The Poetry Marathon

Social media is manna from cyber-heaven, crystalizing
the adage ‘thank G-d for unanswered prayers’

A daily spin through various forms of online socializing
covers a wide range of connections; business, personal
old friends, new associates, friends-of-friends, old lovers

Those you have joined in moving back to ‘friend’ stage
others part of a friends circle you are both bonded to

Those you did backwards: friend never in the equation
even though the ‘lovers’ part was definitely memorable

Their current foibles, unseemly politics, general ickiness?
Social media is manna from heaven, reinforcing each ‘nope!’

Those you have joined in moving back to ‘friend’ stage
seldom want to revisit more-than land – blithely utilizing
eye-roll emojis when a mutual makes pointed reminders

G-d gets thanks for eschewing my prayers, proper praise
today really means…there needs to be an emoji for that.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Snapshot isn’t even a term anymore
we don’t even take photographs
everything is generic, staged ‘shot’
truth be told we don’t even use cameras

But at the bottom of an ancient shoebox
there is a snapshot of you, sitting on
the front step of my apartment building
circa nineteen-seventy-whatever

The picture is grainy, in look and feel
taken with my mom’s Kodak Instamatic
printed with a fancy, matte finish
photo itself has a rough texture to it

There is more background than you in
the picture; steps, shrubs on either side
the building itself – all prominent, but
you are centered, as was your way

Yours a classic look of a then typical
nineteen-year-old college student –
jeans, blue denim shirt, unbuttoned
just so, gold-rim, aviator sunglasses

Even at distance your smile is palpable
brown hair cascades off your shoulders
body language, relaxed, unconcerned
elbows on knees, arms hanging loose

At the bottom of an ancient shoebox
there is a curled, coarse snapshot of you
I have taken it out a few times
scanned it, trying to enhance you

you are too small, not detailed enough
so the picture stays at bottom of that box
where such things should reside
it is a snapshot of you, finely detailed

Just not on film.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Hi

It has been a while
Cliché but it’s all I have
forty years is a long time
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know why I’m writing
I don’t know why you care
I know you want to know why
I know you want to know how
I know you want something
I know I can never give you
I know that must disappoint you
I know I disappointed you then
I don’t know why I would think
I don’t know why you would think
this would be any different than
when I left – no, not left – went
away, went back home, went to
where you weren’t and I could be
away from you and away from us
away from the places, memories
away from the pain I inflicted on
myself for walking away from you,
us, then, the future, the past that
I couldn’t deal with that had you
not understanding my story and
yes, we were young and we were…
yes, we were.

You needed time that
I couldn’t give because I wanted what
I couldn’t find from anyone but you
I couldn’t bear you telling me goodbye
I couldn’t have that guilt so I opted for
Goodbye

Goodbye again
I opened this email account to
write this email and once I send it
I will delete
this account and never look back like
I did back then only this time I know
I did the best I could and
you did the best you could and
we were just kids but oh man
what would we have done…

…if I hadn’t not said goodbye and
if you hadn’t not heard it…
And I know closure doesn’t mean
anything that people think it means
but I just wanted you to know.

In closing, let me just say that yeah,
love was a part of it all.
Had to be.
Or I wouldn’t be writing you today.

Love,
Me

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Neighborhood hangouts
used to be
taverns, Legion Halls
blue-collar guys
perched on vinyl-slick
swivel stools

Community nowadays
revolves around
coffee shops, breweries
a distillery that
serves lavish concoctions

Everything sounds
the same
every space a twist on
mod, industrial décor
galvanized steel with
overtones of oak –
wait, the beer? The whiskey?
The faux-wood floor?

Gone are the days of
shot-and-a-beer
watch the game regulars
replaced now with
hoppers
young couples, groups
seeking the
latest craft brew
boutique booze
whatever food truck
is there tonight

What once were
smoke-filled joints
now home to
hip cribbage players
board game aficionados
knitters who deftly knit one,
purl two without
knocking over
their wine glass

while they talk to the
new arrival
pulling laptop from hand
embroidered,
fair-trade satchel

and I sit there amidst it all
and wonder
where will the nostalgia
for all of this
eventually go to look back?

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Morris is a young man, looks older
genetics rendering high, sparse hairline
politics, poverty of shtetl life added years
emigration degradation, new country
old life, old ways transitioning to…?

