The Poetry Marathon

Roots in Ritual

Every Friday night at Shabbat services

I thank God for the freedom to practice

Judaism after myriad attempts to stop us.

True faith cannot be thwarted by hate.

Me

all the oxygen leaves the room
snuffs the flame
lose enough times, no longer play
shallow breaths
chest tightens

Hour 20

On Saturday mornings my son and I feed

over two hundred hot meals to neighbors in need

we plan and we prep and we count all the lunches

we are truly the ones blessed

 

 

 

Prompt 20

 

coffee

Every morning

At way too early (even for me)

Hour 20: The Treehouse

I remember it being huge

With a sloping roof

And enough space for ten people

Maybe more

 

Five feet off the ground

Twice if you climbed onto the roof

(An act of bravery seldom achieved)

The moss was slippery

So one must hang on branches

 

The walls were colored with chalk

And then with permanent marker

Names written

Jokes recorded

Pictures drawn

 

When we left

We wrote a letter

To take care of the treehouse

And visit it frequently

So it’s never alone

 

One day it will rot away

We all do, after a while

But with me

It was perfect and sturdy

Welcoming and warm

 

A bookend to my childhood

I live in a memory

Of brushing away the leaves

On the first day of sun

And sitting on the planks

And listening to the wind in the leaves

Arabica-cadabra (Prompt 20)

I never measure
the coffee
just pour from bag
into filter
last act before bed
steeling
myself for the
day ahead
aroma from the bag
soothing as
warm milk

who needs
essential oils
when you have
necessity grounds

Morning finds me
staggering
bed to bathroom
veering only
slightly
into kitchen
hitting BREW
kick-starting the
longest six-minutes
of the day

time filled with
gathering
accoutrements –
mug, milk,
sugar cubes
knife

Truly
if you cannot serve
morning by
the slice
is it really coffee?

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Prompt Twenty – Dugga Dugga

Hour Twenty – Text Prompt:

Write a poem about a routine or ritual that is part of your life. It can be something like making coffee every morning, or something like attending religious services once a week.

 

Dugga Dugga

 

Not sure how or when it happened.

The exact moment I metamorphosised into her

is lost to posterity now.

But I cannot leave the house,

or start a journey,

or indeed any project

without saying Dugga Dugga.

She did that, all her life.

Invoked the blessings of the goddess.

Durga, the God of Power.

We laughed, tutted,

got embarrassed when friends were around.

It wasn’t cool to have an uncool mother.

 

And now, I’m her.

 

Chant it out loud when I’m alone.

Whisper furtively when I’m not.

No matter what, though…

I can’t begin till I feel the cloaked in blessings.

 

Just one unanswered question,

Is it the Goddess, or Ma

who protects me?

Hour 20: Hindsight

Every night before I go to sleep I replay every mistake in my head

Hindsight is 20/20

All the should’ve, could’ve, would’ves on instant replay

What could I have done differently?

As if I had the power to change anything

Maybe if I was more of this or maybe if I was less of that

Maybe then you would’ve wanted me, maybe I could’ve made you stay

What was the right thing to say to stop you from walking away?

As if I had the power to change anything

I couldn’t change you, you couldn’t change me

Oh but I tried to change me

I twisted and contorted myself to try and fit into something that you could love

I bent myself into something I no longer recognized, someone I no longer was

It did not make you want me more, I could not be what you wanted

As if I had the power to change anything

Every night before I go to sleep I replay every mistake in my head 

Hindsight is 20/20 but it changes nothing

As if I had the power to change anything

H20.P20

Time always seems to be still in the dawn.

         I stand above the shore, waves dance in,

sometimes a waltz, sometimes a funky chicken.

Light ripples across the horizon, shades of summer

mixed with a winter storn, or blue skys, a sea mist.

My heart slows, my breath is singing goodmorning

to the new day.

The sun slides above the distant line between sea

and sky, spreading into my peripheral vision.

My soul replenished , my spirit high on nature.

I retrace my steeps to civilisation, my cups filled.

 

Hour 20 2023

Morning Ritual

First thing every morning

I pick up the first book

and dive in. In the bathroom,

it’s probably poetry – Peter Meinke,

Maya Angelou, Billy Collins, Pat Parker.

Music will substitute, if driving

(Roseanne Cash, “Miss the

Mississippi and You,” most recently)

but even then, it’s good to have Eudora

Welty’s voice, reading her own memoir.

If I ever go blind, I’ll have to have somebody

around, reading to me on request or else a button

to push, and have instant nutrition of the mind.