And Anyway, Angels


And Anyway, Angels


this is the continuing litany of my walking prayers -

prayer, the lips in annunciation to the airstream

where my chin hits its pride shattering the glass jaw.


Now the head goes floating off & stars come out.


Surely the fall was worth all this -

the knowledge of a garden god.


Yes, to you of the trowel I give my atoms as seeds

through hands.  Here's how we each are born

to this lamp-planet with its halo universe of shining motes

god wears all the accessories of, vast in that habitat

of breathing, stretching, tilling, god dancing

as a fiddler-Chagall, & I will find myself a cat burglar

by night sneaking clippings of my neighbor's poppy pods.


Yes, if I am mad as my felines purring rampant in their nocturnes

where wisteria petals grow like whale tails through surf,

then my turf will be blessed too in its exchange of obsessions.


God helps peel their shedding skins by the blows, the falls,

& after I've been kicked down, humbled enough;

after I've learned these acts are only prayer

turned over as a turtle on its back to the fertile sun,

will god walk through the floating votives of my fears?


 Stephen Mead


Resident Artist & Curator for the online Chroma representations of LGBTQI persons and organizations predominantly before Stonewall, Stephen Mead has been a published outsider artist/writer going on thirty years now. He is immensely grateful to the myriad publications who have presented his work over this timespan, and given his need to create a voice of support.  Recently he has had work published in The Pinecone Review and Neologism Poetry Journal.

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