“Ikh vunder, vos vet vern fun aundzer zin?
zeyere zin?” he muses aloud
Fannie, his wife, rolls her eyes and sighs
“Your sons will find a way.
Who knows if they will have sons?
If they will even live to do?”

The question, the response
not really an answer
linger, in the air integral parts of
piquant nature of
New York City tenement life
urban chaos filters in
from crowded street below
clacking hooves, pushcart wheels
sound only vaguely as
ramshackle wagons on hard dirt

Here Cossacks have been replaced
by beat cops only
slightly less likely to beat, or harass
without prompting though
equally as cynical toward you, yours
“What is this place?”
wonders Morris
“What will become of us all? What is life?”

I nod in agreement as I only can
we sit at a small, wooden table
that doesn’t exist
I listen to a man I never met
who worries of the fate of
his two sons, as I do mine
though I can only nod in agreement
with my grandfather,
as he knows not of what will become of
my father, my uncle – brothers who
drifted apart in life, do not join us today

I can only nod silently as my grandfather
speaks to nobody in particular
certainly not the unknown me
as I can only sit, and wonder aloud
“Ikh vunder, vos vet vern
fun aundzer zin? zeyere zin?”
in clunky, halting Yiddish I learned online
as my father never spoke it,
and I never heard it in my youth

And then I realize it wasn’t
really necessary
as oddly, logically, unironically
my grandfather and I
speak the very same language

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

One of the things I can truly say
brings me earned regret is my
lack of musical ability

A great-aunt who taught piano
offered me free lessons
I passed, parents didn’t push

An old soul, junior high me
discovered
Big Band music
bought Glenn Miller records
considered
trombone lessons
but the horn was taller than I

Living on my own at nineteen
I bought a nice guitar
but the lessons weren’t in tune
with my budget

A decade later I spent two moths
taking voice lessons
at a crisp $7.50 a weekly session
the teacher offered me a basket
so I could maybe carry a tune

I have distant cousins
who each play the cello, have
toured, recorded with
world-renowned stars
I watch their videos and wonder

A few years back my eldest son
gifted me a cheap guitar
it sits on a stand behind me
gathering dust
and more ‘what ifs’
then I spent $9.99 for a recorded
online class
I have yet to activate

For now, if the topic of
my musical prowess comes up
I whistfully go to my fallback
“Played the piano once.
I lost, five-to-three”

Beat me daddy, eight to the bar
and where did I put
that password?

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Enamored of the woods long before
I came to know, love Robert Frost

As a boy I knew contemplative pull of
woods ‘lovely, dark and deep’

I had trod same, worn paths in summer
not until I was well an adult did I discover

The seductive, enveloping character of
winter woods, watch them fill with snow

Monochromatic pine-green and white
quiet cacophony of flakes fluttering, landing

Listening to your own breathing, seeing it –
wisps of you becoming one with the woods

Those woods remain in mind lovely, dark –
deep in nooks of memory, lodged in my psyche

As always, they have their promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Some of my earliest, tangible
memories
involve falling asleep
waking up
to the sound of water
waves lapping at the shore of
Horseshoe Lake

My grandparents retired there
when I was seven
my summer bedroom
every year
sixty-feet from scraggly beach
waves gently
slapping sand
lulled me to sleep
more vociferous swells
smacking the steel pontoons of
grandparent’s boat
my morning alarm clock

on which I would not have ever
ever considered
hitting a snooze button

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

I like who I am
where I am
how I am

Comfortable
in my own skin
I used to take
for granted

Understanding
that is not
the norm for
so many

Not a brag
or boast – just
recognition
that I get it

Like Sammy
sang
‘I gotta be me’

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

On days when I am feeling
down
I think of when I was a kid
and my potential
career choices changed
daily

I once wanted to be
a forest ranger
though confusing one with
the Lone Ranger
I was disappointed to
learn that not many
people were
mean to trees

Plus, they would’ve
probably
stuck me in a swamp
wearing gumboots and
chasing leeches

I never wanted to be
one of those
skyscaper
window washers
though watching them
from inside
turned out to be cool –
the opposite
from when I learned
from a baker
that sourdough really was
SOUR dough
alive, actually.

Fortunately
my times of dwelling on
such things is
fairly limited
as I don’t have a lot of
bad days

And when I do
I’m never
really depressed and
don’t even say I have
the blues
more just a case of
the periwinkles

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2021

http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd