The Poetry Marathon

I saw wings
fluttering
and thought
tis’ a butterfly
It was a moth

no worries though
they all are beautiful!

As I walk through the forest deep, and look beyond through the trees.

As I watch the sunlight filter through the leaves,  to give light through the darkness there, so I may see.

Mother Earth,

With every bloom,  with greenery all around, I feel the softness of the grassy ground.

I fall to my knees to hold the earth in my hands,  to breathe in the beauty that surrounds me.

I feel my heart beating as if I am one with the earth,  and silently say say thank you Mother Earth.

For the air I breathe the water I drink,  and fire that burns inside my soul at night,  and the beautiful earth on which I reside.

As my heart fills with love and understanding of it all,  even when I walk in the forest all alone,  my Mother Earth is with me.

On each and every journey I take she is within my heart and soul as I awake,  to see the beauty of Mother Nature…

C. Burgess (c)

Unconscious, trees breathe, alive, but not sentient.

Likewise,  we breathe, knowing few secrets

of the spiritual

in which

we are immersed;

We splash about the unfathomable deep,

teeming with forces

for good

and bad–

Buoyant with life itself,

We drift in the sunshine

Of good days

Of bright tomorrows

Of warm yesterdays—

Heedless of the unseen

invisible lifeguards,

life rafts,

shrill blasts of warning whistles.

And we,

oblivious,

just keep swimming.

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