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

 

Playing on

Faded are July’s warmth, summer’s cheers. Supplanted now by the encroaching hints of cooler days, forgotten expectations, procrastinated chores shelved, he can only now muse without dwelling on what won’t be. Could-have-beens and maybes aren’t statistically meaningful; they never really were, except to others in relation to their expectations and dreams for him. Regret is not something that taints him. He does not feel a talent wasted. He recalls every crucial moment as it was, for what it was.

Unburdened by excuses, unwilling to pass blame. A trait truly a gift not wasted.

It was what it was and is, he did what he had done, and it has all come down to this: seasons of joy, of youth, of expectations – have dwindled, and he savors their uncertainty of numbers. Youth cannot serve that master. He revels in coming autumn and finds it no burden as winter creeps in to bury and renew. Spring will be welcome, but no more or less than its brethren.

Memories are not subsistence. This he knows for fact. Cheers he once accepted have faded. Others have taken his place on stage. As many have forgotten him as remember him. The field of honor which he once ruled by force and triumphant jousting he now benevolently presides over. The thought occurs that maybe his soul is the autumn grass; wearily vibrant, going dormant. In need of a respite. The patriarch emeritus smiles in triumph.

Zipping up his coat, its collar turned upward against the gathering winds of fall, he leans into the breeze, stiffening his resolve. The air is quiet, save the wind, and he is at peace with the simple knowledge that spring will, someday, sometime, for whatever reason, return. But for now, time is in his comfortable grasp, for he now understands its tenuous and uncontrollable nature; he can tuck it safely away like a pocket watch in vest pocket, and stroll through the lovely, dark and deep woods without fear of reprisal from promises not kept.

Mark Lucker

Making note

A cheap flash drive
containing one document;
PDF file of a note – my
message of hopeful wonder,
Robinson Crusoe-like whim

I seal the technological
romanticism tightly in a
Mason Jar, throw it into the
ocean at night as the tide
predictably recedes

Sitting on the beach I
ponder as only a man with
youthful hindsight, waning
sense of adventure, should

where, how far, how long
my modern take on
ancient currents will carry

I confidently wonder if its
eventual discovery
will prompt the curiosity of
its finder to seek out its
by-then-obsolete technologytext_message
decipher it with anticipation

or if, by then, will time have
erased the need or desire
for wonder and excitement
I question all this as the jar
slowly bobs its way out
into the darkness
that is the unknown

Mark Lucker

Pictures

We
were a long
time ago

years?
decades?
lifetimes?
carbon dating?

time is filled in
a long forgotten
coloring book
half the pictures
never finished
bold, black-line
outlines dated,
quaint

stumbled across
by accident
you flip through
remembering
all the scenes
beach, park,
ball, puppy

love ?

first few pages
carefully colored
giving way to
partially filled
marker-mosaics
lacking nuance
or hue
unrealistically
bold

and only now do
you understand the
illogic in staying
within the lines

as you toss the
book in the trash

Mark Lucker

Adieu redux

Final good-byes rarely are

I have buried many a soul
precious to me
solemnly, sorrowfully
humorously

some with great relief
many a complete surprise

I have uttered public words of
farewell, regret, remembrance

tossed flowers, clods of earth,
remorse and thank-yous
atop bronze cocoons

said farewell never meaning or
believing it; til-we-meet-agains
with more doubt than certainty

Death is the rude party guest
who blithely interrupts then
monopolizes every conversation

the caller you never invite
again but who always shows up
anyway because there is always
one in every crowd

In step

Time
it is said tritely
marches on

its cadence
precise as any
honor guard’s

mostly.

At times time is
less a rhythmic beat
more the tuning
of a cheap guitar

MY
my my dog
dog
has – HAS
fleas.
Fleas.
fleeeeas.

my.dog. has. fleas.

Time occasionally
stumbles,
marches on,
always finishes
the parade.

Faith

Autumn leaves…
…winter follows

spring back…
to summer

cyclically erratic…
eternally truncated

life is…

…fatal

Clear Cut

Memories are tree stumps

What was, isn’t anymore
what was alive, now is dead
though it harbors new life;
pain, bitterness, wistfulness,
love, remembrance, regret
thrive like so much lichen

On occasion a new shoot
sprouts from the stump,
drawing its nourishment,
its potential new life, from
the decayed remains of
what had once been

While the new seedling may
grow, even thrive skyward

it will never be what was

In step

Time, so they say,
always marches on

its cadence, precise
as any honor guard

Mostly.

Time is sometimes
less a rhythm, more
a tuning of a ukulele
MY
dog DOG

has

HAS fleas.
fleas.

My
dog
has
fleas

Time sometimes
stumbles, but always
finishes the parade

Inevitablities

Calendar, clock, seasons
youth, maturation, death
functional, pre-meditated
change for the sake of change

Desire, plans, politics
she loves me not, she loves me?
Change on the fly, on a whim,
on a wing-and-a-prayer. On the lam.

Change happens to you regardless
ignoring change is not desiring
the status quo, just denial
dressed up for a night on the town

Umm, you have change for a fifty?