sneaky-wistful

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F a t h e r L u k e . com

Turn on the light

Turn on the light, he said.
What, she said.
I said turn on the light.

She reached over, and she turned on
the lamp next to the bed.
She looked at him, and waited.

Hand me a pen, he said.
She looked at him.
I would assume you’d also want paper, she said.
Yes, he said. Paper too, please.

She found a pen, and paper.
Thank you, he said.

He wrote four words.
Okay, he said.

She looked at him.
You’re crazy. You know that?
Yes. I know.

She reached over and turned off the light,
and they fell asleep.

Written by Father Luke, Sat May 10, 09:42 AM

Writing about

that good thing

which no one writes about



I listen to my chair squeak
as I lean back and forth.

The gal next to me
leans around the cubicle.

I look at her.

I see her fingers as
she holds onto the divider.
Her fingernail polish is chipped.

I look her in the eye.
She’s smiling.

I try a smile.

You must’ve been
good looking
when you were young,
she says.

Her expression doesn’t change.
She is watching me
watch her.

She moves her fingers
in a wave,
and she moves out of sight,
back around the divider,
to her cubicle.

I listen to her chair squeaking
as she talks on
the phone.

Written by Father Luke, Thu May 8, 10:14 PM

All the time I've spent working, and writing,

and living, and. . .

hours
hours doing nothing

nothing

wishing
for something
to do


anything

to

do


there just isn’t anything else

Written by Father Luke, Wed May 7, 11:14 AM

Snack

I peck away at the keyboard in my lap

words
thoughts
ideas
collecting

And I take a bite of something or another
to eat
it goes down the wrong way

There is no one in the hotel room
where I live
but me

Someday I will die
on a piece of food
or in some other simple way

After all I’ve that been through
the ordinary will be
my undoing
it will be the biggest mystery of them all
and it will come from the most common of things

And I will die with a smile on my face
just like I lived.

Written by Father Luke, Tue May 6, 12:27 AM

Loving you from afar

I love the fire
when it’s in the fire pit

I love the sky
but only from the ground

and I think I’ll love you from here
and you can just stay there

if you don’t mind

Written by Father Luke, Sun May 4, 07:18 PM

no place like home

waking up
the fog looks like smoke
on the grassy hills

the sun isn’t up yet

i can smell the new day
it’s sticking to me
like a bad love

i rub my face

i guess i’m here, again
for one more day

Written by Father Luke, Sun May 4, 07:14 AM

Neither one, nor two, nor even three...

I sit,
now,
waiting as time
does its thing
with me.

No more
am I in the struggle
of man against man

Neither am I struggling
against nature
nor animal, nor against machine

It’s me and time, now.
Just me and time.

Written by Father Luke, Sat May 3, 07:10 AM

The years

When they were young
she watched her children being beaten

No words could contain her,
and so she screamed at him to stop, please stop, in the name of all that is good and decent, please stop.

So he stopped.
He looked at her.
And he beat her instead.

The years haven’t been so kind to her.

Her children never write.

He has divorced her.

She is missing teeth,
and carries other scars
only a few of which
you can actually see.

Written by Father Luke, Thu May 1, 11:33 AM

Harmony

One is walking along a canal
watching the water

Another approaches
from the opposite direction

They stop to look at each other

Rare I see that,
says the one
and points over the water

The other looks

A hawk on a wire
On either side of the hawk is a crow

The two look
for a bit

Then they walk
Each their separate way

Written by Father Luke, Thu May 1, 11:26 AM

Coastal fog

There is a flag in the room from some country. It takes up one half of an entire wall.

The walls of the room are painted nicotine white.

Beads hang down in front of the heavy wooden door into the room.

More beads hang down in front of the door to the lavatory.

A small fish tank is in the room. The tank is on a wooden night stand. The stand is short, just below knee high. In the fish tank is a small green plant, natural colored gravel, a small crab, and some snails.

There is one window in the room. The window is against the far wall facing you as you enter the room. The window is open half way. Thin white venetian blinds separate the top of the window from the bottom.

Crystals are placed on the window ledge. Coastal fog may be seen outside through the window.

A very small American Flag is tacked upside down on the bottom of the window. The tiny flag moves a bit when the breeze hits it.

There is a desk under the window. The desk has two shelves. The shelves are plain wooden planks on cinder blocks. They rise to the bottom half of the window. On the top shelf is a green leafy plant, and a skull wearing a pork pie hat and sunglasses. The skull has a red rose in it’s mouth.

Also on the shelves are speakers; a small, black pocket calculator with orange buttons; a ceramic Koala Bear; and candles in various stages of having been used.

On the desk is unopened mail, a rather large computer monitor, an old baseball, a rotary dial phone, a roller ball mouse for a computer, a deck of playing cards, cds/dvds, pens, and a black computer keyboard. There are many stacks of paper on the the desk.

A large, circular, metal fan sits on the floor. It turns from left to right blowing air.

The Carpeting in the room is a light shade of brown. It is stained, especially near the coffee pot. There is a refrigerator in the rear of the room. There isn’t an oven, or kitchen in the room. There is a microwave, and an electric crock pot. They are on top of a dark wooden dresser. The tip of a white sock is sticking out of one drawer of the dresser. There are more stains on the carpeting near the microwave, and refrigerator.

There is a light colored, wooden book case. It has seven shelves. The book case is against the same wall as the large flag. This wall on the opposite side of the room from the dresser. Some of the shelves of the book case are curved under the weight from the books.

In the center of the room is a sofa. On the sofa is an opened sleeping bag. Three pillows are on the bag. The pillows have white pillowcases. The sofa is a green print, with flowers and leaves. The sleeping bag is green.

The room smells faintly of Nag Champa, and coffee.

Music has been playing: reggae, jazz, americana, rockabilly, irish drinking songs, psychobilly.

Someone lives here. This is someone’s home.

Written by Father Luke, Mon Apr 28, 11:24 AM

It doesn't matter

Today
Yesterday
The Next Day
Last Year
Next Week

It doesn’t matter.
None of it.

Nothing matters.
It never did.

How could it.
Who would it matter to when you’re dead?

So why does it matter now?

Deal me in.

Written by Father Luke, Sat Apr 26, 07:05 AM

smears

Ahhh to be young.

I remember being naked,
covered in blood, and fighting the cops.

Wandering the streets
dirty, drunk, in poverty,
looking for a new life
in each moment of my living

Years ago
these things…

I recall them now,
seeing them in my mind’s eye
as I’m doing the things
I do today.

All I was,
all I’ve ever been,
everything I have ever done,
has become smeared memories,
like paints against canvas.

I blink.
It’s all gone.

Written by Father Luke, Fri Apr 25, 12:06 AM

They

They throw dirt in your eyes
They laugh and run away
They giggle as you wipe
the dirt away

You can see them
in the distance
laughing
and
carrying on

They won’t come back.
They can’t stand you.

It doesn’t matter why.
They are sure that
They are better than you.

I’m sure that they are better than us.
Aren’t you?

The rain is better than the day.
The sun is better than the moon.
The sky is better than the ocean.
And I am better than you.

But they are the bestest of us all.

Written by Father Luke, Wed Apr 23, 07:45 AM

Who?

And so
it came
to this
that
the
most
important
woman
in my life
wasn’t so
important
after
all

and
I
barely
remember
her
at
all.

Written by Father Luke, Mon Apr 21, 10:38 PM

the reward

I spend all week
at work
to be able
to have money to
do things.

Then I can’t do them
because I’m
at work.

There should be something
more
to this poem,

but just like in life,
there really isn’t.

Written by Father Luke, Wed Apr 16, 10:11 AM