Poetry



Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

 

The Hair Cut
Stephen Mead


Some music is visible,
Growing slowly from roots.
So, a movement, your hair grew to you.
Was going around like that
near to towing an orchestra?
Or was it more an extra limb,
Breathing legacy's braids?
It's not that I see you as Samson.
For one thing, the sex is wrong.
For another, even if bald you'd be
melodious.


Call me nostalgic.  I still love how
the tied beads, as if by training,
swung round from your pig tail
to strike me like a meteor.
I know it was accidental but, going back,
did you find it hard to be
recognized always by long locks?


When the trademark went
what were you shucking?
Beauty as weight?  Blonde as a noose?
Was it ritualistic, a passage-rite, liberation,
a kicked-habit?
Whatever, whatever.
Enough questions.  Enough.

So, a first visit, feeling like misfits,
we went to the hair dressers,
that salon Of the mod. 

Blow dryers?  Mousse?
How could one admit to not having
the tools, being new to the tongue?
Poor Hans, man of the shears,
nearly did a wig flip.

My sister, you're iconic.
I knew this while watching, inwardly
feeling the snipping, & you, & you,
facing the prophet mirror, witnessing
the act, what a Mozart conductor

what a lost piece by Stravinsky
finally revealed.

Of course, going home to wash out
The gel, the starch spray, (put out
that cig), the aerosol nets, 'til
you were you were your own hair again

is what proved the myth real.

 

*****

 

In Orbit
Stephen Mead

Turn, turn, I know this lamp,
how it made waves move,
a lighthouse blink & ships
come in on my parent’s dresser
at the bottom of my childhood
W
where the dark sprang to life.

Sitting on shoes, on clothes piles,
model planes, the radio
gave a theme & those days
became a space ship
hurling through worlds
by closing the door.

Matchbook miniatures,
cat eye marbles, their gleaming,
all the little things gleaming, each
flash-lit instant dreaming life,
life dreamt on
beyond what was unspeakable,
                             & cut deep.

Experience/innocence,
the imagination juggles   turns
turns   a lamp   scenes
on the shade   my radio   listen
revolutions revealed   & leaving
we do not   cast the light
elsewhere   closing

come reflections from the distance.



*****

Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer and maker of short collage-films living in NY.  His latest Amazon release, “Our Book of Common Faith”, a mix of poetry and art, explores world religions/cultures in hopes of finding what might bond humanity as opposed to causing suffering and wars.

*****

to the top...