Stephen Mead



This is amorphous
but has shape certainly.
Think of oil on the rolling olive,
the salt of it there
before taste even.
On the tongue comes deserts
but of dates and figs too
in the shade of azure vines.

What defines a conjuring
to any Antigone
with her missing brother's body
still there to be bathed
though so unseen?

Here decreeing it unlawful
only sharpens the mind's light
but the clarity is not blinding,
only a confetti of peace doves
over a map the heart holds
like that particular home found
in the lamp of another's face.

So are we glowing
liquid gas to nebulae mercury
in energy's ions
of this world's invisible
glass paperweight shaking.

Listen within the looking
and feel the life,
feel the life
true as Agnus Dei.



The Bell of Mindfulness
is what Buddhism tells of
for us seeking peace
as a forehead hand.
Yours is laid blue
as a dove's shadow
and from it comes the quiet
where I can hear song
as prayers.
Then the visions come
true as stepping stones
just barely visible
under rapids.
This name, that
catches up to the faces
as breeze to leaves
in the reeds of these bones.
Blow on souls
so that my own
spirit's straw
turns to transparent pewter
and tongue in the mouth of god


As a writer and artist publishing for the last three decades, Stephen Mead thinks his bio reads akin to the lines of Emily Dickinson: "I am Nobody. Who are you?", which puts him in good company with all the other struggling creators out there. At this point, having reached the age of 50, he is reconciled to the fact that his art will never sell or even change lives dramatically but is grateful that The Leslie Lohman Museum has accepted the bulk of his art as an estate donation. Still, Googling the words "Stephen Mead Art", a person will be able to find links to his multi-media works and sometimes the semblance of a tip jar.

He can be reached at
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