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