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Poetry/visual art by Stephen Mead 

Stephen is a freelance artist living in New York.  His work has been exhibited from various places in New York to Provinceton, MA.  He also writes poetry, often accompanying his visual art.




All work is property of Stephen Mead.  © 2003/2004

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Feel Your Life

More moon-ruled,
Sign of tides,
The blood's amazing waves.
Insight, the guidance of, &
All that 'no dark art' should you
Become just a cup.

Feel that it holds-----
The contained, the giving mouth,
Sides for the clasping, round rim open,
The depths full but still capable
Of more brimming should the flow
Shining in, echo radiance back.

Love, what to do with such a vessel,
Vulnerably wide-eyed, yet with the voice
Of Edith P.?

Sing of it only.  Sing what you feel.






Come Snow, Come Shine



And Gave My Body To The Night

This canvas.
This depth
& now
To have become any shade
For the stretches-----
These red lights, these cypress arms,
These rising stones of so many buildings
Where light pours out & up-----
I open to them, unboxed.
I moon-bathe against the rocks.
I do the silhouettes dance & manage
The city's mouth of expansion
Stark with such intimacy
Shivering to the core..
Love, what gifts in the towers
Of vigilant eyes, the lamp-flames,
The tongues star-calling.
Love, to it all, my glass body spreads
& yet stays to what

darkness is a form









The knees,
The certain leaving on,
The pulling out,
The own rejection
& seduction to do this-----
Tremble without trust,
Want without knowing,
Explore what isn't sin.
You say I was the cause
& yet we undressed each other.
You say you do not need
Yet keep turning up
& I, left
Shaken, wondering
Where my strength is
Each time you come
Beyond the fantasy,
The ignored door
Where I stand to know
This dream won't be
My anthem








Sleeping With Stone

Good boulder, shoulder-snug
& the head goes on, sooth sayer listening
To what rain as song, what ages of weather
The wise rock contains.

It passes hues through one's dreams, multi-lit.
It is all the colors of Easter, as two marbles fit
The palm, as the smoothest, the sheerest shale
Cools fever from eyes.

All visionaries know heat as the journey
Of a pair of shoes cast upon water,
As a lover's arms seen from a tree
& the hands open wide for the wind
going:  trust.

So one's body jumps, leaping as spirit
Or becomes those
Moccasins floating
To farther shores

& a stone whispered of all of this,
a stone foretold how the world would go on






All work is property of Stephen Mead.  © 2003/2004


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