Mark writes poetry and fiction. He holds a BA in English from the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and a BS and MBA. He is a lifelong resident of the Chicago area and currently lives on the north shore, most of his professional career has been focused on digital strategy and online consulting as a solution architect and digital transformation strategist. His current work will be published in The Metaworker, Vext Magazine, Breadcrumbs Magazine, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Lucky Jefferson, The Fictional Café, Wingless Dreamer, HP 2020 Poetry Challenge and North Dakota Quarterly.
Wanting to be Whole
So, I still wonder what happens to my dreams. Not like raisins but more like watermelons in the field with a milky, weary sun lost in itself rummaging through dusty old photos packed with the anticipation of faces that can sense a future lived large in fading shadows, but those shadows shift ominously into that white lady of her heart reading those letters and knowing that a life really is that kitten in a sack scratching to get out into the light but we know the implications of being in the sack, in the dark the not knowing, the infinite anxiety… and then, once we understand the exploding raisins we realize that love is the whole and more than all it really is, it really is, we stumble into hearts worn weary by the burden of living knowing that in that experience we can only skim the gravity of love the two ones desperately wanting to be whole.
Morning’s syrup sweet clings desperately succulently loose on frayed blades of grass weary with the burden of moisture vacant strands seek closure as an expanding sun sears pellets of light lost in the future of its past beyond the event horizon where no light can emanate manipulate or strangulate like your eyes caked with dried residue of pasts without the knowledge of the now how in knowing we lose sight of that which defines us each another frayed blade waiting for rain for the womb water to envelop us once again as we swim deep into a future not known but anticipated yet still we go
And Then There Were Flags
Roads not travelled have an irritating tendency to appear spontaneously bereft of substance.
How we dream of lives deferred of moments congealed in slick surfaces thinking…what if…why not.
Yet we jest armed with lancets that pierce unprotected parts repeatedly, brutally in the Gulag.
And then there were flags everywhere all at once suffocating our rage.
A Poem Is
A poem is
All it needs are words
Meanings are optional
Form is flattery
A poem need not be minimal
It is what it is
Even if only a strand or a woven rug it binds us
Words are the fabric of our fantasy
Light opacity elegance beyond limits distances covered humbled by relativity how it feels how it moves how it eludes touch yet exudes permanence velocity neither oblong nor sphere nor too severe yet it can absorb infinity in its grasp it’s tiny hands folding in tombward twilight then silent night forever…