AWARE
A secret
Magic sitting on the surface of the world
There for all
Waiting for the few
The curious
To notice
To stop
To scoop it up
To delight
Allowing it to play along senses
A kinetic painting on skin
Cinquain
A Cinquain poem is 5 lines with the following syllabic counts. The first line is the noun (title)
- 2
- 4
- 6
- 8
- 2
Oceans
Tranquil water
washes over my soul.
Cleanses memories of you, I
am free.
[Hour Seven]Plain Jane
Ordinary,
middle-of-the-line,
average,
simple,
median
midline life
of what was Before,
but it’s the After
post-crisis,
picking up pieces
and trying to fit
the ‘normal’ in the non,
the average in the odd,
the sane in the new.
There is no turning back
to the Before, the world
spins on, and we try
to follow the median,
Happy Medium, but never
truly can be it again.
Difficulties
What is this trying to tell me
It’s not something that I yearn
What am I supposed to discover
What am I supposed to learn
There must be a reason
To teach me what I need to know
But all I see is hardships
And don’t know which way to go
All I can think is why is it happening
What is it that I’ve got so wrong
But I know that I can get through this
All I have to be is strong
Wyoming
A dry heat,
Windows down in the pickup,
Sunburns in the back.
Sagebrush across the road,
Sugar beets in the ground,
Irrigation makes it happen.
My dry desert home,
Surrounded on all sides by towering mountains, stark and beauty collide.
Star so brilliant,
The Milky Way splashed across the sky,
Stillness in creation.
Strolling
Driving the highway
pay my respects to
squinched raccoon
squirrel flattened like
bearskin rug
‘Roadkill’ is what
people call these
roadway unfortunates
but I think that misses
so many marks
For it wasn’t
the road that killed them
but the innate urge we
all share to
periodically hit the road
Some creatures just
take that in a more
literal vein than others.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Courting/Pause No. 1
Pick a sentence
between one and ten
You picked the same as the last
I can sing
Every word you say
I pushed a word in front of another
Adjusted the predicate to your advantage
I’ve written more words
Hidden under
Parallel lines
Than I have ones that are free.
I can sing
But my dancing is miserable
So the night
Will not go away*
(Pause No. 1)
*My eyes close the tightest
when this life is the brightest.
Philip V. Coombs 3-4am
the woman #thepoetrymarathon #prompthoursix
If someone wrote a poem about me,
what would the lines say?
Here is a woman who happens along
every evening. Would they see
the children on my hands,
the dogs in the swing of my arms?
The limp I carry as I drag one foot
just a little bit? The men I have kissed
The lives I turned away from,
the battles I have fought
and sometimes lost?
The lines I’ve earned upon my soul?
The song that hums in my head?
Or would they like me,
just raise a hand in passing
smiling. Not thinking, about yet another
woman who puts one foot in front of the other
and carries on.
Hour 6: Childish
Be it my moon in Taurus
or another celestial configuration
I treasure simple, soft things
The old stuffed animal
a warm pair of alpaca socks
the blanket I absconded with
before it could be presented
as a gift to an unborn infant.
There is little growth to be found
in comfortable things,
I understand
yet, I have loved them most of all.
I am a child
who has repeatedly decided
to find my way back into wombs
of my own creation
and through these blanket fort portals
I have found the safety to search
for true reflections of myself.
I refuse to put away childish things
I will bring them
and their magic with me–
it begins with a choice
to take off the shoes you gave me
swing open the front door
rename myself as stardust
in pursuit of the lost romance
of being undeniably alive.
The writer’s high
It is 3pm I find that eating grapes
and keeping my favorite song
on repeat helps me to think
and get the creative juices flowing
for the task at hand.
Spilling these words of thought
on this digital paper carefully
crafting a legacy in which I
can ultimately be proud of.
Staring at this computer screen
with such a rigorous drive
Days like this I am reminded
as to why I love to write
why I love to paint vivid
worlds with words.
Everyone has a drug
of choice writing just
so happens to be mine
for when I pick up the pen to
write there is no greater high.