24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Unwind the chords that have bound you
My love
String them from your mouth
And tie them to your heart
To hear the sound resonate
The sound
Of your soul breaking free
The crash, swish, and clatter
Ringing against your ribs
Tearing from your lips
Howling into the world
The liberation of a voice
Finding itself in pain
Echoing in beauty
Feeling the muse
Her fingers light as they strum
The reverberating thrum
The ever-present rhythm
The lingering hum
Hush, an urban prophecy says the following:
when the first moonbeam will light the concrete
in the sacred evening of Christmas Eve,
everyone will have his own fir tree and will smile.
Stories for babies, put it back on the shelf!
Don’t disturb us with your lack of trust! To continue,
it will be fog at the docks, but all
will be on the cliff to praise the Lord!
And afterwards they’ll go home and drink
a boiling coffee in order to wait for Santa.
And the canteen will be full and even
poor fellows will feast and sing Hallelujah!
While everyone was sleeping
We sat by the June bonfire
Scaring off the darkness
And watched it play out
a scene of elephants marching
And a queen perched high
Wooing her loyal subjects
In the campground
So manicured we couldn’t even find
A stick for kindling
the fire died down
We crept away
Through a tunnel of fog and fir
Leaning into the night
The birds on the lake hushed as we passed
On the way to the dock
Where we sat kicking our feet in
Midnight water
Where you asked me what the lake said
You stopped walking
To pull down a moonbeam
To light my face
Damn.
I’ve never met water that I didn’t love
A calm morning ocean
Pouring rain from above
We are three fourths water
But I think I may be more
I am always drawn to any shore
The smallest stream
Or the widest river
A mountain stream that sends shivers
From the freezing cold flow
I love a pool in the summer
And I love a good hot bath
I could be part fish
Or shark when I’m inclined
I can’t get enough of the waters of the world
Each beautiful and unique in their design
thank you everyone,
Who is in my life
it’s all by your grace
Life is beautiful
Even more so
For those
who live with
honor, glory ,
authenticity
and deligence
they live majestically
they die gloriously
the road isn’t easy
One is tested
several storms
come
And they rise above
Gloriously
they live majestically
they die gloriously
white oak in redwood
stippled heart in mixed media
touch of realism
spot of whimsy
strong limbs reach out
from canvas, acrylic
branches with watercolor
leaves touch my face
I lean into the strong trunk
oil pastel stains
the nape of my neck
I become one
with the art of you
I Know This Much Is True
I am surrounded by lies and liars.
My social security number has not, in fact, been frozen,
and I cannot lose weight by giving up bananas.
The president will not help me buy a home.
The government responsible is exactly who you think it is,
and not the one on the news.
Don’t be tiresome! And don’t be greedy.
I can’t get sculpted abs or better orgasms
by the end of this week. There are no aliens here.
And if he doesn’t love me today, then this trick
will not bring him ’round to it. Believe me,
I tried.
We are not amused.
My soul is not at risk, nor my job or savings.
There is no “Agenda.”
I have heard the Good News, and honestly,
I have heard better. This God of theirs
holds too many bizzare opinions about my behavior.
Keep it to yourself, if you please.
I have seen enough, heard enough,
I know this much is true:
the arc of the crows’ flight as they wing toward their roost
calling to each other as the sun sets: “come home, come home”
is the geometry of Diogenes’s lantern.
There is no such honesty in Man.
I watch the night, the last concrete piling aging like a book shelf, telling fisherman’s tales
the fog settling in my bones, I love tis hour, the hush hour, before the world wakes,
though it is damn cold and a warm coffee from the last canteen standing, the
moonbeam its lettering tattered fading from sight, rouses my mind,
the ships rock in their slumber dreaming of the dock, piles of metal rods and
fir trees wait to journey to foreign lands.
Selkie
He stole my skin, my face
Don’t romanticize my situation
He has my soul
On a shelf
In a dry corner of the house
Let me go back to the sea’s hush
To the cool blanket of fog
Under a dock
At dawn
He swears his love is
Concrete
But I am damn raw
On a moonbeam clock
I count the nights until
I kill him for the key
The dock at the lake
home of grandparents
was my summer hangout
Monument of sturdy
simplicity
fir one-by-four planks
nailed to two-by-four
stud framing
with number eight nails
anchored on
galvanized steel pipes
fifty-feet from my
bedroom window it would
hide in morning fog
refract moonbeams on
cloudless nights
lull me to sleep
clapped by gentle waves
in harmony with
deepening hush of
the Northwoods on a
summer’s night
painted blueish-gray
sometimes at dusk it would
dissolve into the water
just as it all dissolved
into me
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2019
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