Tag: poetry

Categories
Introspection Life Then and Now Uncategorized

Self portrait

The extremes of who,
what 
I am
whence I hail
internally
DNA, culturally, spiritually
nature/nurture
all fun to puzzle-piece 
together
free form, no
squared-off edges of
big-picture
guidance

What my forebearers were
who they were
what they did
what was done to them
is historically
recorded, reported 
yet remains very personally 
unresolved

My now obsessive, reflexive
detective skills 
honed with 
time, experience, dumb luck
eureka moments
dead ends
smugly proved theories
can be 
broken down quite simply
as such:

Having descended 
from 
rough, seafaring Vikings 
and equally
tough, resilient, proud 
diaspora Ashkenazi
my long-standing
exploratory‘what's next?’
curiosity-fueled
wanderlust 
is DNA encoded

as is my state of
perpetually wondering 
dichotomy:  
should I stop and pillage  
or simply keep wandering


– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Categories
Contemporary Life Snippets and snapshots Uncategorized

Sampling

Sitting at a brewery 
rural, northern Minnesota
tasting a variety of 
beers, ales 
small flights of five

A couple - mid-twenties
sits across from us
they too, are sampling 
each other - first timers
comparing 
dating app peccadillos
head-scratching
mismatches 

awkward exchanges 
preferences for
beer types, each other
quickly give way to
comfortable laughter

Another pair - fiftyish
same scenario 
plays out - stilted
chatting on beer,
backgrounds, dating 

uneasy silences 
punctuated with
periodic 'I like this'
'This one is good'
trivial talk of weather

The younger couple
finishing 
their beer
excitedly agrees to
head up the road for
go karts, mini-golf

The older sippers
settle in
find common ground
exchanging phones
with grandkids 
pictures

conversation turns
to banter
body language 
softens, words lose
nervous edge
as the sun sets
they have settled in

Meanwhile we 
have worked our way 
through all ten of
our brews
vicarious curiosity
in both neighboring 
sets of beer 
lovers
trying new things

discovering
perhaps 
that romance is
much like brewing -
it's all about combining
the right 
ingredients, patience

For me
the evening 
simply confirmed
I like 
my beers hoppy
my endings happy


– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Categories
Growing up me Life Uncategorized

Old growth

At age seven I nearly killed the pubescent
birch tree anchoring our Minneapolis backyardOakland Ave birch tree1
stripping it of all its bark, roots to four feet up –
the physical limits of my fanciful reach

As Mrs. Kime’s most intrepid first-grader
I planned to build a birch bark canoe, ala
the Chippewa we were studying, but
my grandiose vessel never took float
paddling confined to parental retribution
albeit with forgiving landlord-absolution

not George Washington, there is no notoriety
from well-intentioned arbor-indiscretion

Half a century later, the birch tree still stands
defiant, smugly secure in its survival: Midwestern
winters, drought summers, visionary first graders

I too, still stand – resilient and unfazed, rooted in
long-forfeited yard, having weathered erratic seasons
dubious choices, those who tried to remake me
I remain a curious, risk-taking, idea-prone dreamer

Neither of us ever produced a working canoe yet
our respective rings share a distinctive trait; denser,
late, wood – thick ring dating us to a particular summer
the growing season that solidified respective chronologies

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Campfire poems Growing up me The Lake

No French Cuffs

Plaid flannel shirts
of my Northwoods youth
smelled of
beer and pine cones
boat motor gasoline and
fresh caught sunfish
wood smoke
and filtered Winstons

when I was a kid the
intertwined, pungent
aromas of cervelat salami
plumbers’ grease, house paint
mingled freely, locked
in square-patterned fibers,
always-rolled-up sleeves

no amount of
Fels-Naptha soap
could smother those
godly auras

When I was a kid
plaid flannel shirts smelled
wonderfully worn by heroes –
old men with accents and dialects
eye-winks and odd habits
mentors who I know understood,
that I emulated
aspired to one day be like

Plaid flannel shirts
hang now in my closet;
freshly washed, hanging neatly –
as they never
would or could on the
hero-men I knew

My plaid flannel shirts
hang quietly, neatly,
sedately
rarely worn, quietly lived-in
yet they, too
smell of wood smoke
and pine trees
beer, salami, pine

wood box colby cheese and
chainsaw exhaust,
bait minnows and Old Spice
whenever I open
my closet

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Contemporary Life Introspection Uncategorized

What are the Oz?

