Nancy L. Meyer

Nancy L. Meyer, she/her, intrepid cyclist, lazy cook, and grandmother of five is from Portola Valley. Nominated twice for both Pushcart and Best of the Net, she has published in 10 anthologies and over 50 journals including the Colorado, Laurel, Madison, McNeese, Stonecoast and Sugar House Reviews, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sheila Na Gig and Tupelo Quarterly. Her first full-length collection, The Stoop and The Steeple, was published in September 2024 by Frog on the Moon. She is a recipient of Hedgebrook Residency. http://www.nancylmeyer.com and @nancylmeyerpoet

Poems

Perennial Conundrum

My garden’s runnelled by gophers and moles,
chomped by deer, mown down by rabbits.
Even the birds peck the grass to its nubs.

Yet I suck color like a hummingbird fueling—trumpet vine
to penstemon to the faded Rose of Sharon dangling
from its spikey green. Lean toward the white froth of
buffalo grass, soft as a shaving brush on my cheek.

Salmon oleander flounces, moss blushing green
under its hem. O spicy lavender, salvia
rocketing blue to the sky. How can I sit here
without bursting into song?

Beyond my hedge, red-tails soar, live oak careen
up the ridge, give way to toyon, madrone and redwood
before they all dip to the surge of the grey Pacific.

Let me munch wild sorrel, lie under the eye
of the hovering osprey, yip back at the yellow-
grey coyote. I shake the golden oats like castanets,
a dog, I roll in wild mint. If only I could pull this whole
cloak up to my ears.

Marooned on the chaise, even lifting my pen
a sacrilege.

This poem first appeared in Sand Hill Review (2016).

HOW MIGHT YOU UNCOVER A NEST?
After Wendy Videlock, How You Might Approach A Foal

like a mistral,
like an eagle,
like you

are part tide
and part sunrise,
like look here!

like you
had always
followed your nose

or composed sonatas,
like a controlled burn,
like snowmelt,

like your father
wove you a net
for butterflies

you twirled as you ran,
like you
will always smell

a clump of moss or
the beach at night,
like an astronaut

like jackstraws
like you
are a dowsing rod

This poem first appeared in The Centrifugal Eye (2015).

UNDERSIDES

Lie under a stand of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Five-foot tall, blooms raised like candelabras.
Look up at their undersides. Light
pierces each floret, tattoos
your cheek, frilly.

Quiet, hear the bluster of bees.
If the ground is not lumpy
under your spine, rest long enough
to inhale the astringent stalks
stroke their hairy length.

Maybe a friend lies with you, little
fingers touching along the sides,
palms sensing the first warmth
of the soil in spring. Play along
the rim of a fingernail. Raise

your clasped hands and sing
You Are My Sunshine. Sing it
before you feel foolish.
Or tell stories
dizzying over and over

down grassy slopes until
you create a new world.
Sit up, a happy sick swirl
back when
that sensation was fun.

Before you notice the itch
from the grass or mind
the stains on your shorts.
Lie here long enough
to contemplate why

you don’t usually
lie on the ground
under Queen Anne’s Lace.
Why not?
since you are happy now.
just imagining it.

This poem first appeared in BeZine (2019).

Poems

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