Earthly

This bowl still holds the fingerprints & hands of a friend
which pinched the rim of its clay to the organic roundness
of a generous floral opening. Her breath polishes the patina,
bringing the maker who molded it as an essence still to this place.
To hold it is to know the assurance of just the right amount of weight
for palms its base clasps with coolness
though with the kiln fire of centuries.

How humanely sacred is that opening circular as a nesting doll
in a doll going on infinitesimally eternal
with the knowledge of small things.
Come, treasure trinkets, reveal what’s in the gleaming
of a pearl on that long pin for a weapon or for fastening
all the splendor which can fit in pockets filled with walk collections
of bird feathers, shore shells & stones of fossil-intrigue
piling in old cigar/shoe/hat boxes or suitcases.

Each is a sealed secret diorama down the rabbit hole of Alice’s
bookcase lined with storeys of stories
to ascend in when lifting lids, clicking brass locks
& the ah of sprung hinges to sift through & rummage.
What clonable skin cells, hair, in these letters’ envelopes yet fold.
What snapshots & negatives even tucked in manila
by the saliva lick or brown bottle glue.
What cards for all occasions once knew of Post, time & date,
while stamps saved for collages now pour from sleeves.

Dust spinning is nostalgia so go take the sentimental journey
which meant living there in all the inherited rhinestone keepsakes
fit for a drag queen patching elegance from the ragbag,
the makeshift costumes of thrift. It is all a globe paperweight contained
in rainbow carnival glass hearts & stones weather carved aortic in shape
arrowhead-true under museum glass valuing the craft of cultures,
private & worldly.

What a ball again of glamour- shimmer from such Peace & Love pins,
such protests of pride in love as passionate politics but going beyond,
kite higher than the spirits of groupies,
magnet riding on fridges with art done by kids,
a trip between poles, opposition attracting
now around watch fobs, thimbles, marbles, dice
& every key of strings, skeletal, fitting doors no one now knows
but beholds the let go of somewhere yet still
with the power of making believe.



Ethereal

Is to light a cigarette & fart simultaneously to risk spontaneous combustion?

Such are the thoughts plaguing insomniacs who know also poetry
can only metaphorically feed multitudes. Better rely on what common sense
specialists and researchers have left hereabouts if not silenced
by those conspiracy theorists who purposely obfuscate
for greedy politicians in the pockets of some gun industry
or other capitalist complex money greases the machine of
all the world over to the cost of the planet and living things most in need.

Oh shut up, Mr. Didactic, jaundiced by the madness
of too many realities raging all at once.

Quit turning over & over, kicking at covers & lacking human-race faith.

Why not find that lamp switch in this umbrella under a dark cloud everywhere
inclement weather hovers & lands singing symbolic as raindrops on the head?
Yes, a lantern radiance now comes down as orbs from the tough nylon folds
windproof, waterproof & surely bulletproof also,
to make wandering faces light sources in silhouette profiles
lost among star boulevards these strangers crisscross.

It is so much better to float into levity light as helium
for high cartoon voices cracking each other up.
It is so much healthier to put on fantasy’s cap & nap
when sudden solar heat bursts in converting all full-proof parasols
into charred sticks which smoke, poof-puff…

Yes, so open arms here, now billow,
land like a parachute hugging coolness from jungle green
on either side still after another thundering Summer squall.

Ah, but what sun shone yet in that downpour, though oddly no rainbow
despite oil slick puddles quickly sucked up by dust.

Drought makes shade a mirage oasis climbing over like clover
white to the purple feverish visions make lavender
as distance rolls sweet with Monarchs and bees hill upon hill.

Dream paradise pastorally with purpose, again angel.
Fly lucid through this age of escape hatches to be made
astronaut-true with one mission to rescue existence as all.

Solar Crayon

This is the light of a child’s hand that could also be found in an adult’s
with the crayon actually at least a whole paint box
since whatever it touches begins to radiate.

As usual, life mixes metaphors up a bit for here now the paper itself sketches ailanthus,
that true tree of heaven, a scrubby offshoot through cracked asphalt
& broken glass, taking pollutants from air.

It too then glows with its own logic, a pylon senses seize.

Feel that vibrancy pure from such rough bark perhaps glorious with pigeons
when consciousness is just on the rim of sleep in pre-dawn.

It is a bell’s pewter in hue or the dove-pearl of some luminous being.

Touch the sentient sentinel reassuring that the day may be alright
even in an office cube’s boring salvation where an FM station plays classical
by composers centuries hold the covenant of.

A book at lunchtime is another incentive.

Aren’t your fingers bright while turning the pages
& dreaming worlds that words gleam?

Surely each visionary picture has the sun’s goodness,
& you as well then, are a synthesis photo.

About the Author:

Stephen Mead, resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum which archives artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, 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 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 trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs, https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead.

Feature image by Yosh Ginsu on Unsplash