Stephen Mead is a writer and artist living in northeastern NY. Links to his resume and some of his merchandise can be found via the links at the end of this document. We hope you enjoy the following poetry selections, accompanied by his fabulous artwork.

Stranded

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 

Copyright © 2006 Stephen Mead

Wind Come In

Come sweep this nothing,
This nothing as in the
Can Be,
This nothing as in the

Done,
Done as in rubble,
As in the futile,
As in the empty 

Where acceptance also
Meets clean resolve
To sift up the stars,
Those sand dollars,
That attainable beach
We can only find
By the knowledge of rowing. 

Wind, it is you & you alone
Who can now give our arms
That certain necessity 

Copyright © 2006 Stephen Mead

Forgiveness In Winter

I remember tenderness.
It's what's left after passion.
It's where passion starts.
You are a dream I've kept to myself.
You are a sin one needs to confess.
Having shunned telling, now how
sweetly I swell.

Forgiveness is a marvelous secret.
Its bliss lets both parties go
without guilt, finally off the hook
for their damnable feelings of wrong.
Once we entered one another like a cavern.
Darkness bended, became refuge.
You moved on, but the impression stayed.
Numbness hollowed it. Can that
chasm assuage, & you, why did you
think death could be selfless,
a vessel for the others sorrow
& the void of one you decided to leave?
Surviving, I've gotten on.
solace an overnight bag packed
before a sojourn in hell.
Descending to that realm
of our own ferocious conviction
of failure, forgiveness is a gift
we present to our souls. Can't we
accept it, compassion our spring
touchstone in this hibernate
winter cave?

Go ahead. Feel the thing.
The moss grows thick,
a furry cover for limbs
when hearth fires grow dim
& old ghosts are raised. 

Copyright © 2006 Stephen Mead

Reflecting

Tree shadows the snow holds
In moonlight’s bit of misty drizzle
Casting echoes across the lake…
Travel with that, an angel

Which the flakes make-----
Falling, beading, building, melting…
A tandem there near stillness
For its single spirituous continuity…

Should my spirit, the frame itself
Come apart, the emotional bones
Break away even while arcing arms
Out as wings back pressed against
The white
To eye glistening blackness,
Hear the muffled lapping water,
The feeling things of night,

Then perhaps I am the same
As these sane trees, the graceful
Hope of shades, friendly now,
Stirring
A millenia of crows turning
To swans

Across the face of time

Copyright © 2006 Stephen Mead

Artwork on this page © Stephen Mead
Please do not reproduce without permission