Tuesday, December 25, 2012

articulation...




birds deploy mightily
with weightless feathers
attitude at altitude
emotive on the wind
they hurl themselves
in warm blooded silence 
rocketing through space
birds navigate by faith
an impossibility of air
threadlike through fabric
they weave patterns
that culminate a life
birds are as immediate
and singular as language 
as words that also deploy
upon the properties of air
attenuated chariots of tuition
that catapult free floating
through space to mingle 
surge and ebb fluidly
within the shifting, morphing
body of their murmuring flock
formulating tissues of comprehension
with which their framers
cloak mystery with beauty,
query, challenge and rebellion   
they mount the atmosphere
wings deployed to escalate
then fold back their meaning
purposefully to their sides
like swift adamant arrows
they rush joyfully onward
bravely to meet their mark...

lucy meskill


Monday, December 17, 2012

focus...





Let not the parade
of our fleeting attention
pass quickly over
the heads of children
fallen upon the sword
of our nation's denial
about the state of fear
in which we reside.
Innocence calls to us
to raise our eyes to face
the unspeakable disaster
that inattention has wrought.
Driving this car while sleeping
has drawn us all into a chasm
from which all of us will arise
except the few who always
give absolutely everything
they ever have, and so much more...

lucy meskill

Monday, December 10, 2012

lace...




light seeps through
what I wanted to say
like a breeze
through open work
interlocked patterns
that prickle my skin
tingling, tickling
up my spine
your attention
reads me like Braille
beneath the covers
where we lay
and murmur secrets
on soft breath like leaves
whispering gently
to the warm summer air...

lucy meskill

Thursday, December 6, 2012

proximity...






nearby words
jostle me
like strangers
on a bus
rummaging
left and right
the pockets
of my mind
trailing pollen
as bees do
waking flowers
seeding cognition
prying seams
stretching wool
leaving traces
glistening bright
of half-eaten candy
to be savored later...

lucy meskill

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Bear, a dream...





Bear
wanted to be
human
to stop
running
to be warm
comfortable
and
unwild
Bear
settled 
down
and bought
a house
and a car
Bear
got
a life
and now
Bear says
that honey
only tastes
like honey
whereas before
honey 
tasted
as precious
and sweet
as the last meal
before
the end of the world...

lucy meskill

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

relay...





I unbuild a box for panic
I unbuild a box for fear
I unbuild a box for worry
I unbuild a box for tears

and preening like a feather
the mud from out my mind
my wings do free-air gather
each moment to unbind

every breath is a swift nutmeat
popping freely from its shell
that nourishing the moment
feeds neither heaven nor a hell

just a smooth and steady untick
where no mouse runs up the clock
and no chiming mars the hour
like a crashing shuttlecock

and flying low I broadcast
fertile seed across the field
where every bird is a fleet farmer
that from soil doth nourish yield...


lucy meskill

photo credit: judith meskill

Sunday, November 18, 2012

ashes...





Oh! to find one's self, 
residing, grey and chunky, 
in the fat, hardened clay belly of 
an Elephant-shaped container, 
still, after a hundred years, 
as a powdery quantity, unnamed,
too powerful a mystery to scatter 
beneath the dormant purple Lilac tree

Oh! to find one's self,
falling, grey and chunky,
from the fat, hardened clay belly of 
an Elephant-shaped container
moving, after a hundred years
as a powdery quantity, unnamed,
too powerful an asset to withhold
from the blooming scented Lilac tree...

lucy meskill

Container in shape of elephant>Iran> ca. 1900 Smithsonian

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

dream home...





The drab, I hurt me to hurt you attic, needs a new theme
wallpaper, I think, printed with cornflowers and poppies
a lamp to read by and an overstuffed comfy, cozy chair.

The cluttered, I am indifferent to the suffering of my food kitchen,
needs clean windows, with no curtains to soften the view
and a larder stocked with compassion by which we live, hand to mouth.

