The Poetry Marathon

I have
from time to time
misplaced
my faith

in searching I
reflexively
pat my pockets like
making sure I
leave home with
wallet, keys

not trivializing the
nature of
my faith

reminiscent of
school days
searching
lost and found box
for missing mitten
my mother
scolded me for
losing
sending me
to sulk
in my room

for I knew
then as now
I could
never
find what I
had lost
in some shady
stray box

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

One of my high school students wrote an essay
about her older, in college sister
extolling the virtues of her sibling role model
she proclaimed the ‘most important’
aspect of positive modeling was her sister’s
adherence to ethics that boosted her
‘self of steam’

Reading the phrase aloud to grasp her intent
I asked her to explain herself
describing her sister’s insistence on keeping
her positive vibe at all times
reiterating verbally, ‘it’s her SELF. OF. STEAM.”
thus it remained – forever foggy.
We mist something

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Cleaning out my mother’s townhome
assisted living came grudgingly –
terminology I use on charitable days
cleaning out the tidy home of a
certified and fully anointed packrat
was less time-capsule discovery
more bafflement at later-in-life finds

At the far end of her walk-in closet
hung two garment bags I recognized –
her circa 1951 Naval WAVE uniform
next to her wedding dress from 1958
happy marriage begat only child me
always petite, my mom took pride
bragging each still comfortably fit

A point she routinely emphasized
at every doctor visit, telling each nurse
that weighed her – with pride,
noticeable annoyance – the only time
she weighed more than 100 pounds
“Was when I was pregnant with HIM!”
humorous verdict with an edge

Most of her clothing I worthily donated
though the garment bags I kept
Now in memory care, my mother will
only occasionally mention those days
it is probably time to return them to
her closet, to the far end, door open
so she can see them hanging there . . .

Maybe she’ll remember a time – the
only time – they just wouldn’t fit

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

It’s just an old quart Mason Jar
two-thirds filled with sand

sitting in the corner, small shelf
just above my desk

as nondescript as artifacts go
prominent display

typical jar, ordinary sand, hand
scooped by me –

my hand, from shallow bottom
Horseshoe Lake

grandparents home, my summer
oasis – though

over twenty years had passed
current owner

allowed beach access, I had a bag
and an impulse

My stop spontaneous, my actions
deliberate

In glancing at that jar so much comes
back to me

lapping waves on the beach, walking
barefoot on same

summer days have lasted a lifetime
amazing what sand

thousands of granular bits of rock
most common

element on earth, most uncommon
touchstones

Mine alone.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

What is love?

‘What is love?’ is not a rhetorical question
probably doesn’t need to be asked
unless other banalities are unavailable
better to have not loved and asked

What isn’t love?

Love isn’t the clichés you see on
posters, mugs, memes
love isn’t sappy songs or rom coms
soap opera TV serials or
Hallmark holiday movies

Love isn’t what you think it is
love isn’t what you try
love isn’t what you want it to be
love isn’t we’ll never say goodbye

Love is
Love isn’t
Love was
Love wasn’t
Love isn’t should have
Love isn’t could have
Love certainly isn’t would have

Which is why she wasn’t
which is why I couldn’t
which is why we didn’t

And in the end
the proof was right there
because all we could
say at the time was
it just isn’t.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Two large butterflies
careening through my backyard
flirtatious, they are

Yellow, black, all I
know little of butterflies
understand graceful

Arriving as came
unassuming nimble in
their calming methods

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

There is a coffee shop I frequent
everything but the coffee a cliché
old building, exposed brick
plants, hand-lettered signs
roasting their own blends
alchemy of ‘house-made’ syrups –
lattes you long for, unsure why

depending on barista, music mix
runs the gamut from eclectic to
this one wasn’t until recently
lyrical angst served hot or iced
guitars heavier than the espresso
pay more for the coffee
chalk it up as a cover charge

On days when the clientele
is more plugged in
students, gig-economy nomads
filling table-for-two pews
deep in laptop, tablet hymnals
reverence punctuated by
staccato frother woosh
surprisingly on key and on beat
with whatever song is playing
I can only wonder
as I sit with my coffee,
notepad, pen if
even in my enlightened age
and stage in life I am
considered something of a
coffee house luddite

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Red-and-white bobber, awaiting a fish
undulating with the most minute of waves
unsyncopated rhythm, delicate gliding
over water – visual mantra of my youth

sitting on the end of grandparents’ dock
red-and-white bobber, awaiting a fish
patience a virtue strange to age nine
unless passing time on a Minnesota lake

there is an adage spoken by grandpas,
grandmas who took no boat back seats
red-and-white bobber, awaiting a fish
‘they call it fishing, not catching’

Those days were simpler, nostalgia isn’t
wistful, therapeutic – everything in between
these were useful skills, meditative still
just a red-and-white bobber, awaiting a fish

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Only once have I spoken with someone
who truly seemed to believe the world is
flat

With great sincerity he spoke of pie-crust
geology keeping oceans in – like unbaked
quiche

When asked what he saw looking over
the edge – ‘clouds. no idea where the rain
falls.’

Sensing our dubious looks he suggested
going to see for ourselves, but Expedia was
booked

Apparently you can’t get there from here
let alone theological implications – where is
hell?

While I put little stock in pie theory, I can
say a good cherry with sugared crust is
heavenly.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

The grandparents I never met
parents of the father I loved
secretive though he was
about them, him and them

Grandma and grandpa died
before I came along
never even met my mother
rarely were spoken of

Mentioned only essentially
names, dates – never
more than conversational
versions of headstones

Enigmas, all.

My father – close as
we were – who never said
mother who never asked
grandparents who . . ?

What would I have called
them, or them me?
Would I have picked up
their native Yiddish?

Knowing nothing I can
only guess; research the
clues I can hardly find
always longing for more

We are enigmas, all.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd