The Poetry Marathon

I was thirty, freshman making up time
my first semester in college and
I took a film class
what seemed like easy credits

Rarely had I worked so hard
in a classroom

Week one we watched
‘The Graduate’
penultimate coming-of-age tale few of
my classmates had even
heard of

We focused on the ending of the film
on again, off again
lovers Ben and Elaine
brazenly escape from her wedding
hopping a city bus
laughingly falling into the rear seat
while out the back window
enraged family gives chase
Ben and Elaine, oblivious
smile warily

Film ends, professor simply asks us
fifty dorky freshmen
“Happy ending? Yes or no.”
Only three hands
shoot up on the ‘no’ option one of them
shaky at best

Professor Yahnke had us watch
the ending again – three, four times
each time facilitating
late teen incomprehension to
why this was not a happy ending
discussing the
framing of the scene
body language
facial expressions –
Ben, Elaine, her parents
professor’s message
this was no ending in any real sense
but simply the start of
some new chapter

Class ended with dumfounded
eighteen-year-olds
mumbling weak defenses of
myopic beliefs
Ben was the hero, he rescued Elaine or
Elaine realized her mistake or
my personal, perennially skewed favorite
‘true love won in the end.’

It took me another sixteen years to
complete my college degree
it has been over thirty
since I sat through that film class
and two weeks of passionate arguing about
happy endings, sad endings
endings are only new beginnings

To this day
I see anything in life that ends as
simply a phase
life as perpetual Etch-a-Sketch
draw it out, shake and erase
draw something new

And whenever I hear anything by
Simon and Garfunkel
I offer a stern, out loud rebuke to my
car’s radio
to hell with Mrs. Robinson
Here’s to you, Professor Yahnke

– Mark L. Lucker

© 2021

http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

As a kid I made gifts for
special occasions
birthdays, Christmas –
parents, grandparents,
aunt, uncle
hangers-on
all got something made
by my own two hands.

for a few years it was
something acrylic
clear, encasing some
object or picture deemed
worth of enshrinement
by me
poured into molds in our
basement workshop

One year, it was candles –
all the rage in the ‘70s
I specialized in funky owls

There was also my
bottle cutting phase – less
successful, as goblets
made from full size
wine bottles proved
unwieldy to drink from

My main claim to
gift making and giving fame
was courtesy of my handy
dandy rock tumbler
tie tacs, tie bars, broaches,
ear rings
I made them all from
brightly polished
granite and marble –
sometimes even a nice, white
quartz

jewelry not for the
faint of heart
or small stature
even small chunks of
granite
made for
adventuresome earlobe
gymnastics

An only child, my parents would
indulge my varied
creative interest and impulses
and my family
and friends
were the feigned-gratitude
recipients.

Never let it be said that
my gifts came from anywhere
but the heart

And my basement.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

There is an old adage about hope
seeing ‘The light at the end of the tunnel’
An optimist coined that
‘The light at the end of the tunnel may be
an oncoming train.”
A pessimist, hedging his/her bet came up
with that variation
Wyle E. Coyote verified it numerous times.
When it comes to tunnels, and lights therein
I take a more modern-day approach
and just take a plane.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

I would never want a dragon as a pet
nor would I want a
griffin, or a unicorn
All fine creatures, but impractical
Godzilla would not suffice
he can’t sit, so training him would
be loaded with issues
I subscribe to the ‘go big or go home’
school of philosophy
where our mascot is an
Abominable snow monster
not just so I could win snowball fights
There is no great mystery here
just a cool creature
for a mascot/pet.
Just call this my abominable poem.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

You can long for something
desire it
maybe even covet it
we are a ‘things’
culture
possession is nine-tenths
of being American

Now in a time of plague
our pestilence
may truly turn out to be
ourselves.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Goldilocks
scheduled the meeting
inviting all three bears on
her management team

A breakfast conference
made all the better
with ordered food
from local Porridge House

Noticing the bears were
all in the waiting room
she continued into Zoom
strangely finding no bears

Each had logged on via
their own laptop – each
showing a different view of
cottage conference room B

In the foreground of each
sat the delivered porridge
biodegradable takeout
boxes unopened, seals on

Goldilocks
waited until ten past
long enough for her concern
to overtake her anger

The bears had all logged on
nobody had taken time
to put their laptop on mute
Goldilocks listened

hearing nothing but the
staccato hum of the AC
and periodic buzzing of what
sounded like a firefly

Goldilocks sent out a
group text, inquiring to the
bears whereabouts, noting
another Zoom she had to do

A quick text response
‘be right there’ put her mind
somewhat at ease while
ratcheting up her curiosity

A minute, no more than two
and all three bears were
seated by their laptops, porridge
sitting snugly in front of them

“Morning, boss.” said a bear
“Morning,” added another bear
“Hey there.” chimed in the third bear
“Hello” said Goldilocks, curtly

The bears, looking sheepish
each started to fiddle with their
takeout porridge while also grabbing
the day’s reports to review

Goldilocks waited patiently as the
bears got themselves pulled together
“Let’s look at productivity review first”
All three bears shifted uncomfortably

“Papa bear!’ barked Goldilocks
What s been going on with you?
Your productivity is way down in
every single metric. Are you o.k?”

