A young teacher is said to disparage
the mere thought of not entering marriage.
Says she, "I'm not some heathen
who's without a good reason;
I just hate being known as Miss Carriage!"
sand in between my toes felt cool this morning
the temperature has changed, now it is gritty and hot
uncomfortable feelings now, I need a bath
I turn and look at the sea one last time
the beach is not as full today
people are dribbling off to college campuses
families are in line at shoe stores for new school shoes
summer is waving good-bye to all of us
she knows she will not see us again for a year
I am conflicted
wanting bonfires and football games
but reluctant to let go of the freedom of summer
Living with
the Holy Ghost
deep inside
of him
Blessing strings
anointing chords
each new phrase
a hymn
Transubstantiation
all fruit
has left
the vine
Where Maggie’s Farm
and Mr. Jones
consecrate
— the rhyme
(The New Room: December, 2025)
#3 on best new poems list as of 5/6/2025
in church
watching the chocolate eyes
of the beautiful
but not proverbial blushing bride
I am chilled by this childish union
choking on
bitterness and broken inside
maybe the bride airmailed me a message
to object to their match would be a mad gaffe
so I found fulfillment in fantasy
as off flopped her head in a photograph
This can't be my age!
I am still young at heart
The life of a party
Though hitting the bed by ten
Gained a few kilos of weight
But can fit into my youthful jeans
Grew sluggish and shorter in height
Although ready for a morning jog
Have to wear glasses now
As the print size has become smaller
A few grays in my hair don't tell my age
Merely a fashion statement
That adds a touch of elegance to my carriage
My knees hurt from the cold not stiffness
The reflection in the mirror shows what I'm not
An elderly haggard lady
With baggy wrinkled eyes and sagging jowls
As my passions still drive me forward
And I am still living my dream
For age is just a number
It's only the spirit that counts.
Her silken hair fell over her stunning gown.
The gossamer veil cascaded down.
Her sadness she tried to hide.
Bright eyes opened wide.
She beguiled.
Bride.
Falsely smiled.
To tell him, she tried.
Her love was never implied.
Tiara jeweled as a queen’s crown.
Her silken hair fell over her stunning gown.
In the tempest of our love, I stood my ground,
Embracing the whirlwind, the chaos unbound.
Through the agony, the tears that drowned,
I clung to you, in love profound.
I cherished you with a fervent flame,
In the heart's crucible, I staked my claim.
In a cosmic dance, fate spun a new thread,
To remix our saga, where possibilities spread.
You unlocked my chains when my courage wavered, deceptive bindings that left me unsure. If faced with the choice of you or my final sigh, in life's ultimate test I'd choose you….thank you.
The bums and the heroes
of revolution
asleep
As drawn to the cosmos
a light
travels deep
He asked for no quarter
playing outside
the game
His legion in shadows
he’d never
explain
Each song once it’s sung
his interest
foregone
To blind repetition
he couldn’t
belong
The critics in reference
enshrining
his fame
As the midwestern
prairie wind
—calls out his name
(Ode To Bob Dylan: November, 2023)
Reluctant Rogue Redo?
By Mark Stucky
If Jonah, reluctant rogue of a prophet,
had desired to visit Ninevah,
instead of fleeing the other direction,
how different would his story have been?
More succinct but less interesting?
No stormy maritime mishap?
No hard-to-swallow fish story?
No prayer in the belly of the beast?
Just marching through streets,
preaching his pithy prediction?
Would Ninevah still have repented?
Or did the whale-of-a-tale
add conviction to his message?
Jonah was not unlike me,
a spiritual rogue of today,
refusing to answer my call,
enduring intolerable storms,
crying in the belly of my beast.
Like Jonah, reversing direction,
might I yet find my path
and emerge from the depths?
(First published in Poetica Magazine, 3 March 2022. See also my poem “Whale Wayfarers,” telling two cautionary whale tales about hazardous opposite extremes in following one’s “calling.”)
(Image by anonymous on Pixabay.com.)
The day I was diagnosed.
That’s what first comes to mind.
But they want me to start at the beginning.
Maybe they mean something as simple as my childhood.
I wasted my childhood not knowing.
Then I wasted my teen years being in denial.
But still, the image of my life scattered.
Forcing me to collect new pieces to the puzzle.
Pieces that will never fit.
Yet my collection grows hopelessly.
The second time I was diagnosed.
That is the second event.
Maybe it’s easier to start from that point in time.
And explain everything more and more erratically.
Until I’ve explained everything until this moment.
Now I can narrate what is about to happen.
You will walk away nervously.
And I will walk away graciously.
Going home to frantically write and scribble.
Finding the right formula.
There’s still a few more people left in my life who deserve an explanation.
The day I was diagnosed…
Is not what matters now.
Health supplement rages nowadays
It's said to improve health
And so maybe for a better health
And so maybe for a longer life span
And so maybe for a more relaxed life
A pharmacist may introduce
A variety of health supplement
But we feel suspicious
Because we're spiritually unsafe
Maybe we need a religion
Maybe we need some leisure
Maybe we need some friends
Maybe we need our family
Maybe we need love and affection
Maybe we need a dream
Health supplement alone
Won't accomplish what we need
Spiritually
Unless we fall sick
Health supplement alone
Won't accomplish what we need
Spiritually
Maybe the bible
A supplement from heaven
Will do
Plumbers refuse to make a return visit.
After Medusa washes her hair out well.
Too many eager snake eyes watching them.
Down the drain where monsters dwell.
I’d go to her for soulful inspiration,
But she would just seductively refuse.
She wasn’t of a mind to be my lover.
So, I resolved to fashion her my muse.
I’d splattered oil on canvas, in a short while,
Arranged the scene with colors meant to rhyme.
Not striking, but she’ll know herself in profile.
I dubbed it, Dame Erato in Her Prime.
I once was a farmer
I worked the land
I reaped the corn
With a scythe in my hand
I ploughed my furrow
I sowed my seed
I grew my crops
My family to feed
One day hot and thirsty
With the sun going down
I went for to drink
At the alehouse in town
As I was a drinking
There at the Inn
Without any warning
The press gang came in
So I was taken
I was taken so fast
And told that my future
Was before the mast
So in my fields
I no longer plough
Instead the wide ocean
I must plough now
From hauling on ropes
My hands are all torn
Sometimes I wish
I had never been born
Our captains a hard man
If one of us fails
He'll have us flogged
With a cat o' nine tails
When I climb the rigging
I oft times will find
I think of the family
That I left behind
One day I'll jump ship
And I'll stay on shore
I'll serve the Kings navy
Never no more
I'll return to my loved ones
I'll go back to the land
Once more I will reap
With my scythe in my hand
I've sailed the wide oceans
Seen Paris and Rome
But nothing compares
With my humble home
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