Three Haikus for the 2nd

punxsutawneyphilCozy Den of Iniquity

Wither thou goest
oh, hibernating rodent!
Preach thine prediction!

> > > > > > > > > >

Misdirected

Celebratory
nod today to the wiener;
happy ground-hog day.

> > > > > > > > > >

Boondoggle

Slovenly groundhogs
stay in bed, Tweet conjecture;
masses, pacified.

Mark Lucker

© 2019
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Not flippantly

Endings, beginnings

reboots

declining to resolve
to do things
better?
more?
less?

just because.

Finding myself in
select company
pragmatism not
considered a virtue
when calendars flip

solemnity, tradition
of fresh twelve
invoked by most

still, I demure

idealism has its place
the reality in transition
December to January
is more
dog-earing key pages
less
putting aside the book
waiting for the movie

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

 

Fading away

Small, sporadically mowedcemetery1
rural-church cemetery
familial in feel
generations grouped eternally
spontaneous, asymmetrical
layout seems unforced, movingly
casual in its nostalgia

a rainy, gray day along
narrow township gravel road
cars parked, haphazardly

We buried an old soldier.

local VFW could only muster
honor guard of three men
bent, trembling, purposeful fingers
wrinkled khaki, faces, hands
added dignified poignancy with
simple, nine-gun salute

small-town high school girl in bluecemetery3
letter jacket, fluffy, white ‘C’
over her heart, excused from class
hitting most of the notes
gets extra credit playing Taps

Told my story of the soldier
to a friend whose war-seasoned
big-city, grandfather – decorated sailor –
passed, not so long ago

two young men in
snappy dress blues came to
the grandfather’s internment
with a boom-box, and a CD

pushing a button, the
yeomen played Taps flawlessly,
left a folded flag with grandma
saluted crisply, left for good.

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

Fading away

Small, sporadically mowedcemetery1
rural-church cemetery
familial in feel
generations grouped eternally
spontaneous, asymmetrical
layout seems unforced, movingly
casual in its nostalgia

a rainy, gray day along
narrow township gravel road
cars parked, haphazardly

We buried an old soldier.

local VFW could only muster
honor guard of three men
bent, trembling, purposeful fingers
wrinkled khaki, faces, hands
added dignified poignancy with
simple, nine-gun salute

small-town high school girl in bluecemetery3
letter jacket, fluffy, white ‘C’
over her heart, excused from class
hitting most of the notes
gets extra credit playing Taps

Told my story of the soldier
to a friend whose war-seasoned
big-city, grandfather – decorated sailor –
passed not so long ago

two young men in
snappy dress blues came to
the grandfather’s internment
with a boom-box, and a CD

pushing a button, the
yeomen played Taps flawlessly,
left a folded flag with grandma
saluted crisply, left for good.

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

It’s all in the card

Greeting card aisle
all celebratory sins
at your disposal

birthday, anniversary
shout-outs
long-time-no-sees
Thank-yous!
Love you!
I’m sorry!
pronouncing gratitude
for things and flings
sorry-you’re-feeling-blue
get well tomes

Good luck!
kiss-offs
congratulatory
over-priced nods
to milestones
earned, attained,
survived
sweated out

colorful, sentimental,
creased tagboard
matching-envelope;
touchstone marked by mirth!
merriment! maudlin mooning!

four-ninety-nine a shot
plus postage

Same price of a latte
someone else
gets the kick

mid-April; the usual
array of acknowledgment
gets crowded out,
relegated to status
Miss America-runner-up

Making way for
kitschy, kindly
sunny and sentimental
mantle-sitting
maternal mementos

Momuments.

row upon row
testaments to
matriarchal tolerance
sage wisdom dispensed,
ignored, disposed, pondered
much valued only
after-the-fact;

nature of boundless nurture
boo-boos bandaged
busted hearts mended
steamrolled dreams
dusted off, put back in place

wrongs of others she righted
lessons she pointed out
that you heard but haven’t
learned as yet

Commemorating years of
“Aha”! moments
via dramatic script
comedic font
soft-focus flowers
pseudo-witty cartoons

Yearly cardboard holy grail

vainly laboring to convey
the significance  of
who, what, why
you are – where you are –
because of
who, what, how, why
she was, is
always will be

mom.

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

Three for the 2nd

punxsutawneyphilCozy Den of Iniquity

Wither thou goest
oh, hibernating rodent!
Preach thine prediction!

Misdirected

Celebratory
nod today to the wiener;
happy ground-hog day.

