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

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

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

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

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

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

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