Stephen Mead

`Informal Haiku Mason jars, Blue green reflections, Over walls, Shades of leaves Winds softly fan, Sift quietness, Fill the room, this Space-----There?s no sound of traffic, The lisp of the air conditioner----- No, here there is only This near stillness, the petals Glass muffled, a very selfless Hush. So Shadow ghost life, but vessel Brimful, content, I learn what Silhouettes teach & how to be Smaller than these slight slight Rustles`
	How The Untitled Forms Umbrellas, fallen flowers Under pines on the front lawn? The wet wet grass is not responsible For such littered vestiges left bent & pale? Street lamps light raindrops on stretched Nylon skin, on sheer oriental shapes? By morning they?ll seem sculptured----- Petals snatched from wind & thrust Against earth, a nature-made commentary About patterns within force?. Like this, we too are tossed Out onto the night, yet come together Again as something of beauty, Glistening mortal & imperfect, But somehow strangely transformed By the very act of going through That weather, that storm, that air
`Human Interest Reading through the paper, Light shining behind the lines----- These words are pentimentos Reflective for the old questions: "Out there?what is happening?" I know I do not know Except occasionally----- Jet stream fed Yet incapable of holding Stopping time bursting: Goose bumps, the skin?s fiery Liquid, faster than sound, even Earth movement-----These clouds We roots, ink Stitched, shape space by although, That too is beyond Our knowledge & grasp.`
	My Angels Have wrinkles & are tired. "It?s like having x ray sight," they say, "looking into time." Still, how uncanny, to behold feelings Like vetch, to tune in on the hive?s Homing signal, eavesdrop on thoughts, Dream lover dialogues, the lonely solidarity Of humans talking, (all at once), To themselves? To exist, to exist, is the manna of hands, The cause of life tossed from rooftops & caught as laundry intertwining each border. No, it?s not a psychic?s grasp. Here history is present & the future An opinion formed by the forecast of Perspective angling views to an Eiffel? Perched there, near, my angels are Your angels, believers unseen. Once they were pedestrians, now, voyeurs, Sky patrollers, they fly----- That wing of warmth at your back, Or throb of rain, Subsiding.