Childish Mystery

Children peculating

The tomatoes sacred jars

In the steam, of the hot afternoon rain

 

Many a raincoat, billowing

Capturing the frogs

 

In the gathering evening

Both,  resting on their elbows

Staring at each other

Through mystery and glass

 

 

 

Six Jars

Down the creepy road,

She lived in the house

She had six children

But never a spouse

 

Under the rays of moonlight,

Beneath the beams of stars,

She crept outside

Wearing a raincoat, carrying a jar

 

She knelt on her knees and elbows

As she removed the jar from her coat

She captured a frog

Then penned a curious note

 

When she passed away

She left little behind

Six jars rested on bookshelf

Each tied with a card and signed

Thought Frogs (Hour 14)

Psychedelic ramblings of thought frogs croaking,
choking on the elegant chorus of the midnight orchestra.
Deep in the velvet evening the tired forest sheds rubber skin,
large, wooly mammals begin to prowl,
on the scent of promised vegetables,
senses in tune with seething earth,
forever in search for compass needle tomatoes.

Breathing heavy ecstasy,
settles the soft haze of twilight escaping,
the fireflies born in fear of chasing jars,
and children in oversized raincoats
placing fishbowl televisions on display
for insectivore menus hidden in the steam.

Aardvarks rub elbows with politician carousels,
twirling gobs of armpit currency,
their peculating intentions staining sharpened teeth,
and the children laugh at the aardvark’s gullibility,
the frogs choke and croak,
and the mystery ebbs back into the edificial surroundings.

NIGHT SONGS (Hour 14, PM 2017)

Dusk percolates into darkness.

Early spring in the Northwest, the ground a sodden mess, but this evening the rain has ceased. Stifled by too many hours inside, under lamps, I switch off the radio which has been keeping me company, my elbows stiff from bending over papers I’m grading.

Stretch and listen. Silence does not greet me. I am assaulted by frogs, the clang and bong of their night longing loud enough to hear with the windows closed.

I know you may not believe me.

Inspired by their desire, I turn aside, open jars of tomatoes. Crush garlic, chop basil. Put a large pan on to boil. We will eat well tonight.

 

What I’ve Got – Prompt 14

It’s evening
and, finally, I’ve got my market tomatoes and holy basil.

More adults than children crowded the lines, but, in my raincoat,
I’m impervious.
With no rancor, I manage to elbow through the throngs.

I’ve funds enough for what I need
and almost feel I’ve been peculating
when I look inside my bag.

Overhead, the rain of frogs
and lizards begins just as I
catch one of the streetcars,

that are like jars of cool air
from the steam of the sidewalks.
Waiting, still, are more shoppers

for whom the city is a mystery.

Gus

Hey. Can you still hear me?
Are you still there? Is there
anything left of you besides
the ash and bone fragments
in the floorboard of my Accord,
a car you never saw?
Hey. I miss you. I miss
how your fur felt gripped
in my fist when I cried
so hard I thought I would die.
I miss your head in my lap,
your gold-green eyes stuck
like a window cling to mine
until I could breathe again.
Hey. You’re good. Still.
Hey. I hurt. Come lay with me?

Gone

The sounds of frogs
in the evening
my summer lullaby
jars of flitting fireflies
nightlight beacons
the mystery was not in
glowing insects,
amplified amphibians
but in how adulthood
peculated the wonder

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

The Passionate Month

Autumn the passionate season

Nature displays

The changes that come

Painting the leaves

As green leaves turn color

Red, Orange, yellow and brown.

Skies turn golden

The breezes caress

With sweaters I walk

And coffee in hand.

 

making home

Broken boards and shattered windows,

splintered stairs and shuddering eaves,

all those things and more to me,

mean a potential nest to meet.