for giggles...

the very first photons impetuous and bright
still fresh from that awesome Big Bang
flooded the reaches of space and time
vibrating with extreme intensity
that same light that wandered intrepid
through the deep obsidian darkness
bouncing and waking sleepy lazy matter
was really only restlessly seeking
a warm pumpkin pine paneled floor
with a soft woolen red carpet
upon which to tiptoe and mellow
into golden amber honey igniting for giggles
the dust of a dog as he rolls and stretches
and turns in its loving embrace...

lucy meskill

old thinking...

the tyranny of cans
that lurk expired
at the back of cabinets
pushing forward
the scent of fear
like rotting carrots,
liquefied and brown
rising tidal from
the bottom of the bin;
remembrances
that live untouchable
under and behind
forcing joy, like a jumper,
onto a sliver of a ledge
like a jar of golden amber honey
that lurching under pressure,
falls out unexpectedly
and bruises our foot
when we open the door…

lucy meskill

soft transit...

re- is a patient room
into which I do not
walk, but stumble,
a place that contains
the rumpled, crumbling
dissembling of surety
and surmise. Re-thinking
I unwrap emotions that
I have labeled, lifting
layers of preconception
for another, closer look.
Apprehension morphs
to comprehension
while understanding,
a newborn butterfly
descending from chrysalis,
unfurls her moist wings
in sunshine, to dry slowly,
upon a willing flower...

lucy meskill

Flo and Leonard...

Two black-boxes
from two separate flights
landed six feet under,
and fourteen years apart,
in the same exact location,
beneath the weeping willow trees.
He is wearing the dark suit,
that he wore to weddings and funerals.
She wears a blue dress with flowers
that she made with her own hands.
They had always slept together,
my mother never remarried,
she was too busy making
frayed ends meet, and besides,
she was still in love...

lucy meskill

music...

a house of seven notes
built on a tonic key
waves of sound sweep in
and wash all over me...

lucy meskill

grazing...

above the night pasture
a bright constellation
of syllables spin
with bifocal tonality,
ambiguous and baroque,
a tango adagio,
unspooling like leaden silk,
smooth and dense,
propagating the ground
a concentric curriculum,
for my digesting reticulum,
I spit cud, chew,  then
swallow, spit cud, chew,
then swallow, spit cud,
chew, then swallow,
an even-toed ungulate,
digitigrade and curious,
ruminant, I digest...

lucy meskill

lamentation, architectural...

antecedent rooms 
like phantom limbs
dangle in absentia 
just beyond dejected doors
that seal like bandages
the gutted open void
of vanished walls and figment halls
attaining, ramiform, the altered air  
whispers roam like dust 
and gather restlessly where
the memory of corners dwell
replete in silent contemplation
and swift birds fly around 
the mostly discharged hull
and fallow dreaming seeds
that fade like unfeigned laughter
on a summer afternoon...

lucy meskill

vicissitude...

footfalls roam in heavy silence
the dense chocolate loam
and pungent dreaming custard
of fallen leaves and flowers
as the steady hum of bees
becomes a rustling buzz
crisp matter caught in corners
and in the brittle arms of fences
where insects crawl in to die
strong by the billions
the tincture of their last breaths
faintly scents the bone-chilled air
the warm, tenacious soul of Summer
golden amber-brown and weathered
sings in the woodland, leaves, refusing yet to fall
tall pumpkin streaked trees remembering viridian
combine now in chorus as wildly wavering birds
on high, conduct the wind and clouds
Autumn is a loose bouquet, lipstick smeared
and crushed from too much ardent kissing
whose deep-toned rouge perfume
tempts like a wild and twisting tango
the nascent, chilly mind of Winter, handsome
cold and silver, now dressing in the wings...
lucy meskill