24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I pray differently now
No bells, whistles, thou’s or therefore’s
I pray mostly like a fool
Just foolish enough to trust silence
Will laugh at my arrogance
And bandage my wounds
I pray like a man who knows endings
And who trusts next steps
I pray like a man determined to make friends
Life is too short for making enemies.
I pray…to become prayer
Our adopted REDACTED began his life in a yoga REDACTED property on the windward, REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED miles from our home. Two years later as he took in his new REDACTED with us, he focused on REDACTED REDACTED our cottage, alarmed. Often and repeatedly he showed REDACTED as he REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED. After some time we realized that he REDACTED REDACTED have seen ceiling REDACTED. The gigantic REDACTED were not going to REDACTED REDACTED to nab him. We reassured him, but he REDACTED REDACTED. Gradually, slowly REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED good life on the REDACTED side. REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED, yes, but big harmless blades to REDACTED REDACTED place.
#5: Who Am I?
Who am I?
How could I not know?
But when someone asks me this: I just stare at them blankly.
I freeze; I have no idea what to say.
Who am I?
I list my name, occupation, education, skills.
I list the things that people say about me.
Who am I?
What does that mean? What do you want me to say?
Who am I?
Fuckkkkkkkkk;
I hate that question!
His name is redacted words,
and I believe he is the most
redacted description.
I am led to believe he has redacted
beyond the normal redaction of man
to woman.
And so, I feel redacted.
When I was a child,
a man called a woman
and asked for a date.
He gave her a promise ring
to state his intentions,
or a pin to share his bond.
And, on one knee,
he asked to share her soul.
Obscure hints were done
on the girls they loathed.
Am I redacted?
One day redacted or better
will come my way.
I hope I don’t mess things up!
My book of rhymes
is missing.
It has the words I need
to write a perfect poem
of a hero and his steed.
Writing now is very slow,
words refuse to flow.
My adventuring hero is running late.
Nothing seems to rhyme
and I am trying to update
but he might not get there in time.
He might not get the prize,
whatever that might be,
all because my book of rhymes
is missing.
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
#4: Perhaps I shouldn’t say
i’d hate to think you think of me negatively. perhaps it would just be better if i didn’t say. but the ramblings inside my brain just won’t go away. i’m frustrated by how you’re treating me. this doesn’t mean i want you to leave. in fact, that would be the worst thing you could do. you see, i’m afraid of being alone. alone. no, i don’t want to be alone. so even though i don’t like how you’re treating me, I won’t say a thing. healthy boundaries? what are those? i’d rather just let you treat me the way you do and i’ll continue feeling this way because it’s better than being alone.
– Tensions from underground does little
to dismantle radicalism from our landscape.
Instead, persuasive troublemakers flourish where
recruits are preconditioned to disregard news
as make-believe and to, instead laud first-hand stories
or ‘yard gossip’ to exert control over weaker inmates.
That ex-convicts are barred from participating in the election
process their of marginalization.
We anticipate if unabated, the ongoing trends spell potential
for dire effects on our processes –
I’m ▇▇ afraid of being used by others
to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇ become better for knowing me
▇▇ the leaving that follows
▇▇ haunts me ▇▇▇▇▇
the rejection after I’ve been drained
of all I had ▇▇▇▇
I get it
loving ▇▇▇▇▇▇ enough angst
to build a compelling character
over and over again
take ▇▇ my floating ribs
▇▇▇▇ teeth and eyelashes
break off pieces of melancholy
slivers of mania
I’ll be your ▇▇▇▇ Venus de Milo
if you only ▇▇▇▇
▇ worship the empty spaces
of my phantom limbs
Eight-year-olds are absolute shit at hide and seek
They always hide in the same one or two places
And then wonder how you found them
Except if they’re in danger
Except if they were me
In my terrifying house
With my terrifying brother
And my terrifying step-dad
Tiny, very not-so-terrifying me
Had a hiding spot
Closets were a game changer
I had the obvious one
My bedroom closet
I used this one
If I knew I wasn’t in
That much trouble
They could find me easily
But that was the point
Lure them into
The safety of routine
Like they had done for me
Then I had the closet
Under the stairs
Full of Christmas decorations
And other things they tossed aside
I fit in there
Of course, they would check
My bedroom closet first
I always hid there, right?
I wasn’t the kind of girl
Who put up a fight
Eventually, though, they’d find me
It wouldn’t last forever
But it was never meant to
I used this spot when
I needed time to be brave
But then I had the hall closet
Less than 2 feet deep
Lined with shelves
No one ever looked there
They thought I wouldn’t fit
If someone did open the door
They’d look below the shelves
On the floor
As if it was the only place
I deserved to be
But I was small, and smart,
And scared, and in danger
And 8-year-old me
Could fit into some
Very small spaces
So I would not hide on the floor
Not where they might think to look
I would suck it in
And scrape my skin
And I would make myself fit
I would hide on the top shelf
In the tiny linen closet
They didn’t realize there was
Over a foot of space up there
If you could just fit in the space
Between the doorframe and the shelf
It couldn’t have been more than 8 inches tall
I’d have bruises on my ribs
And no one would find me
Till morning