“Uhh, yeah. Just a rough month.
This whole pandemic thing.
I’ll pick up the pace. promise I will.”
“Okay, P.B. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Mama bear!” continued Goldilocks
as she noticed papa bear furiously
downing his porridge. “Mama, mia!
You are on fie-AH! Can you keep it up?”
“I do believe I can” replied Mama,
cautiously. “I certainly think I can.”
“Well, okay then! You go, girl!”
“So, Boo Boo. How ya doing?”

“Just fine, Ms. Goldilocks, ma’am.”
“Good. I’m looking at your report –
looks good. Nothing to complain
about, you’re doing well, as usual.”

“Thank you, Ms. Goldilocks, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Boo-Boo. Keep it up.
Now, we have one more item…”
“Excuse me. Ms. Goldilocks…?”

“Yes, Mama Bear?”
“Is this about the rally tomorrow?”
“Yes it is. You have some thoughts?”
“I think we should all be there!”

“Well, yes. It IS part of the job.”
“Pretty much the same as last week?”
“Yes, Mama Bear. exactly the same.”
“Then I think we can just wrap up.”

“Okay then. Any objections? No?
Then have a good day, everybody.
Get out there, and do your best.”
“Smash the patriarchy!” said Papa.

“Smash the patriarchy!” added Mama.
“Smash the patriarchy!” yelled Boo Boo.
“Umm, Ms. Goldilocks? At the rally, will
there be a picnic lunch provided?

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Traditions inspire, bond
families, generations
creating memories
a longing to return to

a time, place of some
significance or comfort
those moments that shape
us, our relationships

For all the ritual and
cookie-cutter nature to
family traditions they
never remain the same

traditions, families change
people added, subtracted
we all just grow older.

Thanksgiving used to mean
variations on classic foods
followed by family football

marrying in to a large clan
meant big games, all-in
intensity and bragging rights

going head-to-head with
nieces and nephews
first as kids, then as teens
then as adults – they grew
we also got older, slower

The younger generation got
married, started having kids
lost the ‘oomph’ for football
until their kids got a bit older
requiring less supervision
more involvement with
the rest of us

My own kids now grown
unmarried
Me? I have risen to the
pinnacle of family football
prowess – all-time QB
for both teams, replacing
football-retired, bad knee
brother-in-law

Changing of the guard
you might say
the more things change
the more they stay the same

change is also tradition
a holiday worth celebrating
in its own right

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

‘She’s away and westward bound
Far above the clouds she’ll fly
Where the mornin’ rain don’t fall
And the sun always shines..’
– Gordon Lightfoot, Early Morning Rain

Poems, songs about planes usually
come in varietal shades of gone
poets and lyricists see escape
oh, oh big ol’ jet airliner
don’t carry me too far away…

Even the tortured soul
leavin’ on a jet plane who said
they would be coming back…

I fly to get away only
from solid ground
to the clouds, and above
at thirty-thousand feet
coming or going is never my
thought process
getting up there, staying up
watching clouds beats
a Hollywood blockbuster

Funny thing is, I have never
had the typical flying
dreams or
fantasies about zooming
from here-to-there
never wanted to be a pilot
nor astronaut
but getting on a plane to
take me somewhere
always does
to the same place
no matter where or when
I am flying
I get to go to that place
where I am above
the clouds

A friend of mine likes
to cloud gaze
ground up, gazing from
wide open plains
interpreting what clouds
look like
uncanny in her accuracy
smooth eye for detail
I find her pictures of clouds
interesting, but…

As for me, they don’t need
to get all gussied up
putting on airs
when it comes to clouds
I’ll take mine in their
natural state
when I join them as
free-range condensation
dew of the imagination

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

As a kid I loved the nature films
featuring time-lapse photography
rosebuds, opening
caterpillars cocooning
anything hatching from an egg

I understood the concept behind
the process – frames shot every few
seconds instead of continuously
playing the film made it all seem fast

my father worked in television so I knew
the basics of cameras and pictures
time-lapse films in enthralled me as
I also marveled at the patience it took
to watch an egg hatch, or tree bud

walking through the park today I saw
a feather lying on a bed of moss
ordinary, black plume – pigeon, crow?
I sat on the stone ledge just feet away

I waited, watching the feather intently
an occasional breeze, or passing biker
caused the feather to flutter, not move
even though I know better, I waited to
see what would happen to quilled fond

there was nothing to hatch, or bloom
nothing was going to transpire except a
gust of wind taking the feather, or maybe
another bird would pluck it to line its nest

I sat, expecting nothing, was not disappointed
but for just a few minutes I was once again
curious ten-year-old kid, sitting in a class
observing just how this crazy world works

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd