Rain Prayers
Each bead meeting its twin here in this pool is a benediction beginning
And God knows I have gratitude for the umbrellas, the rubbers,
the laying on of it.
Last Fall trickles in sheets, in coolness, all the aggie a cleansing eye
clear in my view of park greens & sailing blossoms showering senses
with scents of Magi in May.
My skin is these tulips, my mouth, that magnolia
with the rain its own shroud, a second perfumed cocoon.
I will wear it in holiness envisioning fireflies of buttery neon.
They flutter & plunge to become, in the puddles, Van Gogh street lamps.
Did Vincent ever pray for such whilst bursting with glorious worlds?
Look, the watercolour, the drizzling drops is the coat of Joseph
answering that question.
Sweet Fog Again
Our car is in its own pocket.
We are seeds between the steering wheel,
the fastened seat belts, & all of this hush
is creating some other earth.
Is it not heaven then,
the paradise of this mist?
I love the hovering that cloaks,
Love the gray spray & seagull tenderness.
Enough. It is enough
to send me back on the path I left behind,
enough to hold me, a kept promise, & if I do get,
stay lost there
then breathe me as you pass
to know such veils, such presences of comfort
which may have even once been mine.
-Stephen Mead
Having worked a variety health care and Civil Service jobs to pay the bills, Stephen Mead, now retired, always managed to squeeze out time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this work. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, an online site depicting artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organisations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/
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