Lamenting angst

If one can grieve
what never was

if unfulfilled
wistfulness is
worthy of sorrow

If could’ve should’ve
maybe regretfulness
can be mourned

I will go to the wake
pay my respects
sing praises lifting
an anthem of toasts
to the dearly departed

Then I’ll tip my hat
leave my money on the
bar and the mourners
behind their veils

to pick up the
dirty glasses and lock
the barroom door

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

Muse bemuse

Erato

She has been a muse
nothing more and
everything less
since we met as teens

inspiration still flows
from a fleeting reminder;
hearing her name
(commonly used by others
out of parental laziness)
the searing stubbed-toe
pain of an emotional owie
only she could’ve kissed
and made better

longing springs from trying
to remember just why
pinpoint specifics of how;
pixellated memories
vaguely distinguishable
from imagination

I was never her destiny
not even on the periphery
of being a fallback option
as I don’t believe she ever
wrote a single word of me,
save long-ago-stopped-
exchanging Christmas cards

Thalia

as my muse she has become
more verb than noun
a contemplative touchstone
to a time when faux
inspired creativity passed
for honest insight

confirming my relief that
I am neither sculptor or
painter…but a simple poet
– prone to and forgiven for –
hyperbole and other creative
transgressions, writing with
suspended creative license,
failing to not yield
to the pedestrian

Renovating

Vestiges of then
subtly shade the now
today is decorated
with yesterday’s hues
accenting modern life
with retro-chic shades

life-makeovers via
t.v. show gurus who
use family tschotskes
as odd focal points

visual statements
from an old magazine
viewed in current
settings; obligatory

oohing-and-ahhing
at the big reveal
fading into jaundiced
indifference once
the show is over

But is it art?

Large, bold strokes
spray painted symbols, words
innocent and sinister hieroglyphs
and slogans in black and blue
on pulsating, animated canvas

Names, times, events, places
feelings and forgotten emotions

weathered, all

Some are ancient, indecipherable
some still hurt some never did
some are funny a few not at all

Many names are legible, a.k.a’s
various wry nom de plumes abound

gratuitous entries outnumbered by
the meaningful but misinterpreted
by others, Rosetta stones be damned

Emotional vandals. Heart graffiti.

Misplaced

Things
put behind you
deliberately
differ from the
things
you leave behind
and that are
never claimed
at life’s hat-check

what happens,
happens
whats done, done
over and out
see you later
where the hell
did you disappear to?