10:00 PM – Handwritten Poem – (Hour 14)
My Complex Relationship with Closets
I liked closets
I could hide away where no one would see me
safe inside a small space
my mind could fly far away
Then I was fine with closets
They kept me safe
my secrets locked away inside
only a few picking the lock or being allowed to peek inside
I started to hate closets
when people started to die in them
I knew it had happened all along
but now people I knew
I have become a master of my own closet
For some the door is wide open
Others, only see the light
around the cracks
I am now understanding of closets
Sometimes they protect
sometimes they confine
and sometimes they are the safest place in the world
“A Glimpse of Hope”
The last light of the day,
Before my last words.
I close the blinds from behind,
And can’t even fathom how I get here.
Amid losing all the balance,
There’s hope. A glimpse of it.
Pushing me towards the precipice
To finish what I started.
Am I finished?
Is this the end?
The end to start anew,
A glimpse of hope for you too.
In the world where we can be wordless around people,
I gain words around here,
Or probably, the moved me.
Control me to be good,
I am their slave,
A happy one.
A happy participant of the magic,
I’m here sticking around,
Coz, I can see it.
I can feel it.
There’s hope here.
Text Prompt : Write a poem about HOPE
#POETRYMARATHON2023 #HOUR24 #24HRSCATEGORY
2023 Hour 24: Hope (a list poem)
Write a poem about hope.
Walking in the woods without benefit of bug spray.
Rolling for Yahtzee when you have the large straight.
Returning the sweepstakes entry without making a purchase.
Crossing your fingers when your daughter strolls to home plate.
Beginning the journey with the engine light flashing.
Opening the door to a refrigerator you know to be empty.
Looking at real estate listings on a minimum-wage job.
Continuing the chemotherapy when the prognosis is grim.
Bringing a child into an unforgiving and unkind world.
Having faith you’ll be caught when you let yourself fall.
Spreading the word
I am the poet that leaves words in the garden
A butterfly lands on my creation
It sees “hugs make you live longer”
It flys to places and whispers it to all
The winds carry the words to the sea
And creatures swim creating waves that sing
The melody says “hugs make you live longer”
Crossing the Finish Line
Is hope more of a wish or a prayer?
Does it have to do with string?
Is it a goal or objective or song?
Or just some everyday thing?
Does hope spring eternal as the poem says
or perhaps the poems are just mush
I’d like to spend some time thinking of Hope
But I fear I’m in quite a rush.
You see, this is the poem at the end of the line
the line is the day oh, so long
I wish you well and hope many things
None to be construed as wrong
The marathon took twenty-four hours this time
It does every year, yes, that is true
Your successful completion is what you achieved
At least that is my hope for you.
The Pie Most Loved
Round.
Not for appearance,
but for the ease of making.
Nature requires at least an oval
for square is too much effort.
In my youth, pepperoni was it.
Mushrooms were gourmet.
But now, there’s figs and prosciutto,
pesto, and lamb with mint.
Introduce gluten free, and cauliflower crust.
I like it cracker crisp, and the toppings thin.
Spicy tomato sauce, not too much cheese,
and not too oily or droopy.
Pizza! God’s gift to the big butt!!
Hour 24: Sweet Dreams
In the middle of the night
I awoke and thought of you.
Now, here’s the thing:
I’ve never been a dreamer.
I’ve never fluttered to sleep
With visions of far off lands
Or nearby waters.
When you close
Your eyes to static,
You can’t wish your way
To a life where you’re
Dreaming in Monet.
But in the dead of night,
My mind awakened and
You were my first thought.
So if I could dream
Of wonderful things,
I’d dream of you a lot.
The end. (Prompt 24)
I once had a crush on a girl
named Hope
Brown hair in ponytail reaching
her waist
I had hoped to somehow get to
know her
Like a lot of my classmates I had
Hope hope
But with eighth graders you need to
speak to them
I couldn’t though I tried she looked
dubious
Thus dashing any hope I had, last
vestiges of
Hope hope and I left junior high with
nothing but
memories of a teen crush that left me
Hope less
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
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