The Driven
Wipers, the windscreen,
voice-
less but
the syncopation, tribal----
Something is drumming,
depositing its bond, name-
less, a weatherscape-----
Hands, paws, hooves, fins…
each not a mimicry just
functions air and terra firma
swish with the sluice work
of.
No wonder
I love
the geography of bodies,
our squabbles never eternal
severance.
Could life die due to a mood?
The wheeling, galactic axis
pivots on waiting
for global recognition-----
We You Me
are one as grass, stars &
fish,
all incapable of really being
each other but
glimpsed still perhaps
where arcs pass
& expand
Voices
Off
Dreams
are the genius of a secret tongue
in
the incoherency of sleep. Every
body
needs this and perhaps that other thing
some
still believe in and call the spirit.
Flesh
and bone, animate that!
Note
the sense of wonder which comes
from
sparrows in shrubs of parking lots.
What
worlds they create amid the tossed
bottle
caps and passing traffic's miasma.
What
else is felt from the peripheral,
that
not-quite oblivious mind's eye corner
keeping
proximity in check
with
enough distance to bluff:
do not touch?
Oh,
go for it.
It
might not always be painful or dangerous
despite
what genetic defense says to survive.
So
the self opens for larger selves in the world
and
suddenly more than one of them too.
Here
quietness dances in tandem
with
the acknowledgement
of
what also may be bountiful amid
every
ongoing variety of tragedy.
Take
that
cemetery
where picnic blankets
are
smorgasbord-spread and extra plates set
for
the absent that are back, celebratory
with
pinwheels spinning, fresh English ivy,
wild
violets planted galore.
It
is some sort of pageant
even
those solitary skeletons tossed adrift as
forgotten,
unloved to begin with
may
be moved by through the rocky earth's
opposite
tenderness
when
turned over as silt.
Shovel,
hoe, pick-axe
excavate
the invisible kites dreamt about
from
every slumbering grave
gone
from nightmares to untroubled skies,
stars,
suns, endless at last.
A
resident of NY, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and
writer. Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing
his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to
have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014 he
began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as
Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry
on the Line, Stephen Mead -- For links to his other media (and even merchandise)
please feel free to Google Stephen Mead Art.
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