You Returned

Stephen Mead

my body to me.

The opening opened well,

the bone house gone moss,

the fog assumptions of sun,

sun shapes everywhere,

& each a mouth. Deep south,

the small moans, all stems sprouting,

covering touch, touch covered them,

air on buds given back to the roots

wet with lit indigo, purple, ruby,

the darkness of blood

glowing life, life glowing

as you went, as your were meant to

because our bodies are partly gifts

& for moments, only for moments,

are the packages whole.

Sitting in the Rain

Stephen Mead

No umbrellas or plastic Five & Dime hat,

these drops the best cover, & it is listening to open,

this being lake-wide, this sponge-skin of receiving

tongues washing right down, grooving to the deep

sweet lucidity rising, expanding, a slipping in to sing

these arias that do not keen.

Resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com, Stephen Mead is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs, Art Collection from Stephen Mead.