannot
save him,
do not
understand

fearing only that
like in our days in school
the crowd he is
typing with is
leading him to a bad place

knowing some of
the others in the crowd
I fear that
it is only a
matter of time
until I succumb to the
Facebook zombie
ten-point font apocalypse

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2016

I always see her; mind’s eye myopia shows an eternal smile never fouled by frown or dismay. She dances, lightly, through dreamscapes decades in their fermentation. Her long hair twirls behind her, cascading brown across shapely shoulders, wind-blown bangs framing youthful, pristine face. Memory does not embellish. Pictures captured of late show little change in her uncorrupted eyes, smile; flawless even in candid shots.  She stands next to old friends, bringing into sharp relief how time has steered clear; Dorian Gray, without tribulation.  Equally telling – the lack of envy from peers.  Never did she engender jealousy; only longing, in young men who could not muster gumption to ask her. Their fear ironically unwarranted. Some pictures posted show her with her husband, a decent man who I am certain is unworthy, contrary to their years together.

Asked her, she said no

later writing her regret,

I still only sigh

– Mark L.Lucker

© 2016

I follow the lead of my ancestors
who committed epics to stone, via
hammers, chisels, sharp rocks
stories, histories endure, still studied

my people wrote on reindeer skins
with intricate threads and techniques
told elaborate tales on functional
vessels of iron and pewter they cast

their exploits recorded in a language
they invented, refined, exported as they
traveled far and wide on their advanced
skills as sailors, navigators, explorers

I follow the lead of my forbearers in
cataloging heroic acts, far-flung journeys
though my skills in rune stone carving
are minimal, rusty, highly unrefined

In the spirit of those who came before me
I blaze new trails through an ether of HTML
letters far more impressive when chiseled
crisply, weathered into Scandinavian granite

I am a different man for a different time
I am what my forefathers were; adventurous,
curious, willing to take chances to pursue…?
creatively, with purpose and great daring

from my chair, at a desk, far less stressfully
on a sleek slab of plastic-encased electronics,
characters struck with unerring precision
by multiple flying chisels disguised as fingers

My words lack the gravity of those etched
laboriously in intricately carved stones though I
remain secure in my comfort, mindful of the
fact that my ancestors possessed no delete key

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

One July day Karen and I took a walk in the woods. Summer friends since our days as kindergarteners a decade before, things had changed. Karen had changed. Sister of my best friend David, her tomboy ways with fishing poles and bait, canoes, axes and snakes had added visual allure while losing none of her outdoors prowess.  Our walking took us into Cleo’s woods, where there was an old log we knew in a clearing of the pine needle path. All of us Horseshoe Lake kids, in various configurations had long used it as a bench to sit on and talk. I had used it in solitude countless times to sit, absorb whatever the Minnesota North woods wanted to soak me with. Sights, sounds, aromas; Mother Nature always with something to say, I was always a good listener.

The day that Karen and I took the walk started out like most others discussing grandparents, fishing, stuff. Having walked these woods countless times, we knew every bend in the trail, every decaying stump, every skylight-break in the pine canopy.  The long-ago felled tree lie in the clearing, as it had for years. We sat, we talked, I casually picked up a couple of acorns and threw them at eavesdropping chipmunks, causing them to chatter at me while scampering away and causing Karen to kiss me or maybe I kissed her, then suddenly she was sitting on my lap but then we fell off the log.

Reflexively thrusting my arms back, I was able to brace myself, stopping at a teeter; my legs draped over the log, my butt on the ground, both hands flattened out with fingers pointing backwards. I did not drop Karen, and she laughed – at falling of the log, my awkward posture, my kissing. Who knows. We stayed that way for a while as there was no reason not to.

An hour later, back at the house, fondly remembering the afternoon, I noticed the telltale rash and felt the familiar itch on the inside of my forearms. Sitting there, legs dangling over that log, with Karen on my lap, my arms had been braced firmly behind me in a patch of poison ivy. The resulting discomfort of a few days quelled by Fels-Naptha soap and Calamine lotion, though the puzzled questioning from adults inquiring how “You got poison ivy THERE” seemed only understood by Cleo, who laughingly reminded me as he had for years, that I was welcome to walk – and stop – in his woods anytime I wanted.

Even after all these years, it is an itch I still want to scratch.

Mark L. Lucker
© 2016