glory in the morning, pulp-fiction blue...

I saw blue again
for the very first time today
returning home at dawn, as
on my right, a quivering electric lid
of pale translucent citrine opened
to reveal an iris of impossibly
Barbie doll-eye sparkling
interference manganese
that made me gasp as it fully
owned the heavens just above
the inky, leafless tree-lined
dark soil and gleaming snow
looking ahead my right periphery
was met by another brilliance
where in color-wheel saturation
baby cerulean crawled through cyan
trailing robins-egg and periwinkle
to meet cobalt at a cloud-struck apex
that was humming modulated
tuned to the frequency of earthly blue
my car crept ant-like along
the yellow lined garter snake
road of heavy black satin ribbon
as it drifted from from its spool
parting the snowy corn-stubbled fields
like supplicant Moses arms raised 
staff in hand beneath a Venetian dome
of brilliant, crystalline blue spun glass...

Lucy Meskill

flimsy ballast...

the deceptive weight of fragile things
drops of rain etch window glass
leaves press down through heavy snow
soft beaks break through hardened shells
an eyelash slips through clay soil
to the center of the molten earth
fused with marbles, insect wings
and the jointed arm from a tiny doll
feeder-roots comb rocks and dirt
lifting weighty glass and broken plates
and birds feet press them down again
teasing seeds from out the muddy grass
lighter than a sleeping baby's breath
some words sink right down to the core
and teardrops swamping dry-docked ships
posit sand to fund their interior shores...

Lucy Meskill

bounty...

floating sideways
in the water basin
looking drowned-at-sea
not sure why I lifted you
with the corner of a paper towel
small and drenched fly
only that I could not bear
to wash you down my drain
and as you resurrected
on that quilted paper island
right there before my eyes
your wings gleaming
as you slowly dried
in a puddle of sunshine
in that tiny, little
moment that we shared
of me helping you
you helped to rescue
such an important piece of me…


lucy meskill

relativity...

like a slantwise cut
in the stem
of a clipped rose
your faith in me
is a great determiner
of the manner in which
I blossom and fade
in the guilt glass vase
at the table you have set…

lucy meskill

slice...

we all travel in our own little cars
each only wide enough to negotiate a single moment
and in that moment every being is steering for their life
like blades of grass in concert that negotiate a heavy wind
like birds pecking seeds in syncopation beneath my tree
like a penned cow, bound for slaughter, who decides
“in this moment I am going to jump that fence”
and so begins a journey that transcends the plate
in a moment a dog decides to crawl across three lanes
of heavy moving traffic to drag another dog to safety
in a moment a man runs into a burning building
because in his tiny slim car he believes he can pull
someone else out of a really bad moment in theirs
in a moment an old woman swinging a handbag runs
towards 6 boys and men because she believes
she can stop them from making the mistake
of a lifetime of moments, and so indeed she does
and in our slim and momentary cars we can choose
happiness, love, gratitude and bravery over a host
of other things because each little moment we negotiate
is in fact a new beginning and it is singularly ours
so here and here and here we string moments out like beads
and here and here and here and on and on and on, I wish you joy...

lucy meskill

subconscious...

wing flap sheet snap attention
coiling snakes and eels writhe
at the deeply shallow waters edge
fish are always weaving dreaming
warp and weft among waves
a teeming liquid bolt is spilling
words and intentions tumbling
invincibly distilled grains of sand
breathe iridescent bubbles
that shore birds run, run, run;
dig, dig, dig; eat, eat, eat,
off a table of digested rock
flying now in concert swarming
all sail and no boom recapitulation
diving to reposit slick amorphic
gleaming neural impressions that rain
spatter and dot the lavish shore…

lucy meskill

how, best, to serve man/chaff...

“Welcome!” The salutation says
you are invited to the feast
jump in, jump in and let us stir you     just
follow the signs past the thin trail of sugar
and jump headlong into the slightly sweetened dough
there's no need for health-care where you're going
your needs will be magically met     listen
can't you hear our fine intentions as
the powerful fingers of our party need/knead you
thrill to our open hands as indeed we shape/fool you
into thinking you don't need a safety-net
trust that you are safe with us     to
rise, rise, rise swiftly up within the loaf
ours is the only family that you require
as you swell up past the rim of     the open
bowl is the only place to meet your maker
don't you believe that God     warning
is behind us as we work you into the fold
you don't need a thing like welfare to     recover
and social security is redundant for the     willing,
the hearth offers so much comfort to the     righteous,
come sit near us as we inch you ever closer to the glowing flame
isn't the table lovely where you'll be     featured
see there you have your own gilt/guilt plate
you won't need entitlements or education     guests/fools,
right there beside the butter alongside our gushing
heartfelt/pretend gratitude in the prayer before     the feast...
you will be rightly praised for your invaluable
assistance as we the entitled few raise you to our lips
hear us, as you slip over our pitchforked tongues down
past our sweet talk and good-faith promises
as you swiftly ride atop a wave of biting/bitter tea
into the churning belly of our billion-dollar beast...

Lucy Meskill

daisy...

sibilant affricate
a rush of citron light
redolent, reciprocal
twirling with delight...



lucy meskill

worry...

oh great and ponderous beast
your retracted fluency
eclipsing my desire
for blessed equanimity

oh monarch of vexation
will you not dare stop
awhile, at my table,
drinking cranberry tea

can we not in comfort
and steady reason
while eating biscuits
put your fears to bed

amble off to sleep
like uncounted sheep
in the softly scented hay
and dream of tomorrow…



lucy meskill

creation...

give
twelve women
the same
piece of cloth
squarely
unassuming
a needle and
some thread
and they will make
twelve completely
different bags
in which to hold
the moon…

confectious light...

it was a warm, sugar-coated
jelly-doughnut of a day
the kind that goes
straight to your hips
the slightly crisp joy of it
lingers long on your tongue
while it's sweet, fat volume
stored up in your cells
like candy in gold paper
waits to be opened
in the deepening winter
when the light is too lean...

lucy meskill