The Letter

IMG_20160819_180012Dear Grandchildren:

There is irony in that the

last thing you will ever forget

will be one of your firsts

crush

love

kiss

sex

broken heart

IMG_20160819_173909first to never be forgotten

first to stick with you

first to make you feel like that

first to make you hurt

first to make you feel alive

knowing that the firsts will

teach you the most

honor you the least

IMG_20160819_180312cause discomfort

provide perspective

be impossible to explain to others

yet explain everything there is to know

These things I tell you

because they are true

because I know

Love,

IMG_20160819_181546Grandpa

P.S.

Don’t tell your parents

you learned any of

this from me

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

Changing of the Guardians

Changing diapersbabywipesetc
we once foolishly hoped
were a passing fad

too soon wistfully outgrew
all-star wrestling bouts
on sopping pads

consoled ourselves with
years of wiping runny noses
becoming laser-precise,
discreetly or not

plucking
odd clumps from noses,
Cheerios from ears via
pointer-finger-and-thumb
industrial tweezers

overcame
defiance deftly utilizingusedkleenex2
Kleenex-and-spittum
wash cloths to rub
off or deeper in
crusted, dried
residues of often
unknown origin
and composition
frequently enough
for EPA containment
certification

Hazmat suits be damned.

Balled-up tissues,09 14 12a
sanitary wipes, pilfered
restaurant napkins
hand-me-down
cloth diapers,
parental shirt sleeves
tools of our lofty craft

Formerly resistant
now pliant,steady
hands carry QTip-
villager’s-torch

generational transference
fondly messy duties
resistant-to-disinfectant
memories will
render a someday
fragrant nostalgia

Mark Lucker

Waiting for Felix

pppart2Quintessentially American; refrigerator door Louvre
stylistically Picassoesque, Daliesque
though Dadaism and Mamaism predominate

as pudgy-finger tempera on newsprint evolved into
more complex designs, bolder expressions
of the artists vision in markers on white paper,
macaroni on tag board, leaves melted in wax paper

Like any good museum, the exhibits rotate; handsomely,
haphazardly framed via magnets-on-white-enamel

”l’art pour l’art”

Great art appreciates in value as the artists output declines
from striking, carefree, post-modern, outside-the-lineism topppart
photos-from-magazines montages, lopsided-clay bowls

groundbreaking quirkiness giving way to more sterile,
artistically utilitarian ‘art’ for-the-masses prints

practice schedules, bake sales, dates of note, deadlines;
dentist appointments, scribbled grocery reminders, odd
phone messages all lacking appreciable aesthetics

”l’art pour l’art”?

the gallery stands dormant; the art in cardboard storage,
unseen but appreciating in value with the artists now retired

having moved on to other pursuits, different mediums,Easter 2013
none displayable here; we are curators with empty frames

”l’art pour l’art”…

Though the artist-as-a-young-woman has a budding protégé
his apprenticeship just beginning with stark, bold lines of color;
marker-on-white copier paper, crayon-on-restaurant-placemat

in his future there will be gallery openings, oohing-and-ahhing
over his immediate masterpieces; form always trumping function,
experimentation will be celebrated, inspiration never questioned

”l’art pour l’art”!   We are waiting for Felix.

– Mark Lucker

Already

new grandchild far away
our first meeting still to come;
bonded by knowing

 

Felix

new grandson has my
heart, focus, whatever else
he may desire ;-{)

http://poetluckerate.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/first-letter-to-a-new-grandson/

November 12, 2011

watched pot not boiling
patience is not my virtue,
overdue grandson!

 

 

http://poetluckerate.wordpress.com/2011/11/11/past-his-freshness-date/

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 in a box
reminding me of a time when
questions asked were serious,
mock-profound, the answers
given in return simple

not vice versa

She walked in those shoes
a long time ago, and now will
have the chance to walk in mine
and someday, not so many years
ahead, she will have a pair of
little shoes, sitting in a box
and will wax on the unfathomable
truth that her own son once was
small enough to wear them

Shoes. A pair fit in my hand…