Ponderable polemics, poetic

WordPress site of poet Mark Lucker

poems

  • Trinity

    I “This,” he said, bemused, “is my calling?” “Well,” replied God, evenly, “at least I didn’t call you collect.” II “Ah, yes!” he said confidently, “This is my calling in life!” “Unusual,” puzzled God, “as your line was always busy.” III “This” he proclaimed with cautious certainty, “is my true calling.” God nodded affirmingly, “Well, Read more

  • Napoeton

    recouping pencil: triumphant, returning from my workload Elba Read more

  • Redux

    Shoes; a pair fit in my hand Shoes sometimes bronzed for museum-reverence, dusty display on living room mantle Unfathomable they once thundered across hardwood floors in a symphonic cacophony of thumping, giggles, pure joy. Little shoes; toy-like. Worn soles, tattered seams, frayed laces a dingy gray Just a pair of shoes. Hers. Two little shoes Read more

  • Be studious

    When your faith is tested your belief doesn’t get graded but you do Read more

  • I’ve checked

    It is no longer a choice to run away, join the circus you need to speak to a recruiter, for screening so says their website French Foreign Legion not an option anymore; I possess none of the high-tech skills they are currently seeking Ironically, being an outcast is no longer a desirable, employable attribute Even carnies Read more

  • Concubine

    My mistress is verisimilitude a pliant robust and imminently sensual lover. Her knowledge of love,extensive, welll used on the likes of me and I have no complaints of how she treats me nor she of I. We talk we love, share passions that can only be shared by kindred souls who meet only on the Read more

  • Old pros(e)

    (for Ron H.) A friend of mine – fellow poet – likes Bukowski while I much prefer Frost he disdains Ferlinghetti can’t understand why I don’t says Dickinson has no beat we share a fondness for Ginsburg’s rants, Stein and Plath, part ways on Whitman – my cure for insomnia, his touchstone in grass Over Read more

  • Dawning for a poet

    Scratchy, scraping, raw pencil on paper causes her to stir she turns sleepily my way half smiles, half sneers rolls back the other way she thinks I am writing a paean to some ancient love or other stray reminisce, hopes its not some sappy ode to her Sometimes it is. Other times I am writing Read more