the audition...

I have been:

the lion and
the tamer
both the dropper
and the shoe

the ghoul
in my own closet
the witch
in my own brew

the cold wind
at my collar
the dark cloud
on bright blue

both the chaser
and the runner
it is myself
that I pursue…

this and that...

which is more interesting,
the breaded eggplant, or
the granular, morsel filled
floury, spent herbed dredge

which is more enchanting,
the beautifully fried golden discs
or the crispy, burned bits
suspended, floating in dark oil

which part are you most invested in
the me that I am here and now, today,
or the chunks of me becoming
that each day, jettisoned, fall away…


 lucy meskill

metta...

with a half-life of melting sugar,
~may I be peaceful with this sadness
emotions, wax and wane
~may I be peaceful with this fear
and when I build a house
~may I be peaceful with this longing
on these ever-shifting sands
~may I be happy with myself
feelings pass, yet the structure still looms
~may I love myself just as I am
a house with no foundation
~may I love and be loved...
a castle suspended, tilting, in air...

lucy meskill

amnesty...

in the deep
tree studded
reservoir woods
the deer understand me
they have eyes in the woods
a native inborn guide
that abandons them
at the the grassy verge
of the roads which we inject
into their shrinking world
like enervating drugs
they rob the herd
of their knowing
they navigate
somnambulant
through fitful dreams
of blinding lights
and rampant steel
with teeth that bite 
and wheels that devour
but the deer, the graceful deer
hold no malice towards me
I pass with clemency
under the bare winter canopy
I view a nearby buck silently
weaving through the trees
running on three legs
his fourth leg
is broken through
just below the knee
though still attached
hanging by thick hide
it dangles freely
madly as he flies
sweeping counter
to his moves
keeping broadly
narrow time
swinging unpent
like a loose wild pendulum…

lucy meskill

atmospheres...

grip stained margins embank the door's edge
where fingers like waves grasp, lap
and mark the tide of goings and comings
where the latch like a gull
sweeps the lock with a lonely cry
and light-filled the bloom diffuse of breath on glass
as phantom hearts etched in melted sand
unable to sustain invisibility, arise
glimmering in exhalation
beneath my parted lips…

lucy meskill

sangfroid...

what bright angel rescues
buttons, scraps and notions
from the floor inside my heart
wasting not, what was once wanted
as some seams get ripped apart
recording precious feelings
that tumble into disregard
from momentary smallness
or expectation falling hard
knowing better than I know
that love is never waste
it's half-life far outlasting
the sweetness of its taste...

lucy meskill

paradox, love

the very thing that lets us in
so often locks us out
sly door on a nimble hinge
knows naught what it's about
once dreaming in the sunlight
now trembles in the dark
sinking like an afterthought
up-winging like the lark
a spark that is so often quenched
now kindles bright in rain
a treasure hid beneath the hull
now gleams upon the main
and we who wield, bestow, and tell
a tale we do not ken
so often must fall down this well
to rise up once again...
lucy meskill

punishment...

it is a game so easy
that anyone can play
first you have to love me
and then I make you pay
I hurt you by hurting me
building guilt like equity
bored wild children on a binge
plotting schemes where no one wins
through this reeking toxic swamp
won’t you come and take a romp
where tears fill every wishing well
and rogue emotions cast their spell
good lord, this game is really rough
tell me when you’ve had enough
we’ll click our heels, and then wake up
where everyone fills their own cup
and the children in us safely roam
purposefully throughout this home
where we grow up and learn to live
to hope, to dream and truly give
evolving with great clarity
a world of blessed sanity
amen…

lemonade...

a little scrap of grace
a Finch with no feet
landing in the tree
just outside my window

a windblown leaf
above a branch aflutter
hovering then settling
with outstretched wings

balanced now on twig legs
slowly she surveys me
over her shoulder
with a backward glance

then with slow satisfaction
as if nothing now could shake her
gently she turns and drops
to the ground to feed…

Lucy Meskill

phylum porifera...

where do we stow yesterday
to make room for today
how do the saturated
stay absorbent enough
to pick up what is now
do we keep mostly/only
the parts that feed us
and with vigor wring
what will bloat and stink
like a stagnant sponge
at the side of the sink
letting what has gone by
glissade--bygone--away
inspiration, exhalation
gray water passing
joyously whirling
clockwise or counter
down the hollow pipe...

lucy meskill

Brooklyn...

Words chunk, slab and slide syllabic sideways
down, down, down the rusted iron pipe clattering,
winnowing, peeling into tiny pinioned dreams.
The rutted drift-way thrills to the tune of
crabwise whirling, rivulet-ripping dust-devils
that careen and squish-slosh alluvial
seeding this alley where no one ever walks.
These labyrinths ring: ding dong, dong ding
with a concrete clap-slapping reverb
between buildings. Children who ran/run
still in dreams, the courtyard square-bottom
cup from rim to weedy-rim, tag, "you're it"...
The black sing-song, see/saw iron gate is home
or almost... Fly the clapper recalling what no one
ever saw on the stone stoop rising steeply to the door
or what the wide street and sidewalk recanted,
because no one wanted to know. And yet here we are...
here, we are, hear we are...

Lucy Meskill