The Poetry Marathon

Buttercups

When the flowers of buttercups
drop their leaves, there is an orb
left with sharp points that catch
on your socks when you pass by.
Hitchhikers intent on traveling
to set down roots elsewhere.

This is the way to learn
whether or not you like butter.
No need to take a taste,
just the reflection
of a single buttercup
flashing under your chin
will tell you the answer.

There is a Italian chicken
from the island of Sicily
who has with two combs
running side by each,
front to back. Perhaps
they like butter, too,
with a little sage and garlic.

Crayolatizing

I have been green
with envy,
talked to someone
til I was
blue-in-the face
turned red
with embarrassment

generally an upbeat
guy, like everyone
I do have my
down days
from time to time
though not to the same
extent as others;

some folks live
he blues,
I just get the
periwinkles

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

Her Bruises

It’s a tough color to get
Purple fades
into blue fades
into green fades
into yellow fades
into her flesh.
You can see each one
but can’t separate them
from the source.
A fist to the eye.
A foot to the rib.
A knee to the thigh.
Are we really still asking why?
There is no why
only this what.
Stop pretending
you don’t see it
don’t understand
how.
It’s gone on too long.
Really, it’s not that difficult
to understand –
only to do
anything about it.
And there’s the question
why.

[Prompt 10: Write a poem where color plays an important role. How you choose to interpret that role is up to you.]

Hair – Prompt 10

We lived off Prospect.
It was my father’s first house purchase;
he and my mother were young marrieds.

That house seemed gigantic; I was five.

Only through overhearing my mother
tell this do I recall
having my hair dressed
by the neighbors
down the street.

She was looking for me.
Hours earlier, I had gone to play with a friend.
A car came to the front of the house and out I was delivered,
my hair in cornrows.

She told my father, who
moved us to a homogeneous backwater,
where I watched my mother as a touchstone
of how/how not to behave.

If only all of the above could have happened within
the last few years, with Internet, viral video, etc,
I might have
grown up with a mother
who wouldn’t see those braids as a threat.

Hour Ten

Hazel eyes, flashes of fire
Precious time, green and gold
In blackest night he said
“I pray, things happen,

that’s all I know.”

Your hazel eyes flash with fire
And she’s caught in between in red
I’ll say precious little,
but “just so you know,

this one I won’t regret.”

Hour 10

flashing lights, blue into red into purple
swirl, eerily bathing the darkened street in brilliant color
bullet riddled car
driver side door ajar
a leg, frozen in death
a piercing scream
mutterings of conversation
police with notepads, pens behind ears
white shirts, underarm sweat rings
A hot night
of murder

Hour Ten

The Funeral

Bodies shrouded in black
rock forward and back
under siege by the dark
cloud of mourning
seeking light in this tunnel
but finding none.

Shades of sadness
and supplication
run through the air
an ebony chem trail
infecting all present.

I am swallowed by envy
while you lie there
oblivious to the wails
echoing against walls
and wearing your favorite
yellow dress.

Free Advice

“He has eight.
Legs,” the spider said.
“Come…”

Slowly, she flew
Closer. “Where’s your
Website located?”

“Closer.”

10. Love story

Once upon a time,

Blue got sick.

red dots covered his body,

he thought it was a silly trick.

 

Purple was in love with Blue,

but he really had no clue.

The red dots faded right away

the moment he said:

‘I love you too!’

2017 – Hour Ten

Red yellow orange
Green blue violet
Equality and respect
Love is love is love is love