24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
You didn’t make it
The Marathon I mean
You faltered, sleepy
Hour 20
Started resting
And slipped through your alarms
Dozing gently into REM
But this is a dream!
All you need to do is
WAKE UP!
*SMACK*
Just kidding, it’s only hour 22 and you have time to spare!
the publisher’s team visits tomorrow
the agent meets with you ahead of the team tomorrow
you cannot close your eyes now
wake up right now
defer your nap
put on your cap
this is a dream come true
you have to be prepared through
Aaarrrrrgggh!
jumpshoutstretch!
But, you know
with little more than 2 hours to go
why get so excited?
now! what a splendid little thing
to take the buzz and ache away
pause the gears
and allow for a total meltdown of the senses
i know this is danger
this is stupid frilly fun
but once you’re locked in
there’s not getting off the ride
An ode by any other name would
Still read just as obsequious
Any great poet writes an epic ode
Any praiseworthy topic will do!
Wordsworth commended duty –
Pope in high praise of solitude
Keats was prolific at acclaiming
the generally obscure; nightingales
(his poetry literally for the birds)
and his lauding of Grecian urns
still spawns underpaid Greek jokes.
Thomas Gray exalted bards while
Shelley extolled the west wind
Forsaking other directional breezes
Neruda was more the commoner
Praising his socks – woolen, as such
Lacking the adrenal verve of praising
Inanimate objects and lesser birds
I considered writing self-reflective
stanzas of indulgent commendation
But my efforts were, alas, for naught
As I discovered that writing an ode
To ones own-self, patting thine own
Back as it were, puts one in need of
Self-congratulatory chiropractic care
Due to overly climatic contortions
In short, to assert such presumption
I am owed an ode is overtly odious.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
(for hour 22—wake up prompt)
Familiar Pain
That blood in your urine is
A kidney stone
Surprise!
That inability to function is
A kidney stone
Surprise!
How many flowers
make a garden?
Do they have to weather
winter’s chill to sprout
green and new in spring?
Must they sit outside,
in pots or in beds?
Do you have to plant them,
all colors and breeds?
Or can the unchecked weeds
that muscle up through cracks
in the sidewalk concrete
be my persevering garden?
I think my rhymer
Was set with a timer,
At 23 and a half.
And the rhythm-ist-ick thingy,
Has busted a springy,
As I cackle pentameter laugh.
I have verse laced with vocab,
That could send me to rehab,
Like last year—and the year before.
And I’ve eaten so much;
Grazed a ten-hour lunch!
I don’t think I can fit through the door.
But that doesn’t matter—
Braindead or fatter—
There’s only one cure for this Peep.
Nonet for the win,
Be it post it or pin,
I’ve gotta catch me some sleep!
Canadian Bacon past the sizzle
Jumpin round my pa
Going to scorch my tongue
Before it is all done.
Coffee hot and burning up my cup. Soaking in darken stained rings
Gotta drink that up. Kids screaming running
Bursting from their pods. Searching for pancakes
Buttered up
Still steaming.
In and out.
Breakfast time my house so alive.
Dancing to a jam
Morning hour
Those jumping hopping kids
They gotta be contagious.