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.

Napoeton

recouping pencil:
triumphant, returning from
my workload Elba

practice run

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

Hiatus

Its less a case of
writers block, more bridge-is-
out, take a detour

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.