Historically considering myself
the Scarecrow
middle-age, circumstance, time
have me contemplating fates
identifying a more Tin Man persona
seeking oil for locked up joints
moving clunkily, at times
joyously graceful, others
grudgingly accepting assistance
from my companions –
friends who
humor my myriad compunctions
to stay out in the rain
eschewing consequences for
the sheer joy of rain

Unlike fictional counterparts I
discovered early, on my own,
lessons of the heart;
having, using, breaking, caring for
only to eventually discover
I missed something in
regards to care and maintenance

Needing more than wizened words:
high-tech cobalt
wielded by skilled surgeons
put in place
without benefit of
easy-open chest door; fixed.
tick-tick-tick-tick
just the way it should

I am now the Oz hybrid
repaired heart
experienced, wiser brain
enhanced courage
still traveling strange roads ready to
encounter the
sublime, absurd, good stuff, bad
with newfound
appreciation, anticipation, curiosity

knowing better than most
be it ever so humble, there is no
heart like thine own.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Coffee Love and Romance Relationships Uncategorized

Morning coffee

Saturday

Early, but not too
I bring her
a cup of coffee
rich stuff,
the good stuff
our special
Saturday blend

She stirs gently,
like the brew
setting the mug
on her nightstand
pheromones blend with
aromatic Arabica

Saturday morning
alchemy dissolves into
Saturday afternoon

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Uncategorized Writers and Writing

Documentation

Uniquely Minnesotabar napkin
crumpled, soggy
torn palate
slurred ink
Picassoesque words

Big Chief tablets
beloved by
2nd graders,
kitsch rhymesters

used envelopes
narrow canvas
postage, odd visuals,
broken windows
work in
cancellation stamp
wanderlust,
bonus angst

matchbook cover
epics cause
inspired squinting

haikus on receipts
cannot be returned without
merchandise in hand

scribbles, doodles on
pilfered periodicals
leave waiting rooms wanting
morsecodeed
urinal stall cuneiform
witticisms masquerading
as profundity
works! when aim altered

poetry is not common law;
always get it in writing

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Love and Romance Relationships Uncategorized

No fish story (for Amy)

I am not
fish6carping here
from poet’s perch;
people often find my
reel, romantic tale fishy

Love is like shooting fish
in a barrel – this I have known
for long I have been one with the
proverbial oaken-casked floundererfish8

I am no fish out of water here
nor do I have any other fish to fry
there are, I know, other fish in the sea
but I have my catch; she caught me

you can take the bait on this:
looking for deeper meaning
in my metaphors is a
fishing expedition

loving her has
always been
easy: shefish2
lured,
I bit

hook,
line,
sinker

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Categories
Uncategorized

Gathered Pinecones

From my book ‘Gathered Pinecones’ on sale now, in paperback or Kindle   http://lrd.to/gathered-pinecones

Moored

Morning sun of summer
wafting through open, lake-front window
each day awakening with a squint, gasp
soft-focus of seven-tree birch stand
backlit by various shades of dawn filtered
through tall jack pines on Huxtable Point,
opposite, eastern side, of Horseshoe Lake

most mornings I lay there
letting the day begin its work
soaking in, absorbing rebirth

some days the siren call of loon, heron
splash of jumping bass, rhythmic slap of
lake water on sandy beach lured me
to end of sky-blue-painted dock
to sit, letting the sun, new day,
envelope me in loving embrace
old friends meeting for the first time

…sitting’ in the mornin’ sun,
…waitin for the day that comes
watchin’ the day roll in…

same tune, mornings, every summer
same window, bed, dock,
same morning sun
no two alike, ever matched

I, twelve-year-old Otis minus angst,
still unaware of melancholy, knowing
unequivocally, sitting on the dock
at the lake was never just wasting time

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

COVER FINAL

Categories
Poetry Books Uncategorized

Lost, found, holding on

From my book ‘Lost, found, holding on’
Available in paperback or Kindle
http://lrd.to/p6rxzwIMnD

Salonica, goneica

She loves me, she loves me not
Played that game as a kid, for fun
with and without the flower
played it frequently later, for keeps
Won once or twice

I have over picked my life’s quota
of prophetic daisies, come out
on either side of the nursery rhyme
sometimes the right verse,
sometimes the wrong time

it blossomed, it went to seed
it blossomed, it went to seed
it blossomed, it went to seed

Same song, rarely heard second verse

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

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