Stephen Mead


Stephen Mead is an artist/writer living in northeastern NY. His artwork can be seen in the portfolio section of Absolute Arts, http://www.absolutearts.com/portfolios/s/stephenmead,and 123soho.com/members/stephen_mead. He also has several title pieces of e books online at www.scars.tv,http://scars.tv/ccdissues/mead.htm. These pieces incorporate both image and text. His address is-

Stephen Mead
108 Pinehurst Ave.
Albany, NY 12203
mead815@yahoo.com






  Reverie

Snow blue, china white,
The December weather, the extra
Rain cape sudden as that squall,
As the Orientalís good face, hands,
Offering, hooding me, brushing
The flakes, saying:
"take, take, you need"
& disappearing onto the hissing
Bus, into the winter landscape


Dance

Pain, the up-
ward thrust root-
ing veins and ex-
panding past this-----
spirit gliding in a stride
still for a minute

the minute lasts-----
an embrace the flesh
does not cease to reach for



With Apologies

On a tightrope I might be very large
Throwing my own dice above the astonished
Audience & a circle of clowns busy with craps.

Those faces of dots mean a lot to me
Despite a certain resemblance here
Where I've a double shadow & near vertigo
Pins each feature, stills the space, fixes
This circus.

Yet I can imagine take-off so easily,
The tornado's vortex bringing the frozen lights high
With each of us juggled pearls from a snapped strand,
Each an afloat astronaut...

To be so in orbit, to rise beyond such paralysis
With every step precariously placed, & then
Just jump upward held up by the thinness
That is actually thick gauze...

Oh what sacrifice I would make to be 747 arms!


Bitter Harvest

Vena Amora, vein of everything
Feeling love straight
Through this wrist,
The rolled up sleeve-----
Statue arm, bare & white
With marble mottling.
A bottle of life, in
The genie blood beats
Baring memory,
Each now a Sanskrit
Of free fancy cats & how,
As wildflowers, we play
In the sway of breeze
Grave-blooming every spring
The earth turns its fertility up again,
An urn harvest sweet
Despite what pain
Our unforgettable skin bled
Over hands laid pressed
As flower petals in a book
Resting.

 


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