accretion/a dream...

 

there is a
wolf
at the door
part of me is
sleeping,
there is a
wolf
at the door
part of me is
working,
there is a
wolf
at the door
part of me is
running scared,
the wolf
becomes bored
with this tableau
and begins
to walk away,
I look out of the window
after him
and cry “oh woooollllf”…
with a low growl
he turns
moves towards me
and slips easily
through
the closed door,
the sleeper
awakens,
the worker
stops working,
the runner is
still,
extending our arms
we all hold hands,
these four parts of me,
we look, laugh and then
share blueberry pancakes
together…

migratory

birds build nests

inside their heads

so they can

live their lives

day to day

 on a wing and a prayer






by lucy meskill

circuit

aim lights a quick fuse
which momentum ignites
wisdom swings a wet broom...

lucy meskill

Seven Wonders, or Notes Taken At A Party

one: Every single lustrous layer of varnish, vanished.

two: One room too small to do anything but stand for a moment in.

three: Each stringer, tread and riser absorbs the light, fantastic.

four: Pictures on a shelf, married pictures on a shelf, and multiplied tenfold.

five: One room so hot, that even the empty glasses are sweating.

six: One room so cold, that every warm cookie on the plate is shivering.

seven: The echoes of life so securely pocketed, and corrugated, that each bit of condensed matter smoothly suspends the passage of time.









image from page 177 of "Boston, a guide book" (1910)

orrery

blue plate swirling, sky

green bowl teeming, earth

yellow cup rising and setting, sun

all traversing the heavens

courtesy of 

the hinged elbows 

of a hungry god

array...

There are angels in the underbrush
there are prophets in the trees
they dance with waving wanderlust
upon four windy seas



lucy meskill

pilots...

the bee told me

just where to stand

to see the universe 

unfold

the envelope told me 

just where to read 

to hear the mountain

groan

the leaf told me
just how to turn
to make gravity
let go

the pebble told me
just how to splash
to glide into the
flow



Lucy Meskill

advance...

for pigs languishing in crates
I push the world for you
for cows who roil in filth
I push the world for you
for ducks who are force-fed
I push the world for you
for sharks who are de-finned
I push the world for you
for dogs forced to fight in pits
I push the world for you
for elephants de-tusked
I push the world for you
for goats shoved out of towers
I push the world for you
for chickens ground to death
I push the world for you
for bulls who are made to fight
I push the world for you
for insects poisoned by avarice
I push the world for you
for every thing that suffers
at the hands of human greed
I push the world, in words,
for you...

lucy meskill

image: Coruscate, lucy meskill, 2012

that great tribe

gratitude for the profusion

of necessary momentary fragments

whose small composites find strength in union

to take lazy possession of the soil

wafted washed dropped or flung

as the quickening of ovules

downward, with heavy rains

from the overhanging bank, flood

the only inducement offered

from the dissolving rain is respite

for these less than weary travelers
in the sweet red-scented sublime clay

Lucy Meskill

warm boot

Mercury spins up

to the music of the hum

I pray for every vessel

that will continue to hold water

and for every vessel

that will not

I stand

before the screened window

the wind parted curtains belly out

to release last night's swelter

I tether what is useful

to my heart, mind and soul

and let the cool wind bear the rest away...

Lucy Meskill

morass

the meat was tough

the table was dirty

the server was hard

the cook was angry

the roadway was packed

the people were rushed

the day was too long

the night was too short

and somewhere a lamb bleats

a music as soft as silk for its mother

sensing the inevitable wave

lucy meskill

wasp

he fell
           where he was landing

as one leg flew off
clutched

in the bright yellow beak of a starling



lucy meskill

photo credit: Des Cannon

nipple

the moon is weaning fireflies

gently in the dark of night—

the day pulses in and out

breath like a cooling iron

graveolent of everything

it wilted and steamed flat today

beneath the withering stare

of august's glaring sun—

glimmering like diamonds

they drop eggs and rise...

lucy meskill

babydoll

sounding new like you

is not my style

situated in opposite attitudes

upon the same shelf

my paint is worn

turn me over and back again

like water spiraling noisily

along a battered downspout

or a sheep with a cold

I release a muffled waaa

far beyond the comforting reach

of mother's fleshy arms

lucy meskill

event horizon

I grieve over

our affinity

I grieve over

our conjoinedness

I grieve over

the knowledge of you

like radioactive material

slowly melting down

to the very center

of the world

lucy meskill

firebox anatomy

not squelched by faith

this darkling flame

and glistening floss 

where amber marries red

as smudge and char

their ort children rise

upward through the flue

to mask the moon

the scent of space

that like and likening

of gray body ascension

which bears all soot to wind

as piceous carbon undulates

like dense black lace buoyant

above the chinks in windows

where vital breath transpires

lucy meskill

network...

the nations
of my nerves
rejoice
all of their states
and capitols
resound
in this slipstream
in this joyous
and terrible
bundle of hours
that build
to formulate
the living day...


lucy meskill

hedgerow...

the mightiest of woodlands
rise slowly by the grace
of lesser lauded ramparts
born to deflect the tempest
and buffer more lusty forms

those mad whirligigs of thorns
who thrilling at the margins
porous and entwined
extorting force from force
thrum and howl before the lawn

like minstrels during battle
these turbines of the wayside
and heroes of the thicket
this music grown of quickset
berry, slip and cutting rises

fierce and full of fettle
holding fast the selvedge
to champion the fates
of creatures large and small
these backwoods incubators

do churn out fur and feather
to populate the rooty coppice
and deck the canopy with song
playing minstrel to ravaged furrows
flushed empty by the plough

bless every briar and prickle
and every gorse and bracken
bless every burr and catch weed
and every furze and nettle
that rises thrilling from the lawn


lucy meskill

lost

Where would we be
without awkward silences
that burgeon with vulnerability
over what we cannot quite express
consigned to endlessly roam
a sterile kind of wilderness
with the surety of answers
and every moment fully clothed

Where would we be
without the knowledge
of miles to go before we sleep
and a quantity of innocence
to fuel the escalating image
around the missing puzzle pieces
to revel in open ended completion
and revolve in a certitude of wonder


Lucy Meskill

the outlier...

art is a charmed glass slipper
left on a staircase by a person
in a hurry to escape the revelation
that every artist is an imposter
and a dreamer and a lowly cinder sweep
proof of an under-loved interloper
art is a shoe that fits only one foot
its destiny is paired to only one soul
art is the remnant of a party
to which one was not invited
as they danced the night away
in the arms of a sovereign
far above their station
art is the proof of presence
that does not at midnight
turn to dust, but lingers
fused into clarity on a stairway
to court the lonely princes of perception
and annoy the king and queen of heart and mind
who would have them marry well
art is the thing that because we release it
remains charmed enough to survive our doubt
to become the key to a moment when we were clear enough
to trip the light fantastic and then melt, dreaming, into the night

lucy meskill

illustration: Cinderella by Arthur Rackham