The narrow, I can be content while the rights of others slip away vestibule,
needs a full length mirror in which to contemplate the coldheartedness
of such an insular, self-serving an unconscionable point of view.

The stuffy, I can't forgive myself, until you forgive me completely parlor,
needs a sturdy fireplace in which to burn the fuel of self-forgiveness
and a musical instrument where we can compose a more joyful kind of song.

The formal, I can eat a sumptuous banquet while you starve dining-room
needs a much longer table, more dishes, utensils and plenty of sturdy chairs
at which to serve a meal of sensible proportions to a much larger family.

The stale, I am right and you are full of shit self-righteousness lounge,
needs a new coat of paint and scattered slippery bean-bag seating
making it hard to be taken seriously while judging others.

The messy, low self-esteem why the heck do I ever bother bedroom,
needs a good scrubbing and an airing with no change in décor
so that we may learn to truly love ourselves just the way we are.

The cramped, I am too scared to love and lose lavatory needs new tiling,
a water-wise toilet, a brand new sink and a shower with a railing
to keep us from slipping while abluting our most vulnerable selves.

The flooding, I am too old to change basement, needs a new drain system
a self-leveling concrete floor painted green with festive throw rugs
upon which to dance and sing out loud for no reason at all, at any time of day.

The chock-full, I will never be done punch-list tacked up on the cork-board,
next to the don't waste a moment seasonal calendar, guards the entry hall
as we with our pencils and erasers are held forever in their thrall...

lucy meskill

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

musical chairs...





She realized that, the open seat
existed to remain, unfilled by her
its emptiness, was not an invitation
and that deliberate, lack of inclusion
is the way that this game, is played
she exists to be denied, and a situation
firmly ensconced, feet under the table
just as if she belonged, that dream she had
no more a pawn of desire, of inclusion
to her, key yet invisible player, is denied...

lucy meskill


photo credit: judith meskill

aqueous....





Tepid totes of mostly water,
soft, warm elongated skin-tubes
with a symphony of colorful,
variegated softer tubes on the inside.
Beautiful permeable, subtle tinted bags
filled with bony white sticks and warm jelly.
Lustrous, dead keratin protein fibers
on the outside and short plump
life-giving pink filaments on the inside,
we are positively silly with cillia.
Hairs that march along the surface
of almost everything that we are
probing and promoting they glean,
clean and thrill the inner landscape.
And that convoluted brioche-brain
residing just beneath the jointed,
downturned teacup and saucer
that we call the human skull
is filled with the most mysterious
inscrutable material of all.
From it emanates a constant flow
of glimmering steamy swirls,
impulses, from the ever beating
garnet jewel just beneath our ribs,
to emit the perfume of the mind
and the thrilling chemosensational
palpable scent and flavor of feeling.
This tender melding of supple matter
that we call body, that we call home,
sweet home, asks that we employ
the seashells which reside on either
side of our cranium to listen in and out
to all of the important, enlightening
things it has to say, particularly
about the parts of it that are joined
to every other animate and inanimate
thing and being in this glorious,
orrery of an expanding universe...

lucy meskill

Saturday, October 13, 2012

on being human...



I had a cat once
who could not resist
an open paper bag
she would climb inside
make her way down

to the glued-end
and punch at it
for the longest time
sometimes being human
feels just like that...

lucy meskill

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

one smart cookie...




the inscribed sheet 
within this small crisp 
shiny caliper of sugar:

“no need to worry !
you will always have
everything
that you need.”

lucky numbers: 9, 25, 38, 40, 42, 49

learn Chinese
baseball (bang-qiu)

smiling,
I digest…

lucy meskill

geanealogy...




The human seed
a conscious furze,
a meaty spurge,
that 98.6 degrees
of confusion, wonder
and mayhem is loosed
upon the verdant
and slowly cooling crust.

