The Poetry Marathon

I AM (2019)

The siren sounds its warning,

Every Saturday at noon.

Because it’s every weekend,

I hope we’re not immune.

The weather can be wicked,

Winds whipping wildly too and fro.

Hail pounding the roof and siding,

Causing worry down below.

Rain falling in sheets,

Wipers unable to stay on task,

The siren sounds its warning,

Please listen is what it asks.

Keepsakes

I kept my Pope Francis coin stashed
away in my lunchbox. Front pocket,
protected by a zipper no one
thought worked. I forgot I put
it there so many months ago,
but it never did rust, no matter
how much I spilled or what
leaked from inside. I found
it yesterday, rejoiced, and placed
it on the kitchen table next
to baseball cards and colored-pencil
pictures, hoping it won’t get buried.

Duties, responsibilities

Chores and what not

Pushing you down

Suffocating you

With no way out

Hold your breath

Push the worries aside

You can do it!

For you are a warrior

Horticulturally lame
my garden, half-way through June
who knows how far into Midwestern
growing season

Weeds have a foothold
but we have managed to keep the bulk of
the interloping bastards at bay

One pumpkin plant with
two massive, yellow blossoms
each bigger than the plant itself
my subtle goal of two carvable in
October cultivar spheroids
one for my grandson, one for me
remains shakily on track

Pepper plants getting there
as are some varietal tomatoes
my wife and son planned their
first salsa garden
a bowl or two remains feasible

Ahh, tomatoes!
Umami, oh baby!

A phrase in current lexicon has me
scratching my head at mugs, shirts:
‘haters gonna hate,
potatoes gonna potate’

I question the organizational skills
of our tomatoes, trying to tomate

One plant, in just the past two days
has produced one, two, three…
nine green tomatoes, varying size
and already straining the plant which has
yet to reach my knee in height

Our cilantro so far cilant-no, the basil…?
my ever-blossoming optimisim says
there is still time for the thyme while
our bought-at-a-who-wants-em discount
brussel sprouts do Belgium proud

A rogue carrot is thriving

refuge from last summer via
the previous owners of this house
the past cultivators
of this charmingly uneven plot of
au natural urban agriculture

untouched, allegedly for
many years by chemical compounds
artificially truncating the unwanted
cajoling what is welcome to
come, stay

We are fortunate
that subsistence is not reliant on our
agricultural abilities

Though we could
in a fevered, pioneer pinch rely on
a fence line of wildly flourishing
rhubarb – ubiquitous, still replicating
already having provided
two batches of sauce, one pie

Ahh, but man does not live
by pie alone

Fortuitously my neighborhood has a
charming farmers market, a
grocery store with nice produce
and neighbors who,
in their Midwestern politeness
have not yet commented
on how my tomatoes tomate.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2019
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Hour Three

Pond

Standing by my pond…

Bubbles rise next to boulders covered in moss

with weeds popping out.

Hummingbird buzzes by,

Robin flutters remind me to get out of my head

in a flapping wings kind of way.

Gargantuan deep green leaves from a plant given to me in a small pot

now surround and enclose the four foot metal heron that

dominates in winter.

Giant willow looks down on it all,

first tree that I planted remembers everything

much of which I’ve forgotten

while the totem stares out at the pond

ever vigilant.

The progression of flowers races by like life

some are closing that I’ve hardly noticed

while new ones unfold from buds.

Moisture everywhere from sprinklers this morning.

Weeds that at times bother me so much

look like part of the plan.

One small stalk of grass rises above the others as if to say

“Do you notice me?”

Thistles everywhere that my Idaho friend scoffed at

but I see as flowers.

May I look at life through different eyes.

The windows crashed 
A storm brew on
The doors crackled
A bird flew on
The clouds roared
A twig snapped
Yet a girl in black
Lay huddled under a crack

The mist came at once
Twirling and whirling
Darkness everywhere 
Encircling and blinding
So she stood upright
I'll fight it, alright

This thought grew
A light shone
This tornado withdrew
Gave up its throne
For standing up 
Can do that

Empty water bottles sit on my nightstand,
having chugged them last night to hit my gallon-a-day mark.
A vine of purple flowers, ten years old, finally hangs above my bedroom door,
a thin canopy of color against the white walls.
A salt lamp and moon vase diffuser inactive on the table beside my bed,
surrounded by reminders of my life in New York City.
I can still smell the lavender that always travels with me.
Sitting on my bed, a cloud in my room,
the first bed I’ve ever owned.
Rolled it out of a box and watched it rise.
Purple, grey, and green fill my space,
the only space I have.
But it is not home.

Women with strollers pause languidly
in front of my front windows— panes
like chromatic stained glass, panes
that love light like an invisible oil spill.
The heat slows them. There is never a cry
from the covered strollers. There is never a cry
from them.

Women with strollers stalk the sidewalks
of my one-street neighborhood, elongated
cul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses
and dormer windows and polyester flags
that read ‘Welcome’ in the same font,
patterns that change with the seasons.
Their eyes are marbles, heads lean
to the left, black wheels crunch the concrete.

Women with strollers are quiet, keep
to their kind. There are no words or looks
exchanged, not even to cross the street to continue
their path or when they break ranks
for the evening. There are no friendly
nods to neighbors, no “Nice day, isn’t it?”s,
no smiles at leashed Golden Retrievers
or smirks at middle aged men wearing socks
with their sandals.

Women with strollers circle like sharks, pass
my windows on the hour. Keeping time.
I peeked into a flat stroller once, a perambulator lying flat, designed for infants,
pushed by a woman with airily sculpted hair,
thin and bright. The stroller was empty.
I peek as often as I can. It is always empty.

A beautiful heart

Hurt and broken

A dazzling piece of art

Savage yet pained

I am a lover

Far in the corner

Head bent low

A heartbreaking murmur

Blocking everything else

I am an outcast

Shining in the centre

A star in the sky

Lighting up the faces

Spreading smiles

I am a helper

Alone I am no one

I am capable of little

But together we are stronger

We are conquerors

In search of peace