We never had one of
those TV sitcom
father-imparts-his-sage
wisdom, serious sit-downs
that I can recall
I have no fatherly counsel
fortune-cookie-inclusion
viral-meme-worthy
wisdom to share
rarely proclaiming,
“As my daddy used to say…”
Sans great punchline
parts of my father
I carry with me, mirth more
tangible than profundity
less open to interpretation
than mere platitudes
a life lived differently,
enjoyed fully
real examples used regularly:
treat people well
don’t sweat the small stuff
experience new things
appreciate old one
learn from whoever you can
because you
always can and you should
we never
discussed those things
what I learned most
from my dad was by osmosis
glacial, inexorable
noticeable only in retrospect
soaking up a life
generously poured, oftentimes
inadvertently spilled
hit me again, bartender.
conflicted by faith, he
simply lived faithfully
more-eighteen-than-
twenty-four-carat
Golden Rule doing-unto-others
sort of living
real gold doesn’t tarnish
I could say I never took a lesson
though that would be wrong
I unknowingly Jedi-mastered
mystical arts of wry observation
sardonic commentary, satirical jabs
serious points cloaked in
functional parables
uproariously serious,
seriously funny
Like my father
I can never resist or not
appreciate a
humorous turn of phrase,
slapstick comedy,
ribald satire, bad pun
I learned from my dad
have confirmed by living: life
is a fine definition of irony
cursed I am, by
the grins of the father
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
At age seven I nearly killed the pubescent
birch tree anchoring our Minneapolis backyard
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
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
Sawed-off fence picket
turned sideways
points eastward, sort of
you are – we are – ‘that way’
if signs are to be believed
The sign unaware
you have been gone
thirty years, plus
your house,over twenty
anyone driving north on
Crow Wing County
Highway Three
would believe they could
turn, still find you
I know better
Driving by that sign
your name – paint dulled,
yet still legible
against washed-out gray
still hanging
securely on gnarled
old jack pine
set back from the road
There are other signs
other names – some
familiar, comfortable though
generationally updated
fancier, laser-carved
lacking charm, history
other names,
I am unacquainted with –
faceless interlopers
though they are
in the moment
I remain impressed
by durable simplicity:
sun-beached slab of oak
with a name, C.I. Andren
nothing more,
so much more
still anchored by two
galvanized stud nails,
still pointing the way to
a place long since gone,
Times well remembered
I could turn down that road
drive by what was
puzzle over, sigh maybe
over the ingrown modernity –
new opulence of now
But there is no logic
nothing at all to be gained,
plenty, I know, to be lost
in forcing the square
remembrances of nostalgia
into the round hole
of progressing time
Steady on the gas
I simply smile, keep on
driving north
knowing what was, still is
always will be
simply because
I know a sign
when I see one.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
summer comes to a close
autumnal breezes waft
rustling memories of those
days when the close of summer
had more definitive endings
sun-drenched days of youthful
frolic, innocent play, done
swimming, playing with frogs in
holes dug on sandy beaches at
grandparent’s homes; ‘the lake’
summer Xanadus of childhood
one year, scenic backdrops for
advancing adolescence the next
the summer dented pails,
bent shovels lay unused in
boathouse corner; replaced with
initials inside a heart, drawn
artfully at dusk in beach sand with
carefully chosen 
stick, just to be
erased by evening’s gentle waves
Previous summers we traveled
in packs along endless lakeshore
some ‘ooing’ over discovered shells
all ‘eewing!’ over dead, bloated fish
skipping rocks to show machismo
But our duo walks became more
intimate strolls through the woods
privacy trumping pinecone collection,
coy separation from the collective
group not as subtle as we hoped
Each summer indelible as the
next; parts of many years 
blending
seamlessly together, a montage of
youthful Julys, childhood vacations
But the starkness of one summer
that is viewed not with the gauziness
of looking back fondly, but with clarity
of time, place, purpose…firsts.
