Coming back
It hit me so hard.
I didn’t think I could ever
come back from it but
somehow you managed to pull
me through to the other side.
Vagabonded
Fourteen-stories of hotel towered
over downtown Minneapolis;
the massive pine by our back drive
stretched nearly to the tenth
the bottom boughs canopied out,
branches looping upward, forming
a cozy, sweet-smelling cave
we rented out rooms, not the tree
still, guests were often staying there
most of the staff didn’t know
of our guests beneath the tree
like tourists in our regular rooms
they spent their days not there;
it was merely a place to lay a head
to relax and stash their gear
unobtrusively using dead of night
to slip into the lobby restrooms
using freshly cleaned toilets to rinse
soap-dispenser-and-sink cleaned feet
foot care key, to surviving the street
from time to time my boss and I
encountered our off-the-books guests
greeting them as we would any others
with a nod, a greeting, a smile
a few times, my boss Dennis
would ask them to wait, asking
if they were hungry, then going
to the kitchen, returning with a
sandwich, or piece of chicken
Like most of our guests
they seldom stayed long,
but frequently returned;
loyalty, as they told us in training,
was highly valued, and must be
constantly earned
the proof of that I can confirm
because the guests who never paid us
were the finest that I served
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
Prompt 11: The Mark of the Wanderer
I was a simple man
Gentle–really
Couldn’t bear the cries
of the lambs at the slaughter
So much largesse, the earth
Generous in her gifts
bounteous fruits, ripe and round
as a mother’s bosom.
My brother–he was the brute in his
dominion over the animals.
Slitter of throats, sanguineous spiller.
He was the first professional killer.
Funny how no one remembers that.
All my years of labor, bent in the sun
sowing, weeding, harvesting
While my brother lazed in the grass,
then slew the babes of the beasts in his care.
When I made sacrifice, I offered to G-d
the sweetest, the ripest, the juiciest
The best of what grew from the sweat of my brow
My brother, his crooked smile,
His pile of rotting meat on the altar–
Pleased G-d more. Of course.
The scent of roasting fat
Exquisite, delectable,
Heavenly.
To whom can one appeal
when G-d is unfair?
I was not even allowed to be downcast.
G-d himself chastised me.
Sin is crouching at the door.
Yes, I opened the door and sin sidled in.
It’s a sin to hate your brother
But hate him I did, smug face, second born
Favorite son, beautiful boy.
Everything given to him because
I was the first fruit of my mother’s sin.
So perhaps sin was ever my lot?
The rock in my hand felt correct
Felt true, the crushing of his skull
a mellifluous crack, a satisfying shatter
In that moment, I understood my brother
For the first time, the joy of the kill
The power, the potency
The way the earth drank of his dark liquor
Avid for it–the greedy earth, so familiar to me
I’d fed her before, I feed her again
The blood of my brother, his brains, all that he was
All that he would ever be.
The greatest gift it was indeed.
I left him there to nourish the earth.
Then, a voice in thunder:
“Where is thy brother?”
The All Knowing, the Sky Father, asked of me.
I said, in my rage,
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Turns out that G-d is as fond of sarcasm
As I am of loaded questions.
He denied me the fruit of the earth.
The earth cares not, I thought. The earth is indifferent
And now she’s indifferent to me.
It’s fitting. There’s nothing I could give her
That would taste as fine as Abel’s meat.
Then G-d passed His sentence upon me
Touched His finger to my forehead
oh how it burned, the torment of His judgment
A sign, a diadem, a Mark
That I should walk and all should quake to see me
First born, first murderer.
But none should ever touch me, lest he
suffer the wrath of G-d.
A punishment? This? An eternity to walk
This land that despises me
To bear sons, to build cities
To rest never, to cease never.
The truth? The final secret?
In the end–
G-d approved my sacrifice.
The blood of Abel was delicious
And G-d supped on it and found it good.
A better sacrifice than lambs–
So now I Am Who Am
Has an unquenchable appetite
For the gore and essence of mankind.
Because of me.
So I walk, unburdened by family
To bear witness to a G-d
Who loves blood, who quaffs it
As ravenously and indifferently as the earth.
The distant stars my roof, the furious earth my bed.
None must harm me. All must quake to see me.
That is my punishment.
That is my reward.
TWELVE
Poem TWELVE has been removed and now appears on chocolate is a verb, 29 August 2016.
Dream Girl Who’ll Never Be #47: Florida Poolside
Florida Poolside
She
is a pale toothpick,
then crescent moon,
slender & seamless
in February sun.
I am gathering
her brightness
with slow unblinking eye,
how, for a moment,
she touches her own
fingertips, & cascades
into herself, enveloped
like a torn napkin
in shattered water.
I know when her
eyes surface to mine,
clear the chlorine
with her hand’s heel,
I will never
see her again.
Cluck (10)
Cluck
For Uncle Clarence
Uncle, remember the boy next door
The summer we came to visit?
The Jamaican boy with the cocoa-brown skin
And the ocean blue eyes
He took that ten speed everywhere, too fast
I was only nine years old but he introduced me to yearning and danger
You lived in Buffalo then
Uncle, remember the trip to New York
Before our flight to Germany? Stories of your youth –
Prostitutes and junkies on the streets, all very seedy
Reminded me of my favorite,
Starsky and Hutch
Preferred the televised version to the
Stench of the live
You saw the fear in my eyes and promised I was safe
I was eleven.
Uncle, do you remember that you gave me permission to move to California? You vowed to look out for my mother.
You didn’t like the idea of me being so far away but you
Promised when the Big One hit, you would come and rescue me
All I had to do was find a floating piece of land, and hold on.
Somehow I knew, this was no empty promise. I loved that you called us all
Lovey
Your sisters
Your nieces
I’m sorry you were alone at the end, Uncle
You moved the pot off the fire
Even then, thinking of others before yourself
You sat down on the couch, as if to nap
Never to awaken
Except in my dreams
Where I hear your deep, soothing voice saying
Lovey, you’re safe.
I am here.
I’ll always remember your birthday
You’re always in my prayers
Hold on tight
(c) Davita Joie 2016
Passion
Attraction
Eyes meeting
Staying locked in
Drinking the soul
Closeness
A bond
Only the two of you know
Connecting you
Touch
Goose bumps
Tender and heated
Stirring desire
Intimacy
Satisfying pleasure
Give and take
Snuggling close
HOUR 12 Moon Dittie
MOON DITTIE
Glory to the moon
that shines above
shooting its beams
to the lake below.
Make no mistake
it may not always
be there.
Don’t panic my friend,
I hear Gods got a spare.
I didn’t use Jeep, Breastbone, or Panic
she liked to call Monday her Sabbath
and eat peaches at the lake
under a canopy of beach elms
with the squirrels chattering
brave enough to scanter across her picnic blanket
stealing peaches for themselves
celebrating in glory their bounty
which they didn’t have to steal
because she was ready to toss them a spare
peach for the beach
until the moon shown
a perfect peach in the evening sky
reflecting orange syrupy colors
that dripped away like her Sabbath