Necessity is the Mother of Invention
All night I’ve remained awake
thinking how to reinvent myself,
struggled with the wild possibilities
and the desperate impossibilities,
considered how to create this happening.
Perhaps:
a reinvention center for overripe women
a spa designed for reclaiming the brain
a salon for the soul
a machine to re-mind us who we longed to become
a clinic to re-vision the inner eye
workshops for re-assembling the split heart
a voyage of discovery to stimulate the inner voyeur
a retreat to repair, reorganize and replace genetic makeup
Which leads me to consider
who invented me in the first place?
who filled my DNA with my own me-ness?
Thus to make myself over again
must I act like a deity once removed?
If so, then
I must go out into the rain
let those sweet drops wash off
fear of failure from my skin,
let the wind blow hope back into my thoughts,
believe once again in the ultimate mystery of the moon
let the bread be the truth of my table and let the salt sing
of the beauty of daily-ness
allow sunrise to begin the day
know that sunset is inevitable
that the cold night can be warmed by the inner fire
know again that the river is never the same river, ever
Published in Rattle, May 2003
Ecstasy in Spring Seen Off the Salinas Highway
driving down Highway 68
I saw a man run and dance
in a field of purple-blue lupines
no doubt seduced by their mass of color
intoxicated by their honeyed breath
he stretched his arms unto the sky
his black business suit ballooned about his body
his tie took flight
the wind swirled into his coat
puffed up his pant legs
his leather briefcase flew open
releasing white papers
flying like miniature magic carpets
swooping and looping above the lupines
and he ran and whirled
whirled and ran right out of this world
into that other world
why oh modern dervish spinning all alone
why did I not stop to dance with you
On the Lace Lichen Trail
She Mourns a Tree after a Week of Storms
Off the trail another great pine massacred by wind
and rain. This great gray-chested body felled,
no longer a giant against the horizon.
Its ripped-out roots cemented with dried mud
and rocks, a fifty-fingered hand, raised
out of its element, clawing for the sky.
Who heard this tree crack, break, saw it sway
and swing down to death?
Nothing human maimed it, only the elements,
only life circling itself. Yet here, as if in the crook of its arm
a sticky-monkey-flower sprouts,
soon to blossom like honey from the ruins.
I too would settle into that nesty crevice, even would have waited
with you in the storm; hunkered down on the distant grasses
heard your creak and moan. In the terror of the wind
I’d shout out love to you to lighten the death
of your going down
and when the storms stopped I would have planted wild iris
in your earth; soothed you with the blue peace of ceanothus.
But, sooner than any star’s light reaches earth
our sun will dry your bones, rains soften your bark, creatures will
live in and off you, nest under your long trunk, until your remains
rise up in the heat of fire or your cells dissolve
into the earth. All of this, long after my voice has given up its song.
Lisa Meckel, a presenter for the Big Read honoring Robinson Jeffers, has been published in Rattle; Nimrod International Journal; on line: Rattle's Poem of the Day; Reed Magazine, San Jose State; Mirboo North Times, Victoria, Australia; Pennsylvania English and many more. Three times she received First Prize for Poetry from the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.
All night I’ve remained awake
thinking how to reinvent myself,
struggled with the wild possibilities
and the desperate impossibilities,
considered how to create this happening.
Perhaps:
a reinvention center for overripe women
a spa designed for reclaiming the brain
a salon for the soul
a machine to re-mind us who we longed to become
a clinic to re-vision the inner eye
workshops for re-assembling the split heart
a voyage of discovery to stimulate the inner voyeur
a retreat to repair, reorganize and replace genetic makeup
Which leads me to consider
who invented me in the first place?
who filled my DNA with my own me-ness?
Thus to make myself over again
must I act like a deity once removed?
If so, then
I must go out into the rain
let those sweet drops wash off
fear of failure from my skin,
let the wind blow hope back into my thoughts,
believe once again in the ultimate mystery of the moon
let the bread be the truth of my table and let the salt sing
of the beauty of daily-ness
allow sunrise to begin the day
know that sunset is inevitable
that the cold night can be warmed by the inner fire
know again that the river is never the same river, ever
Published in Rattle, May 2003
Ecstasy in Spring Seen Off the Salinas Highway
driving down Highway 68
I saw a man run and dance
in a field of purple-blue lupines
no doubt seduced by their mass of color
intoxicated by their honeyed breath
he stretched his arms unto the sky
his black business suit ballooned about his body
his tie took flight
the wind swirled into his coat
puffed up his pant legs
his leather briefcase flew open
releasing white papers
flying like miniature magic carpets
swooping and looping above the lupines
and he ran and whirled
whirled and ran right out of this world
into that other world
why oh modern dervish spinning all alone
why did I not stop to dance with you
On the Lace Lichen Trail
She Mourns a Tree after a Week of Storms
Off the trail another great pine massacred by wind
and rain. This great gray-chested body felled,
no longer a giant against the horizon.
Its ripped-out roots cemented with dried mud
and rocks, a fifty-fingered hand, raised
out of its element, clawing for the sky.
Who heard this tree crack, break, saw it sway
and swing down to death?
Nothing human maimed it, only the elements,
only life circling itself. Yet here, as if in the crook of its arm
a sticky-monkey-flower sprouts,
soon to blossom like honey from the ruins.
I too would settle into that nesty crevice, even would have waited
with you in the storm; hunkered down on the distant grasses
heard your creak and moan. In the terror of the wind
I’d shout out love to you to lighten the death
of your going down
and when the storms stopped I would have planted wild iris
in your earth; soothed you with the blue peace of ceanothus.
But, sooner than any star’s light reaches earth
our sun will dry your bones, rains soften your bark, creatures will
live in and off you, nest under your long trunk, until your remains
rise up in the heat of fire or your cells dissolve
into the earth. All of this, long after my voice has given up its song.
Lisa Meckel, a presenter for the Big Read honoring Robinson Jeffers, has been published in Rattle; Nimrod International Journal; on line: Rattle's Poem of the Day; Reed Magazine, San Jose State; Mirboo North Times, Victoria, Australia; Pennsylvania English and many more. Three times she received First Prize for Poetry from the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.