A tree whose roots
are broken off into ten
abbreviated aching stubs
that get shoved, daily, into shoes;
that angry, beautiful burl of
unanswerable questions
which, fearful, twists the present
into a ghostly figment of the past.

We are blood, bone and bacteria
fleeting manifestations of the
massive blue-green marbled
behemoth rolling thru deep space
just beneath our mortal feet;
dreaming in our baby-minds
we prod and knead blindly
for nourishment at her milky teat.

Branded, bonded and burned
into submission, we hoard
the many other meaty species
into the dank, cheerless
needy basement of our hearts;
to linger from pain to table,
we stab and slice them into bites
for which we pay a psychic price.

Trees have big roots to hold them steady
and yet still they falter, thundering;
deep roots do not feed hungry trees
that fortune lies in what is tender
in a hair-thin network, a compassion
of feeder roots ever probing, seeking,
asking subtle moisture, minerals
and healing nurture from dark soil.

The challenges of this mortal place
are best met by fueling growth with wonder
by living, eyes open, blessed moments
to keep from walking into walls;
by making conscience into science
and forging mercy as our threshold
while keeping time with understanding
and then, being willing to let go...

lucy meskill

Saturday, October 6, 2012

the ascent...




We are shallow wells
which daily through
the deepest love is drawn
ever upward towards the light,
and by the product of that drawing
are we deepened ever slowly. 
In the gentle leaf and stick strewn
bower of my heart I feel it,
in my small and human way
I sense the humming of the source,
the thrilling of the light,
and the dancers in the dark.
The illusion of no movement
is a very human invention,
it is a gift of the moment
by which we slow-down
the passing of our lives.
When we invented clocks
to parse time into seconds,
like Dr. Frankenstein, we did invent
a monster whom we love to scorn
we named our creation tedium
a thing we love to hate, which
bolsters this stunning illusion
that we have time to spare.
As drivers of vague boredom
we excel at streamlining 
the excessive volume of our grief
over the fact of our mortality
into a thin and pliant band
that staunches the seamless flow
of time to a manageable average 
of 80 lovely beats per minute
ever throbbing at the wrist.
We are weeds in this garden
like the purple thistle in the glen
like a multitude of random grasses 
blooming rampant on the plain,
we are here to aerate the soil
of this mysterious dimension
with our never-ending questions
and plough the fields of wonder
with our endless and sturdy humor,
we are here to break ourselves
and to be formed again anew.
And so, I am always partial, and 
so you are always partial, and so what?
we are here, alone together, 
writing each his and her own version
of this frail, enduring dream of life.
And so, I bid you well my friends
and so, I will always smile to greet you
“hello, I am like you, broken and becoming,
do you want to meet for coffee?"
and this is how it goes, never forever,
but ever joyously, on and on and on...

lucy meskill


Monday, September 24, 2012

decrescendo...



slow snakes digest in increments
even slower things with legs
on barely warm sidewalks in autumn

cold fish slowed by ever colder hands
float beneath the soon to be 
rough surface of escalating ice

fallen leaves are hallowed shelters
where the sighs of spent bugs accrue
into sibilant songs that the wind intones

spiders vacate winter jacket-sleeves
before the onset of human arms
to darker places where eggs may dream

mice feel the pull of heated rooms
where crumbs will slowly migrate
from beneath tables to behind walls

birds, flirting with deep attraction roost
still bonded, they dream of springtime
and the gentle increase of warmth and light...

lucy meskill


Monday, September 3, 2012

attenuate...



