Poetry by Stephen Mead

                          Matt Niemi CC



​​Gone

Mostly it's said softly, 
in preparation for the break 
which may or may not come. 
It isn't always easy to tell. 
Sometimes those most together 
fall apart first. Other times
they remain touchstones all 
pieces gather to. 
You may know this scenario. 
It's like someone stepping out. 
Be back later.
It's like someone taking a nap. 
Wake me in a while, and
perhaps we're the ones sleeping, 
walking somewhere else, and
perhaps the gone are just 
like us, 
at first closed & then, 
business as usual, going,
going on.





Loneliness (I)

Doorway faces, lamps behind…
in an application, an I.D., a welfare 
line again and (it seems) 
without proper credentials.
Not enough schooling. Photo copies won't do. 
Payment misplaced. Take these forms…
The stunning reruns, the numbing embarrassment... 
Tread block upon block for another delayed train, 
the waiting hunger, the listen, stand here, somebody's talking---

"Well it turns out she didn't have ovarian cancer, 
just--what do you call it--polyps. But her boyfriend already took off. 
Always was a creep. Saw him outside the Paradise. 
Butter melting in his mouth, that smooth. 
Could've knocked me over, & her four months on the way…"

These are tough birds, pretzel-arms, oil patterns 
on puddles, companions: books (time willing), 
a matinee on rainy days (want popcorn?),
a place in the sun



Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer.  Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online.  He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum  
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