Poems by Stephen Mead

0
8
Pic by Steve A Johnson

 

 

 
 
Frailties
                                                                            
Hovering:  the wings, the invisibilities speeding car-true
as the one within the ambulance…
“What?” – these novenas.  “What” – these things as screams, 
as whispers ask; don’t they? And she is no prophet,
she of the arrest, cardiac, the traffic makes way for.
 
Will there be halls white & faithful for the angels passing
either starched or soft?  Will there be tables & wheeling,
machinery & volts?  Will there be a return as Houdini
& the providence of green lights waiting to go?
 
My god, in this same second, a good woman rooms away,
her breathing slips from coma & her whole spirit drifts.
My god, in this same moment my lover shifts from our bed
discovering a lump on his stomach—–
 
Wings, invisibilities hovering:  the light speed,
the celestial flash, & where the mild, the tender, the blessed?
 
Hands on the steering wheel, hands on the oxygen,
hands for the towel bringing the steam of tea,
the compress of ice…
 
Is it all pus & plasma, all the frailty of a razor’s edge?
 
God, perhaps there are no angels except
for the ones in our faces & yet, needing the myths,
we reach, we ask.
 

 
Cold Feet                                                                    
                                                                    
You keep warming,
placing flames upon ankles until we are two
combined kite strings & I no longer recognize
where your hovering stops.
 
Angels descending?  Angels on the rise?
In your gaze – myself- I hardly know what direction
we are assuming as the course frightens me
into escape plans & your steadiness encourages me
that you only risk the same.
 

                                         
 
Dark Dancer
 
What color am I,
                   am I color now?
 
This language must change,
                                change language,
language become color,
become several more
 
at least
at least.
 
Will color say it
                   say it ever color –
                   Will words?
 
Color, will words.
Words, will color.
 
Color.  Words.  Will.
 
You got the power.
You got the force
& I want the light dark dances.
 

About the Author
 
Stephen Mead is a retiree whom, throughout his employment still found time for creativity. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art (Art Collection from Stephen Mead) . He is also the resident artist/curator for the Chroma Museum