24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
coffee
Every morning
At way too early (even for me)
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
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
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?
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
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.
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.
Progress is progress – you’ve got this
and you truly are capable of so much
more than you ever seem to realize;
but that said, you owe me a salsa
with time and a tango with potential –
don’t put me on hold again, I know
you’re waltzing with memory and
you wouldn’t even have that power
if it weren’t for me. And yes I know
now that I’ve written about you and
used your name in a way much more
directly than your song scavenger hunts
and unoriginal bastardized codes –
which I suppose also isn’t saying much
I’ve been cast into the eye of forever
by many a drunken artist – a want to be
promise – a story that never dared to
grow into anything other than what-if.
And before you say it – I am not a calmaity
I am not chaos or order or anything worth
defining in such ways but I am also far more
concrete than anyone seems to acknowledge.
I am certain someday you’ll taste paradise
and realize you’ll never get so close as me – again.
But also you’re far too interesting for the world
to be rid of completely when age comes
swooping in for not just one dance – but eternity.
-M. Rene’
surrounded by the carpet
and the pillars and the Köts,
cats, cauts, kittens.
No cats.
When- win,
Wind- does,
do’s, doe’s
Windowes
,win those.
Pains,
window pains.
Enclosed white walls,
The kitchen,
Re-frigerated ice box
With the built in meat preserver.
Frozen watermelon chunks and tidbits
The books,
a molin Rouge,
Falcon mosaic balcony
The view of pch
on pcp
PTSD,
ADHD,
An STD or two.
My study,
Red oak
soak smoke
Red thread spread
of
leather lathered scent
Brunnetted Bloke.
A Gamer chair,
horrendous mess.
incredulous dishes unkept,
unsweetened, unswept.
My bed, unslept.
The epidermis of
our poverty is
Just the tip of the
iceberg lettuce.
I am manicured letters,
bad wheathers-
Squirting bedwetters’
bedwettings,
Are better than
weddings.
All this, orbits,
motorists, Otis Reddings
Poetry readings every night.
In thee ghettos, all is bright.
Not quite right but rype,
I am now inside a space. I write-
And
Race
Mirrors paste a clearer face
Than what equates approximates.
6 by 8’s,
Impersonate your prison mates.
Inspirations instigates,
These our quarters,
In accordance
With incorporated laws.
Glimps
of my
abstract sanctuary.
Blue skies suck out my eyes
these summer days make me blind
a late night heat hears my cries
my painting come out undefined
blobs of paint on a canvas
dropped to the ground
the concrete makes it sizzle
the fumes rise up
to hit my cheeks
the gas burns my flesh
and the night sets fire
shooting stars launch across the sky
lasers born of a billions years
to end humanity in seconds