One brilliant, Kodacolor snapshot
that never made it into any scrapbook
yet still remains the clearest picture
especially when summer ends
and the breezes of fall swirl
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
walking old
neighborhood streets
first time in forty years
strolling the paper route
I once sped through on bike
chucking news, sports,
imaginary touchdown passes
blithe in my accuracy –
papers always
landing where intended
most of the time
remembering homes, faces
cantankerous folks
the best tippers
comforting offers of
lemonade, hot cocoa
incessantly yapping dogs
jokester accountants
fantasy-inducing housewives
subconsciously,
automatically I calculate
throwing angles to
accommodate now-grown trees
front yard rock gardens
odd statuary
before realizing with
laughably wistful irony that
all these years later
while I still have enough arm
to get them their news
would this generation even
understand the concept of
computer mouses
with cords
for their tales
landing on their doorsteps
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
I went all Santiago once on a
sunfish that weighed nearly a pound
it was long before I knew
Hemingway, the power of words,
the pull of the water
I battled the monster
as only a nine-year-old could;
with every fiber of my being
strained to matching tautness of
six-pound-test line at the end
of bent, dark, shiny bamboo
pole with cork handle
Summers at Horseshoe Lake
were the defining milieu of my life
where the rest-of-the-year city kid I was
discovered the majesty of woods, water
adrenaline rush of a loon’s call,
scent of pine, calming sounds
of wind through birch leaves and
wood-framed window screens
The summer I was nine
I went all Santiago on a sunfish
weighing nearly a pound
Ernest would be proud.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
As a kid I collected rocks –
as many colorful pebbles as my
six-year-old jacket pockets
could smuggle via subterfuge
mom and dad later humored my
geologic interests with a small,
paperback, field guide to rocks –
which I always took with on trips we
took – grandpa in tow – playing along,
helping me find increasingly larger
chunks of ancient igneous,
sedimentary curiosity, to store in
boxes in my room, much to his
daughter’s eventual, excavating-her
grown-son’s-vacant-room, chagrin
rocks, and my self-motivated,
D-I-Y study of them, still serve me well
curiosity being a developed skill as
much as a personality characteristic
Where my parents simply indulged whims
Gramps saw wisdom in Fool’s Gold.
A ma-and-pa resort, small lake
north woods of Minnesota
small office behind
quaint bar, twelve small cabins
dozen aluminum rowboats to use;
minnows, worms, leeches for sale
amenities, ala Angler’s Edge
Joe & Gloria’s place
The bar a hangout for township locals
grandpa Ivar and I frequented the nicked,
cigarette-burn speckled
polished, yellow-varnished bar for a
North Star beer, ice cold Nesbitt’s Orange
I enjoyed from my end-of-bar spot
A summer semi-regular.
Perched atop two upside-down
wooden Coca-Cola crates
stacked together, laid across two
shiny red-vinyl top, chrome-rimmed
swivel-seat bar stools
bringing me to proper sitting.
sipping height
until the summer my height
matched my station with
always jovial Joe, ever kindly
large-laughing Gloria
Joe would slip me dimes
to play his disc-bowling machine
feed his 45-laden Seeburg jukebox
always selections G5, G6
back-to-back Dean Martin starting
with the bass-thump of Houston…
My musical choices amused Joe
his dimes, gratis – except on Fridays
when I earned my keep
prepping Angler’s Edge worn,
maple dance floor
for the evening’s band
paid in advance, I would crank Dean;
Little Ole Wine Drinker Me
grab the yellow-and-black shaker can
liberally sprinkle the dance wax
the floor all mine as I shuffled
to Dino crooning
“…I’m prayin’ for rain, in Califorrrrrnia….”
spontaneously choreographing
my personal pre-teen two-step
grinding the wax in
elevating the floor to polka, waltz
schottische, western swing perfection
finishing as Dino was faded off
…little ole wine drinker, me…I say…
with a show-stopping slide
ending near the cramped bandstand
between wax-infused Levi knees
tongue-in-groove hardwood boards
meeting no resistance
the wax, the music, the memories
rich patina of my youth
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Ponderable polemics, poetic 