Wood-post modernist

pencil2thrills are to be had

secrets need revealing
wonders beg unraveling
truths urge to be told

revelations

dark and light
constrained in the
pristine symmetry of
new, freshly sharpened
shiny-yellow pencil

just above the perfectly
honed greyish tip
peach-fuzz wisps of wood
cling gently, smell of pine
tickle fingers excitedly

anticipation

cylindrically contained
wisdom waits for dispensing
tales of life crave to regale;
ideas yearn to be rendered
philosophies chafe
to be revealed

slices of life,

snapshots in time
narrow, wooden
repository of wisdom
covenant ark of perceptions
woven tightly between
two fingers, thumb

pristine, freshly sharpened,
primal and fearless
my shiny yellow pencil

poet selfie stick.

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

A musing

You seduced me.

Drew me in
played me for the fool

and I bit
took the bait
tried to dart away
only driving the hook
in deeper

now here I am
at your pondering mercy;
throw me in your creel
fry me up
toss me back

let me swim away
or watch me flopping
for breath at your feet

Usually you throw me back.

I get bigger, bolder
still incapable of resistance
when the bright flash of
inspirational lure crosses
whatever path I am swimming

writer as languid, sassy bass
catch me if you can
catch me as you always do

catch-and-release is a
weak metaphor, considering
your use of live bait
and my less-than-persnickety
appetite for flashy, darting
things that shine

Throw me back.
Come again tomorrow.

Guardian pal

Like a shadow
you know is there
but disappears when
you turn to confront it

it’s there, but he’s not

Following discreetly,
benignly nourish
part of the atmosphere
minus the trench coat

Sometimes light diffuses
instead of illuminates

My father’s memory,
legacy, aura follows me

no, I am not paranoid
just aware of the oddly
whimsical, enchanting and
sardonic, wry and witty

benevolent, quirky,
constant companion

A poet goes Plato

a bar napkin is a
sometimes soggy palate
Big Chief tablets are beloved
by 2nd graders and poets

used envelopes do the
trick, postage paid
matchbook cover epics
cause inspired squinting
haikus on store receipts
cannot be returned

hey, as long as the poem
makes the page

practice run

roses are dark red
jalapenos can be too
my rhyme scheme haiku

Concubine

My mistress is verisimilitude
a pliant robust and imminently
sensual lover.

Her knowledge of love,extensive,
welll used on the likes of me
and I have no complaints of how
she treats me nor she of I.

We talk we love, share passions
that can only be shared by kindred
souls who meet only on the sly

Old pros(e)

(for Ron H.)

A friend of mine – fellow
poet – likes Bukowski while I
much prefer Frost

he disdains Ferlinghetti
can’t understand why I don’t
says Dickinson has no beat

we share a fondness for
Ginsburg’s rants, Stein and
Plath, part ways on Whitman –
my cure for insomnia,
his touchstone in grass

Over cold beers we muse
about paying our poets dues
knowing that once we finally,
finally get it right

others will someday gladly,
vociferously disagree
about the two of us.

Dawning for a poet

Scratchy, scraping, raw
pencil on paper
causes her to stir

she turns sleepily my way
half smiles, half sneers
rolls back the other way

she thinks I am writing
a paean to some ancient love or
other stray reminisce, hopes its
not some sappy ode to her

Sometimes it is.

Other times I am writing
of birds, pine trees, lakes, youth;
life, philosophic stuff

or I am propped up on my pillow
seeking appropriate metaphors
for the sound of graphite
eloquently grazing lined
wood pulp

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