Mud Pies and Bones: Writing and Art

from the Rocky Mountains

Lucy Simpson

Lucy Simpson
Monument, Colorado, United States
December 20
The Cleaner
I am a published poet and exhibited artist living in the shadow of the small, but lovely Mount Herman, a part of the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. I raise children, tend gardens, cook, write, clean, sculpt, read.....................................................................................


Lucy Simpson's Links
APRIL 30, 2012 6:17PM

A Pacifist Shops in a Military Town

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Wolf spiders hop between the knuckles
of a thirsty Chinese Elm

Her hair is perched on her head like a well-oiled cat
in this blue-holy-hour-chapel-quiet
Sleep the murmuring noon bees

Little children are dying somewhere
as sky tallow melts over red rocks
The keys to the garden are out of reach

Our leaders, should they get a splinter,
they kill a forest, while we continue to
to watch children chase ice-cream trucks

These soldiers once were
children seated in the crooks of trees 
the whorl imprint of bark on their legs

the wood of grandmother's bones
Their own bones were green saplings
They loved the dry husk of a grandfather's kiss

This is the same story differently dressed
The bones of the whales in the corsets
still carry the song

Tin blue light with a bit of copper gone green
as the old washboard sits in the basement, rusting
Each one mourned a youth

She wears a dress, purple as a newly-hatched eggplant,
as she rings up my purchase of bearded parsnip roots.
The soldiers in desert fatigues are coming or going.


This also was a dream of my childhood,
to see the world.

Ditties came over in steerage with the taste of brine in them
withers of brindled light in afternoon
Remember your green youth-suit

that sacristy of wild birds
you held in your rib cage
until night came and 
you could dream-fly
past the rafters

If grandmother could stitch you together, she would
sew back on your arms and legs
Your lover would lick the apple from your lips

Bomb blasts creep note by note up each your vertebrae
as lark buntings flit past
I want to tell you
that you shall be the bear who marries the maiden
as the old tale goes 

Your mother smelled of bic pens and the ocean
You carry that with you
as the tawny dry grasses softy sing

Lucy Simpson, 4/2012

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