Stephen Mead
Praying
World fall, world to hold & take my hand,
the whispered plea & take my hand,
the assurance said. Simple. It is so simple.
Find yourself a Banyan by becoming one.
Find yourself as limbs outstretched,
clasping the sky. Also, there’s the lying,
being the stream beside, being the bank.
Also, there’s the carving, the flesh itself
a porous clay cup, kiln-resilient yet giving heat.
Also find yourself perhaps as a sun-umbrella
issuing the right shade, the right light.
Offer now. Here, take, for what are we
but the planet’s wafers? And what are we
but the future’s roots going seed, seed, seed?
So earth greets the universe & faith shapes time.
So your fingers are your own & my fingers, the same.
Unrequited
Mustn’t mention it.
There’s no mass appeal.
Reveal the reviled
and the underground turns
sour, vomits toadstools, grubs.
How humorless are such
adornments, dipped pearls
for a choker. Wear the sores
then, oh leprous one!
Cafes close their doors,
haven’t any vacant tables,
(or so swears the maitre de’).
Beaches roll up the ocean.
Cinemas hang notes, “Sold
Out!” Move along you, you
never a critic’s darling, never
falling out of favor.
There’s something else
choosing you, a scrawl of initials
on locker room walled joined only
to blank space starting to rust.
Other sophomoric graffiti surrounds
that, desperate couplets one day
painted over as you stand,
a birch with bark nearly bare
except for the curve of this
heart, half-carved.
Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that, his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these day jobs he was able to find time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this work. Currently, he is a resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, showcasing artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, and organizations/allies predominantly before Stonewall