there is a chill in the humid air
that does not spell relief
as the dogs across the street
try in vain to bark their fleas away

the rapid shotgun shelling
of the tin roofed yellow garage
has once again begun in earnest
beneath the fruited walnut tree

rippling and ruined, the surface
of the once black-topped driveway
rife with long road map crevices
where seeds dream in winter, waits

battered, sodden and swollen fences
bulge and undulate the landscape
more idea than matter, their mere semblance, 
containing the minds of horses into fields

pent firecracker, black-mouthed squirrel's 
swift tail-twitching, rigid bodies explode
as they fling themselves from branch to branch
in a fury of falling brittle twigs and leaves

pond surfaces swirl, vague, from center still-points
nameless small and floating crushed things
water, wind stirred with ragweed pollen when
captured by their rocky rims bears a bitter stink

this season of crest and crescendo flares
from summer's swelled to bursting seedpods 
with a slow motion popping sound, that
swimming in dank humidity, rings dully in my ears

the space between heartbeats is taken up with
unrequited reckoning, unanswered letters
that though bittersweet, are not embittered 
like the battered yet unbroken wings of butterflies

the earth cries chemical tears through our animal eyes, 
emotion, trying to scratch an itch it can't quite reach
I feel it in the subtle goose-bump tingling and sorrowful joy
living just beneath the surface of my multi-layered skin…

lucy meskill

Thursday, August 23, 2012

imperium of decay...






a web of spirits
is whip-stitched
atop
this web of mortal coils 
and these two surfaces
knitted together
form a baffle
where selective 
blindness builds
parting knowledge 
from the knower
and enabling us
to tear away
at everything
that is not us
as well as
everything   
that is 
until the whole quilt
becomes a crazed 
and tattered shambles
neither covering 
nor comforting 
an infinity no ones…

lucy meskill

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

a dream...





I am  
in a brightly 
lit chamber
surrounded by 
a tyranny of doors
which I must 
in a frenzy 
maintain
their substance 
is flimsy
and their locks 
don’t work
yet still
I check them
unceasingly
in a fever
while just 
outside
of my walls
and windows
the veil
of cool night 
is descending
with grace
and lightly
fragrant
moon flowers 
are opening 
unafraid
into darkness…


lucy meskill

photo credit: judith meskill



Monday, July 16, 2012

centrifugal brew...



forward-swings only
up and over the top
all of the back-swings
got used up early 
purchased cheaply 
in our tender fleeting youth,
advancing momentum 
is all that is on offer now
with its bracing
wind in the face
blood to the brain
scalp-tingling logic,
and those quiet foot in sand
pebble and dust kicking moments
so few and far between now spill
like tender little ice-cubes
a'tumbling and a'swirling
before melting too quickly 
into hot and deeply scented tea…

lucy meskill

Friday, July 13, 2012

interstice...



everything waits
all at once
everything goes
all at once
the page stands
a bowed tidal wave 
in the middle of a turn
knowledge spilling
down both sides
words get stuck
under our skin
sand is impossible
to get out of shoes
we surrender
or not
and fully open
as bees fly in
and out...

lucy meskill

photo credit: judith meskill

Friday, June 29, 2012

aspic...






cells 
between the floorboards
from a hundred years ago
still hum tuned to a distant note

remnants 
line the bottom of a drawer
where new junk is cradled
gently in the arms of old junk

years
go by and here we are
in the very same interval
wearing new underwear

moments
do all of the heavy lifting
then retire below stairs
to serve and sup together

surety
could fill the flat surfaces
of a yellow six-sided pencil
with plenty of room to spare

love
lines the plain black hat
from which every magic rabbit 
we never deserved is pulled 

we
that which flutters slowly
leaf-like towards the scented soil
are the mattress of someone else's 

tomorrow

lucy meskill


Saturday, June 16, 2012

couture...


pull a thread
and mountains
and valleys
populate
the fabric
of a new dress
where riverbeds
replete with tears
fill a saline ocean
in the pucker of a seam
teeming with fish
as seaweeds
and corals
below the scent of
bergamot
warming at the neck
pulse...

lucy meskill

photo credit: judith meskill

trip...


clatter
utter
scatter
sputter
milk
and lightning bugs
the galaxy
via lactea
in two flumes
spiraling
as god fell...

lucy meskill

photo credit: judith meskill