Tag Archives: The Lake

No French Cuffs

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 … Continue reading

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Breezes

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 … Continue reading

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Homage

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 … Continue reading

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First dance

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 … Continue reading

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Winter solace

These north woods are lovely, bright, and deep glistening with snow and promises to keep Serenity resides in the fresh wonder of the new wintry familiarity, renewal in fresh snowfall I have not trod, of late, these winter woods two … Continue reading

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Road trip, 1965 –

When I was a kid we planted trees by the lake 72 pine seedlings hauled north in milk cartons arranged on the back floor of a ’39 Dodge the trees and I were small, green, pliable in need of nurturing … Continue reading

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Mine

Beatles songs, baseball cards the aroma of a fresh-mowed lawn, pungent sweetness of burning leaves lake-bottom mud spurting through summer toes Gelatinous frogs. Hot beach sand cool July evenings and the first non-parental hand ever held A specific summer. Tactile … Continue reading

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Gated communities

Never have I been further from my youth then when I returned to the scene of it places, people, things change time, people, lives elapse Going home is a metaphor smorgasbord; abandoned cabin overgrown with woods, withered by age dirt … Continue reading

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Campfire poem #49

A log of pine a mug of coffee and thou Omar, I am not.   – Mark L. Lucker © 2016 http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

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Campfire poem #71

Campfire smoke makes a fine aphrodisiac but it lulls my wife to sleep making embers an ambiguous metaphor

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