The Poetry Marathon

Never Let Go

like a stack of snail mail
and not a single bill

like the scent of your dad’s
pipe smoke five years later

like playing poker with a pro
and winning half the hands

like the taste of peach gum
better than the fruit

like a flower in your garden
so perfect, it looks fake

like the vivid memory of a mistake
you’ll never make again

like a smile from a stranger
when you needed one most

like your favorite pen
that keeps writing and writing

like time left on the parking meter
and no ticket on your windshield

like sharing a secret
kept safe with a friend

like learning the hard way
that alcohol is poison

like your favorite song playing
on the radio on your birthday

like texting when talking
is too difficult

like a red rose pressed
into the family Bible

like the scent of mothballs
in Nana’s closet

like sharing a vanilla cone
with your poochie best friend

like riding in the back of a pickup
in a warm June breeze

like you and your muse
thinking the same thoughts

like grasping hands
of long goodbyes

~ J R Turek
June 26, 2021   Hour 13

Content warning: suicide

Bang! What a way to go! With all that dynamite!
There was no decline, no allay,
just his absolute and then his abolishment
and at such altitude!
I hope you stop going up. Will you be
high enough? Will you sip on the
helium of a balloon abandoned by a child
after a disappointing birthday party?
Your head inflates next.
Mommy grabs the bleach for his little hands.
Bang! What a way to go! With all that oxygen!
Who survives? The suicidal seven year old,
his ankles blistering from too-small shoes,
or you, the next door neighbor, drunk again
and again, and again? You blame it on
your alcoholic bloodstream, he
blames it on his father’s.
The both of you are unlovable, try this on for size.
The both of you are too high, try the ground for once.
Fetch the Barometer! Bang! What a way to go!
You both went high, your veins stuffed with
a casualty’s broth and he, six feet off the ground,
taller than he will ever be.
Crash! What a way to go!

The 11^th Hour

The 11^th hour was upon me

Time— urged me along

As I sat back down to count to three

Contemplating where I belong—

Prior to twelve but after ten—

First of numbers that repeat—

One and one— I said and then

No whole number is divisible within me

For to break the bonds that I contain

A broken number is found instead—

Half and half— to remain

As a reminder of what I said

The mountain in the sunset blazed.
The wanderer with ragged breath
Screamed with rage against the daisies
Nodding sleepy in the grasses.
Over there the sky was clearing
And the day was slowly slipping.
Up ahead the rainbow burned,
The air beneath of copper hue.
The gateway to an otherworld,
The wanderer had once passed through
And never would again.

Marry me postcards and poisoned roses,
flan, tequila lollipops,
stern nose, son in a trunk

————
Christmas Polaroids and Blow-up Bozo,
parking tickets, barbecue
sauce and Northern accents

————
Thick lenses, thin ties, gray serge and guitar,
real estate license, Best Boy,
dog-eared Home to the Stars

———–

Christ’s life spilled silently,

Whip-scourged, nailed violently,

Drop by precious drop,

Breath by sweet breath,

Sword-thrust, and alone.

The earth shuddered.

Heaven folded inward.

Death closed the tomb.

Until morning broke, three days beyond,

And the earth shuddered

Heaven opened.

Away rolled the stone.

Death, that feeble foul of fable,

Died quietly as Jesus rose.

Drop by precious drop,

Breath by sweet breath,

He conquered death,

To claim the Crown and Robe!

Famed actor John Barrymore
is said to have commented
from his deathbed
“Death is easy.
COMEDY is hard.”

I can attest to the comedy part
will take Barrymore at his word
on the moving on as
death is one of the few
things in life you can
do expertly on first try
without any practice

It has also been said
‘life is not a dress rehearsal’
on that point I beg to differ
having run all my lines
I want my center stage moment

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
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