Poetry by Stephen Mead


Morning muffins, the sun striking tins
dull amid that sweet warm vapor as the radio,
the locusts hummed &, into mugginess,
I was borne adrift, loosened here & there by field breezes
plus one wade-able creek…

Mud becoming clay, a heron downstream,
suddenly some launched gawky pterodactyl
small against blotter-blue leaking like a page
upon brambles, thistle stalks, those growing
over woods…

there were
paths: the old railroad ties beyond corn tassels
the milkweed silk——paths remembering cows,
rabbits, rock fences, a grove of headstones…

Charcoal rubbings, finding the initials,
all brought back, spilled on the picnic table
with pockets of feathers, butterfly wings,
souvenirs marveled to gulps of ice tea,
that cool magnification. Poetic tension:
No, I wasn’t
sad yet, given
to some sulky
indulgence or a planet to escape from.
Instead, each
day was the Potomac
or an almost boat-less lake having
ferried off naval sails, soldiers bodies
into the forget of museum statues.

there were touches, giggles of lightning bugs
zipping out of jars & running seemed effortless
since flesh wasn’t for conquering, love, recreation.
Again, recollecting, I strip, dance on innocence here,
metropolitan-docked, while traffic backfires,
construction drills & I slip, feel your warmth,
its muffin sun of musky gliding so valiantly nude
in that fertile grass, that summer Aegean, that fur fur depot.

Kiss Me

It might be sordid, the bed spins and fingers
of impossibly gentle depravity You know
that of course, my prose-puckered lips
presently languishing silence except
for these brief exclamations,
these emissions of air.
How strange really
the way faces fit together,
a Jigsaw of angles scarcely aware
of the hazards of noses poking out
eyes. One must be anthropological,
objective, when studying the erogenous.
Either that, or Groucho Marx, in order
to keep perspective from flowing off
lost in a fluid of feeling which pays
therapist’s phone bills and lets
ghosts leak from mirrors.
Who are you? What a question
and what wants stampede to tear
asunder or reaffirm! Tongues of lust,
tender angel fire, the carnal mind
and loins of cannibals rationalizing
survival’s need with a virgin’s
merciful sensitivity spreading
fear, sacred tenderness, pure
as complications on this altar.
No. No. It’s quite simple.
I know how and the reasons why
cats purr. Their wisdom ripens,
mistletoe-right. It’s above us. close
as smoke. Am I looking too deeply?
Wait a minute. Don’t. Ok.
Come here.


About Stephen Mead

A resident of New York, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, and maker of short collage-films. Much can be learned of his multi-media work by placing his name in any search engine. His latest project, a collaboration with composer Kevin MacLeod, is entitled “Whispers of Arias”, a two volume CD set of narrative poems sung to music: http://stephenmeadmusic.weebly.com/.