Saturday, November 01, 2003

Stephen Mead


The beaten urn, dug up…
The trace of sun in a garden shed,
Through hair, on hands-----
How rich this, this minor
Chord played well, with distinction.
If the gleam could become a sweater
Who would not find the fit right,
Feel that all-over-touch & pull
Such shape closer
Little caring how it might sag?
So our bodies, our baggage,
Pounded, refined & worn
For the wearing can still
Cast a light
With the wrinkles vainly saying:
"Look at us, us crags of stars!"
& we must look, touch, anoint
Because the glow is everything
Good darkness is known by


      For Otto Levi

Night can be the best time,
Unless it is too clear.
Then we can't use flashlights
In case of overhead planes.
Also, when it is winter
The cold can interrogate &
There's no leaves for camouflage.
Smoke is the best insulator,
But can be seen, smelled &
The snows, melted,
Burn, cramp.
All in all, for sustenance
One only has skin, skin &
Animal senses. Thinking
Is a byproduct if danger
Doesn't turn desperation
To fuzz…

Once I was in such thick,
Feverish from a bullet &
The nightmare of how it came.
That happened at night too.
That happened but we managed
To cobble back health real as
Terror's hunger
Is necessary for revolutions

Or so I keep repeating
Since hope must

Have a reason
& the feet of life


Waiter On The Water

The night you became a messiah
I started to notice more.
The first thing was this path,
Your basic slab, fairly short & made
Of how many poured stones?
Anyway, it shone incredibly
Where you stood, where you left,
The dark wet grass on either side
Composed of city clover, small tufts
With white buds, hundreds

Stars, in fact, a perfect
Match where I laid down,
Where I was raised up.
There was a soft rain drifting, that kiss
Of mist one could live in
Quite comfortably admiring
Traffic lights, their celestial glow &
Distant buses & yellow cabs passing

Except you waved your palms over,
An al most touch, the fingers so open,
The skin so close & I rose towards your face,

That embrace of waiting eyes

Stephen Mead is a freelance artist/writer living in northeastern N.Y., over the past few years I have exhibited art both throughout N.Y., and in Provincetown, M.A. In the early 1990's I was also published in several little literary magazines, stopped to pursue visual work, and in 2001 began seeking publication again.

Clemente Padin Stephen Mead Colin Van der Woude Christopher Barnes Dave Ruslander

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