Boondoggle

Slovenly groundhogs
stay in bed, Tweet conjecture;
masses, pacified.

Mark Lucker

Thanksgiving

Gratitudethanksgivingpoem2

the appreciation of
gratefulness
an understanding
that you stand not alone

mindful of abundance
not dependent on it

honest thanks is given
freely, sincerely, often

with malice toward none,thanksgivingpoem5
charity for all

true

thankfulness is no
appreciation of
personal abundance

never simply

a pre-feast prayer of
appreciation for
a bountiful table

Truethanksgivingpoem3

giving of thanks
is acknowledgement
of your indebtedness

God, family, friends
countless life paths
crossed by forgottenthanksgivingpoem4
foes, friends, folks

authentic gratitude
begets awareness

appreciation of purpose
gratefulness of life
thankfulness to others

True
giving of thanks is
honest giving of self

Mark Lucker

Three for the 2nd

punxsutawneyphilCozy Den of Iniquity

Wither thou goest
oh, hibernating rodent!
Preach thine prediction!

Misdirected

Celebratory
nod today to the wiener;
happy ground-hog day.

Boondoggle

Slovenly groundhogs
stay in bed, Tweet conjecture;
masses, pacified.

Mark Lucker

Three for the New Year

Resolutions NYcharge (2)

less revolution,
more ‘what am I fighting for?
and who will yell ‘Charrrrge’?!

PledgesNYdustychampagnebottles

calendar decrees!
resolutely resolving!
inability

RealityNYcalendarpages

good intentions, all
calendrical mandates change?
calendar pages

Mark Lucker

Christmas, remembered

There remains, for me, a magic to Christmas EveChristmas 1959 2
a carryover from youth, augmented with the new
memories being created, added to the repertoire

Thou the idyllic Mel Torme and Norman Rockwell
versions of iconic song and picture were only loving
adornments to the Christmas Eves I remembernat-king-cole-the-christmas-song-merry-christmas-to-you-1956
their annual, wistful reappearances are welcome

The night before Christmas was always a boisterous
holiday evening at my aunt an uncle’s suburban space,
not physically but atmospherically distant from
the more compact city neighborhood I knew

The night before Christmas, all through their house,Christmas 1959
laughter, excitement – my yearly chocolate Chrismouse

Christmas Eve meant food starting with a coffee table
full of Norwegian sardines, pickled herring, goat cheese;
more all-American and cheddar cheese and hard salami
all laid out on shiny plates – one of just Ritz crackers,ritzcrackers
on which I artfully packed all of my pre-meal delicacies

It was all augmented liberally with background Christmas
music from an old console stereo…one 33-and-third black
vinyl album at a time, dropping to the turntable until the
stack was spent, needed flipping to assorted side twos

The night before Christmas dinner meant boiled codfishtorsk2
befitting my mother’s family’s Norwegian heritage
and served with boiled potatoes and flatbread, all
slathered by ample pitchers of melted butter

Christmas Eve always ended with me awakening as IChristmas 1961
was being carried to bed, having fallen soundly asleep
somewhere between the family revelry and home

Christmas morning found me awaking before my
parents, before Gramps had arrived for the day;
alone but never lonely, I would be alone to sit andRockwell2
ponder our modestly decorated tree, packages strewn
beneath it like so many colorfully dropped pinecones

Never did I see mommy kissing Santa Claus

Growing up on the top floor of a tidy duplex, I had no
stairs to creep down except to go outside
there was no railing spindles between which to peekChristmas 1968
though mom and dad made occasional use of the
plastic, hung-on-the-living-room-arch mistletoe

Never did we rock around our tree, an always live,
dad-preferred (its-needles-didn’t-drop!) Scotch pine
though when Gramps arrived we could always manage
a quick, Norwegian jig or two to some Christmas songtree
or another playing on the transistor radio in the corner

We had no fireplace chimney by which to hang stockings
though a small nail in the wooden archway between our
living and dining room did the trick, diminished none of
morning’s excitement of a stuffed stocking, hanging

We had no fire on which to roast chestnuts or standnormanrockwellchristmastrio
before singing carols, though my father would sporadically
duet with Nat King Cole on the radio, as together they
extolled the virtues of a Christmas foreign to us;
an archetype we did quite nicely without

I remember youthful Christmases for what they were;NatKingColealbum
fun, joyful, memorable though not all that lyrical.

“Although it’s been said, many times, many ways…
Merry Christmas to you.” And to me.

Mark Lucker