Mark Leci
Mark Leci Poems
I rise to tears outside the plastic windows.
They aren't for me.
I lost mine at Heathrow, where your bags spun round and round into the plughole.
I float through the town on perfect shoes,
...
The first man on earth was grainy,
His thoughts were like glue on a cardboard garden,
Sticking the sand to his toes
And rotten fruit under his fingernails.
...
Humming high
Whistling to myself I ride the pockets
Crawling like a shadow swallow over the fields
Below pop-up targets twinkling
...
For a flicker of history there was a boy,
Only four feet six feet seven feet tall.
He was young to the point of being ancient,
A painter of thick black character.
...
Patterns in the air
Waving grass of open fields,
Echoing through hollow forests,
The thread of hisses,
...
Downtown
There are girls with short hair and short smiles
Boys with piercings and tight jeans
A man on the street corner singing High and Dry all wrong
...
Who gave music its name?
It was Boethius, tinkering with treble and bass
Like screwdrivers
Falling in piles and arpeggios
...
Mark Leci Biography
Mark Leci has been writing poetry since the age of 12. His work has spanned living on three continents, the birth of a child and the end of a marriage. He currently lives in Calgary, Canada. He has been published in several online and in-print magazines, such as Filling Station. His work often draws inspiration from chemistry, physics, music, programming and mental health issues.)
The Best Poem Of Mark Leci
Sun-On-Sea
I rise to tears outside the plastic windows.
They aren't for me.
I lost mine at Heathrow, where your bags spun round and round into the plughole.
I float through the town on perfect shoes,
Past broken bottles, rabid dogs, and natives
Who stare with their dark eyes and dark skin like I shouldn’t be here this early
In the dark light, surveying the war dead from the collapse
Of this outreach spoke of Disneyland.
I walk along the beach.
The morning sand is clammy and full of regret, (dregs of) a one-night-stand.
The sun rises over someone else’s hills, the picture-postcard fishing boats
Catch the tiger’s eye winking off the sea,
Making an unlikely romance edged with broken glass.
Alone watching the sunrise, a young girl sits on the Taverna steps and braids her hair,
Like black water in the slanting sunlight.
A man is asleep on a shop floor, and the old woman picks around him, sighing,
And brushing leaves away from his face along with the glass into the landlocked streets. The tut-tut of her voice is shifted sideways to the tap of a blind boy’s cane.
The shops peter out as I run, and the girl sits on the steps of the Taverna,
Braiding her hair as the black water sluices the street and the narrow road shimmers into infinity
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5/2/2024 11:23:48 PM # 1.0.0.1119
