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. Recently his work has appeared in CROW NAME, WORDPEACE and DuckuckMongoose. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum - The Chroma Museum (weebly.com)
Does loving, merely feeling, make us what we are?
That's where pain abates or can be used.
People kiss on streets, weave backdrops for puppet theaters.
Meanwhile rain ripples,
is fabric, a sheer sound curtain.
Suddenly, out on the thoroughfare, a main bridge collapses.
We stand on the sidelines, assaulted, shocked, drowning emotionally.
Under such water I draw myself towards you,
a sea cow, a beacon.
Divers hunt for bodies. Sedatives get administered. Authorities notify kin.
Others, on-call, are a compiled stand-by stationed
to bring any possible gentle thing.
Their intentions drift soft as fog
over an erupting volcano.
Living as a grocery list, or reading one,
the basic sustenance, true music with each book
opened, each page to find a face in
between digging under couch cushions for change...
There's a painting in this, the act of a hand
waltzing with its edges to resemble a freedom
time does not totally steal.
Here I meet your outline & try entering it,
pulling the fit round as the pod of a bean.
There's really no distinguishing separateness
any more. Your needs & ability to ripen,
your risk of withering, match my every length
as a hostage to the future.
Likewise delivered, held by the weight
& the waiting, light pours through the room
for every chance & its absence
to reconcile realization.
Who, what will accomplish this deed?
Here, scribble supplies: bread, milk, toothpaste.
Here, open a book. Let your music swim in
& ingredients mingle.
The stock must be much, blessed despite lacks
& the struggle for other blessings.