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

the hourglass...

space is

the final frontier

between 

the atoms 

inside us and

the thoughts 

in our mind 

vast at one end

and vast

at the other

our perception

is the waistline

where everything

feels small

though we routinely 

belt staggering bigness

in dead leather

and so tightening

staunching awareness

of unfathomable extent

to satisfy our zeal

and unmitigated

hunger for absolute

nucleic rule

individuality

is not a prison

but an entirety

of perfection

that revolves

in spite of

our illusions

vastly spacious

devoid of capture

maintaining order

with exactitude

and appropriate

atomic spacing

we are a universe

expanding

orderly and chaotic

crammed into a

suitcase within a 

suitcase hurtling

through darkness

completely 

illuminated

packed with 

precision

and summarily

set spinning

like a bright top 

on a smooth surface

moving randomly

within reason

life is an interval

of such gladness

driven to the brink

of elemental wonder

why not enjoy the ride…

Lucy Meskill

deliverance...

let the rattle of shame
wind down like a cricket
whose season is done

let the sound of it wane
in the thicket of weeds
where it had begun

let the feel of it dull
like the thorn of a rose
beside a rock wall

let us answer no more
to the desperate sound
of its ebbing call

let shame be the wild child
that we let run away
from our hopeful nest

let us labor no more
to secure that sere bird
a snug place to rest...

Lucy Meskill