Picasso Bunyan

A poet friend goes to the
piney north woods only after
stopping by the local
hardware store where he
picks up paint-chip cards.

Holding them up to
whatever thing of nature
he is writing about,he then
aspires to be Crayola literate
in his effortless verse.

Lying in those very same
north woods, gazing at a glassy
sky full of stars framed by
towering jack pines and aspens,
matted with moonlight, I need no
cardboard strips,knowing full well
‘damn fabulous, spectacular blue’
when I see it.

A shade, by the way,
Hardware Hank doesn’t even carry.

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
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