For bristles you could use dune grass, dried
Pine needles, eucalyptus leaves.
For bristles you could use anything,
Your fingers themselves petals, expressive
Grace & falling light....
It caught dusk & a lurid gleaming pool hall.
Then there’s the stars erupting across canvasses,
A bridge, a cypress, divine mad illumination
Recorded in a portrait by your candle-brimming
Hat. Glory
Burns, is a toll taking creativity to the gaze
Of some prostitute, sea captain, a mere bed post
& chair, the fire scratched & instilled even amid
Windows, an asylum’s: barred.
How did conversion sneak in, a church seen
At sun down, soothing, lush, but
Intense simultaneously?
Was it too much—
This grasp, these visions, a harbinger,
Compounded, grounded out, all of it,
In that last frenzied soul cry of a sky & field
Filled with crows.

Copyright 2006,  Stephen Mead

Stephen Mead is a published artist/writer living in northeastern New York. His artwork can be seen at http://www.absolutearts.com/portfolios/s/stephenmead and http://www.123soho.com/members/stephen_mead. Stephen also has several pieces online at www.scars.tv,http://scars.tv/ccdissues/mead.htm. These pieces incorporate both image and text as does his e-book, “We Are More Than Our Wounds,” published June, 2004, http://www.newagedimensionspublishing.com/wearemorethanourwounds.htm.


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