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

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

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

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