Death of an Hour
The ticking of mortality goes rushing by.
Five minutes.
Barely time to regret.
Bring on the next moment.
Bring it on.
I have the reckless courage to exist.
PRS 2.03 2016
Collide
“Even the best fall down sometimes,
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme,
Out of the doubt that fills my mind,
I somehow find,
You and I, collide…”
The lyrics to this beautiful, melodious song,
Became the lines to my messed up, sad poem.
I wouldn’t even have to wonder why.
I wouldn’t even have to ask for another sign.
Because it’s obvious. It’s too obvious.
You and I were never really meant to collide.
We are stars from neighboring galaxies.
So close, yet so far away.
Swooshing past each other throughout the sky and space,
But not having a single chance to even just glance at one’s face.
We tend to get so close,
But we never touched, you see.
Because, as life would want to have it,
We were never really meant to be.
A light born from the start,
A love made from afar,
Two hearts, destined to be apart.
No matter how much we try,
Now matter how long we hide,
No matter how many times we will deny,
We are just not made to collide.
It’s painful to know that we cannot dance this beautiful melodious song.
And so it just ended up being a messed up, sad poem.
Cricket
In cinderblock silence . . . a sound
night rich as a ripe wild grape,
sweet strong as a soprano voice,
this small, oblong being’s release,
his body a quiver of song.
Summer of Change
Driving through the lush green valleys,
Newborn babe in tow,
All we owned and all we were,
Stowed away and traveling forth.
Summer’s faded end was nearing.
A symbol of our journey,
A new leaf, a new page, a new book.
The end of an era, and the start of our reckoning.
Relationally
Childhood visits to our
neighborhood library mandated
pilfering of free bookmarks
one for each book seemed logical
never remembering that I
returned only the books
varietal bookmarks littered
my bookshelves, then desk drawers
a dedicated few made it into,
stayed within the confines of a book
permanence assured though
logic of placement rarely survived
relationships with stories, others
there were always new takes
to be read, placed in ‘used’ bins
even though marking my spot
meant I could go back I rarely did
preferring plowing-through to
review, remember, reconsider
voraciously rumbling through
fact, fiction, poetry and muses
early technology encouraged
bookmarking pertinent WWW locales
but my pattern held; onward, done
not going back there on purpose
frequently asking why I was
ever there to begin with
what really caught my eye at the time
now there they sit in the dusty stacks,
no bookmarks protrude
and only when a book is pulled
from the shelf do I realize
that I long ago
eschewed bookmarks
and simply started to
dog-ear the select pages
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
L-o-v-e
Oh L-o-v-e,
what is it that you really expect of me? I never feel the way you want me to, and sometimes I really don’t want to. Because most of the time I really don’t want you.
Deep down inside I feel I don’t need you, or is it really that I’m unworthy of you?
Not looking to be hurt nor abandoned. You actually scare me more than I could have possibly imagined.
Lady Lannae
(Good song =)
Poem no.2 This time is ours
Poem no.2 : This time is ours
We sit together and I hold your hand;
Cauled in a silence
That falls between us like a winter snow.
Sometimes words elude you –
Sometimes you speak but the meaning is not clear.
Then wordless touch calls you here, to me;
And so we sit together and I hold your hand.
Your slender fingers arc and curl in mine
And, braille-like, patiently,
I trace your history in each worn palm.
Those hands toiled a generation;
Graceful craftsman’s fingers
Hardened and calloused
By more than you were called to do.
You mended fences, built new byres,
Patiently grew crops and daughters,
Worked from sun to sun,
Then told us stories as we fell asleep.
Now, caught in the mist of long-forgotten days,
I have become your anchor to the present moment.
This time, this present moment, is what we have.
And so we sit together and I hold your hand.
(c) Anne McMaster 2016
26
Appreciate blessings
coming down —
Every follower,
generations healed.
Inherent justification,
keeping life
manageable. Not
offering punishment.
Quietly reproaching
souls. Teaching.
Unconditional veneration.
Worshipping X.
You,
Zion.
Eventually
The kitchen clock reminded me
I missed a poem
Clearly there is more at play here then I think
Discipline
and words
swirl together like soft serve cones
my daughter craves
in summer.
HOUR 2
LISTEN
You asked Me
to listen;
I did.
Those words
had no meaning
no, not for me.
Distracted by his rifle
and blurry tattoos
I should have listened
to your prompt
and not viewed.
I’ll try again
a second time
Without distraction
I was able to hear
about hope and love
things I hold dear
Your prompt
goes to show
never judge
the unknown.
Hear through the rhetoric
and beautiful tone
a message brought clear
a message sent home
Hey there,
yes you.
We are not alone.
We’re not quite through.
So open your mind
and look beyond you.
Peace can be real
for more than a few.