The Poetry Marathon

Hours Gone by

The empty space, staring her down

The Clock

Glaring at her, from behind.

Gone were the people

who could drown out the sound

She didn’t dare turn around.

 

Studying the wall, towering and creeping

keeping her mind, as loud as she could

Noticing the cracks and openings

Tracing back to its conjuring.

 

Glancing up at the, white round face

it’s black embellishments, sharp and pointy

running its red tongue

around, encompassing

clicking its teeth, with every second

Its eyes moving,

every hour and minute

 

She could hear it

Trying to block it out

the footsteps in the hall

the alarms in the next room

the voices, that carried, running

along the concrete walls

 

But it always comes back

to the Ticking

 

As waiting, has its own

Palpable

Sound

 

 

One metmorphisize fits all

Happily-ever-after

mythology only prefacing
the sequel
continuing the saga
tacking on the index onto
volume one

having read this scene
from life movies
writing, rewriting the books
playing déjà vu-all-over-again
never more than
countless times
here-we-go-again
monotony of changing times
same cast of characters
different roles
haven’t-I-seen-this-show-before?

Exit, stage right
enter stage left
either or, vice versa
prefacing intermission
part one ends…
next!

time to regroup, recalibrate
endings are simply ellipsis
masquerading as comfort
to the ill-at-ease

 – Mark L. Lucker
© 2016

Coming of Age

I
illuminated
dreams
screaming to be
embarked upon unwillingly
youth often comes last while
energy is drained away into
outside its ways begging to cling
generational to generational
lasting only a few seconds for
rapidly growing kids hungered
damning their youth in effort
to separate from the words
so small to them
meaning an expulsion of understanding
greater than before
ever turning without an
End

Poem 1: Endings

Funny how at the beginning
You can find an end,
Shining like recycled gold
Or the afterbirth
Of something long, strenuous,
And possibly inadvisable.

When you find the end,
You can place it with great delicateness
On your finger.
It may fit there, snugly,
Sparkling into the eyes of those
Willing to see.

I lived the end.
Once, when I was thirty-one,
Just one year after getting married
And earning a masterful degree.
But those things, too, ended,
And hospital beds grew cold.

A bang or a whimper?
Fire or ice?
Slouching or sprinting with
Obscene alacrity?
Or perhaps with gentle, escalating doses of
Prozac and novelty?

Advice Before Retirement

Go somewhere

Travel

Go fast

Go slow

Don’t stop

Sit on the porch

Mingle with the young

Exercise

Meditate

Be optimistic

Don’t answer the phone

Destroy all electronics

Become invisible

Learn something

Go wild

Believe something

Go naked

I am somewhere

Words Matter

Hasten to listen

like grass springing after a rainfall

Hear every utterance

Words Matter

 

Refrain use of a quick tongue

before action seems foolish

For what is said can thud like stone

Words Matter

 

Relieve stress

allow bitterness to not inhibit your mouth

Mercy is the only language

Words Matter

Noise

The sound that awakens me and puts me to sleep

The touches and the voices that bring me to my feet

The unconditional and welcomed annoyance

That makes me yell, smile, laugh, and cry all in the same week

The “Ouch-es”, the “Stop it-s”, the “Leave me alone-s”, and the “Get out-s”

These phrases sound like hit records on repeat… and indeed they could be

As they are in my mind, music to me

The loudest and the most beautiful noise is never too noisy for me.

Sunshine

Slowly, long, pink fingers pull back the covers, What a beautiful display!  Colored lines of beauty, caressing and creating soft curves across the scene, arising slowly, erasing the darkness into day!  The gray mist of dreaming fades in her fairest light, As sweet, sensual sunshine bids adieu to the night!

1

The walls hang crooked.
The bottoms don’t touch.
The outside seeps
in like a heavier metal.
My skin a feast for any jaw
that can close on it. Quiet
heart, quiet your clanging
is waking the children.
There are no children. How
can even a bell be
out of tune. I mean, I can’t hear
the tune. I mean,
if I can’t hear it, how can
the heart be in it? The welts
rise up. The body a red
and white sand paper.
Give me something to rub
against and smooth.

The end (Prompt 1 2016)

Suffocation

living with minimal purpose

days guided by routines

spilled coffee, wrinkled clothes, misplaced keys

purposeless, stagnant, a frozen existence

numb with struggles that resist quietly within

telling you to let go of what you have become

all that you have allowed yourself to know about you

that lack of information

because you know you more than anyone else, right?

The end

severs the ties that bind you to comfort

it allows you to accept the unknown

to accept the struggles

that will soon come because in this present place

you are not growing and that is more painful than scathing your knees

In the end

you don’t have to practice

you have to just BE