Jarring (Love is… # 71)

Poets have often
likened love
to roses
summer days
pastoral scenes
other sundry
phenomena

saccharine sells

in toto
love is not
candy
roses
sweet imagery
clichés
violin soundtracks

I, having lived
love

see more esoteric
practicality
from, for the heart

love is tartar sauce.
It looks like hell
you have no idea what
is really in it
yet you always
always
seem to find
it tasty.

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

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

Vestiges

As kids, we tied our fatescokebottlesinase
to various inanimate
yet participatory objects

spun bottles
Ouija boards
dandelions

professed proof of true loves
brought cryptic messages
all interpreted with certainty

until the imagined magic
vintage-william-fuld-mystifying-oracle-ouija-board-w-wooden-planchette-1938-a84507e57559af0289d9fc2a820d59dcwore off leaving us with our
first taste of skepticism

but the bottle could be
redeemed for the deposit,
the eye to the beyond a
table for your sister’s Barbie,
wilted weed went to seed

youth can leave you jaded
if you play the games
forgetting it is all in fun

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


‘Vestiges’ is just a sample.

COVER FINAL 2
From my book ‘Lost, found, holding on’ Available in paperback or Kindle http://lrd.to/p6rxzwIMnD

 

Pic-ah-nic bas-ket! (Love is… #161)

friedchicken1Love is
fried chicken

you’re never
certain –

follow the rules
of etiquette…

…or just dive in,
use your fingers

savoryfriedchicken2
satisfying
finger-lickin’
chew-on-bone

yummy, messy
heart-healthy
artery clogging
oh-so-tasty

Love is
fried chicken
friedchicken3
but when all is
said and done
just what do
you do with the
gnawed on
bones?

Mark Lucker

Literalists

“I would slay a dragon for you!”
said he from out of the blue
his lilting voice a hopeful
spontaneous, off-hand musing
had him hoping for more
as she looked up from her
paperback mystery romance

“There are no dragons”
she stated flatly, perplexed
as he quietly sighed, continued
reading yesterday’s newspaper

Oath of June

“Do you solemnly swear
to tell the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

“You may now kiss the bride.
Liar.”

Outside the lines

You opened me like a book
thumbed through the pages
of boldly outlined pictures
mercurially finding one you

chose your weapon from
boxed arsenal; a sharp one,
new to the point and unused

you are the 64-box of Crayola’s
using all the colors of you to
flesh out the person that is me
the picture that became us

showing all the restraint of a
four-year old for boundaries
the flair of Matisse for nuance
you have always boldly, blithely
refused to color inside the lines

and I like that way.

“Portrait de Madonna; mère de mes fils, vendredi soir” (Madonna portrait; mother of my sons, Friday night)

After some ongoing, sad-eyed cajoling
you agreed to a Friday night date night
not of your choosing or comprehension
posing for nervous artist and sketch pad

you acquiesced to your best black pumps,
resolute: no clenching of rose in teeth –
concession gladly made by your love-struck
middle-aged, middle-class, modicum talent

Renoir with shaky charcoal pencil, prop
linen pad and still skeptical, self-consciously
reclining, propped-on-solitary-elbow model
in the candle-lit tableau before me surpasses

that of my very imaginative faux-artist’s
mind’s eye, having seen you as I have this way
a thousand times…but never quite like this

You are Louvre worthy; a study in pure form
glowing alabaster in flickering votive light minus
gilded frame, stay behind the velvet rope policy
shaky charcoal pencil strokes begin to quiver

across gray newsprint as this erotic charade
plays itself out, much as my artistic talent did
many years before the twenty I have known you
yet you graciously allow me this opportunity;

me – sans beret, palette; you, lacking not shoes
and all I can put on canvas is a stick figure
devoid of any of your revealing, inviting contours,
leaving all to the imagination, nothing to chance

Imponderably tasty (Love is… #18)

Love is like peanut butter

some prefer it smooth, glides
easily along the bread

others like it chunky, rough,
more substance, texture,

nothing comes easy, tears the
bread up from time to time

D-M-V (Love is… #30)

Love is a driver’s license photo

You know who the person in
the picture is – sort of, maybe

you think it is you – your glazed
eye, mug-shot provenance
makes even you double-check

triple-check yourself in the
mirror the morning after

facial expression defying
logical description;
contorted hybrid of happiness
and electrocution-by-chair

It was no innocuous clerk
that issued you this credential,
telling you with mock-courtesy to
have a good day, thank you

you walk away from the counter
new credential proof of who/what,
there are no retakes here

approval from the Department of
Misanthropic vehicles