the sting

when did free

become

(read the small print)

not free

the lure, the balm

the bomb, the catch

the other shoe,

pacing like a lion

growling,

dangling

which smacks you

in the head

as you are looking

for mysteriously

disappearing

expired coupons

illuminated

like a circus clown

at the check out

fumbling to buy

the new, not new

and really quite

unimproved,

improved…
lucy meskill

mountaineering

 

the incomprehensibly fine

undulating ridge formed

by the lap of questing waves

upon generous sand,

this is my Everest,

an unceasing traverse

devastating in its detail

relentless in its mercy, emerging

where my feet crush its peaks,

the continuous summit

of my restless summation

where the blessings of patience,

moderation and self-love,

each second, molecular, renew

lucy meskill

how green was my valley...

a blasted stretch
between two mountains
where only scatterings 
of woody scrub survive
a place where low flying
vengeful scrutiny drags
her sharp, hollow claw
in parched dry runnels
over and over and over again
cultivating dust that howls
this dark acre looking
for someplace to hide...
lucy meskill

withered fruit...

driving by

abandoned houses

wondering about

a moment

the very moment when

someone stopped

locking and unlocking

the doors that joy abandoned

and lost dreams left ajar

stopped washing the porch

and fixing broken lites

in windows which let things in

that should be kept out

where ragged curtains

waving wildly at passersby

gesture of surrender

and plead for assistance

dark tear stained hankies

no one dares to handle, for fear,

that the DNA of sadness

and the flavor of neglect

are things that will rub off...


lucy meskill

Photogen...

at the waters edge you glimmer,

a cape may diamond rocking softly

in the sand, moonstone deep and lucent,

you roll in waves, ever curious for shore;

I keep walking through doors that you

have pried and held open for me,

to me you are like the curious and brave

little Carolina wren outside my window,

a daring little flame darting deeply

into crevices foraging for seeds, while

not succumbing to the ease of the feeder,

like a visionary seer, she strikes a path

following her bliss into the unknown;

your large eyes beacon bright and blue

are as warm to me as summer skies

I love being in the garden together

as the magical low slanting evening light

illuminates the flowers beneath our lenses;

I love the silver volume of our hair

flowing out beneath straw hats, inside,

we are still those two little girls, silently

sifting buttons and shells, dreaming

on the bedspreads of our youth,

for ever and for always will I love you,

my brilliant, iridescent sister sun…
lucy meskill

volcanity...

awakened on the cusp

the very crust of night

the moon and the sun

both present in the sky;

the concave light

of my inward reflexion

awakening the clapper

long silent in the bell;

emerging out into the glow

from my bomb-sheltered mind

a mole basks in sunlight

as the piper plays a tune;

nascent present participles

spring flowers in bloom

a glimmering cacophony

racing to unfold;

this un-retracted symphony

this perfect pitch epiphany

a diaphonic harmony

wrapped in unfettered timpani

as with pyroclastic majesty

the valley of the shadows

floods with light from the peaks

and un-elapsed brilliance

ends a long age of grief…

lucy meskill

metamorphosis...

amid the magnified 

and amber golden dusk

a particulate miscellany  

in ecstatic suspension

swarms the hot summer air;

in slow, agitation bees
creep the echinacea torpid

too besotted to fly home

sunset steeped pollen
has stolen their senses;

winding blindly they anchor,
feet in flowers to slumber
till dawn kisses dew encrusted eyes
and they awaken transformed, 

gleaming, like sugar candied violets…

lucy meskill

food fight at midnight...

I’m pitching food

at parts of me

listening too intently

to the news in TV bars;

mostly mashed potatoes

chucked into their hair

and onto their faces,

dripping fluffy white

buttered chunks fall

into their tightly held

elegant drinks

and they, looking up

from conversations

more like nightmares,

begin to see me

as I shake uncontrollably

with real unaffected laughter

and finally recognizing me

they deposit

their overly cool,

expensive drinks

and opinions

upon the bar and

we exit joyfully

this dream

together…

words and image by lucy meskill

the summer wind...

deafening heat so loudly muffled
boiling hot kettle fullness screams in my ears
paralyzing fevers chill scorched paper-dolls
that ford on slotted feet, back-forth back-forth
across the evanescing asphalt

clockwork cicadas winding down wildly
shake their crazy tambourines on high
no painted kites fly on these kinds of nights
as July rocks her baby, singing, "ashes, ashes,
we all fall down"


words and image by lucy meskill