Ariel’s Mission

This tree giant knows me

& the grasses I pass upon

looking to ignite brooks.

Listen, I’m calling

through the sudden undulation

of leaves.

Is it some sea sound 

or else; stranger:

Soft whispers, candles in petals

placed on a lake?

How they float to anoint senses,

a hushed travelling dream talk

that falls with a clash—–

Tempest, sudden tempest

on the brightening horizon.
Such a wind is astonishing!

It is I, Ariel’s, the siren’s—–

Are you not awestruck?
Once a pine kept me captive.

I bet you can scarcely fathom,

that for twelve years I lived done up,

wrenched in by bark,

the distorting, the twisted twigs.

Then some great sorcerer

got hold of me.

I flew to his bidding,

released by the energy

that inhabits all oceans.
Now, as an enchantress.

there’s an even greater prophesy

to fulfill, to ride

both one with the elements

& that rest in a song’s shell—–

Otherworldly, loving, loving

whatever planet, whatever dove wings.

whatever bat radar—–

In daytime, in night,

the very air breathed

is my dancing

& it costs,
believe me, believe.



Star Dazed

What river is that snaking above

or is it the reptile itself blue as glitter glue

an invisible tube squeezed the stars out of?

Look at that flow spiral, an undulation 

held still by some great creative hand

to fashion the canvas of the night

between these two mountains here.

Eyes grasp the heights of the cliffs 

and crags edging asymmetrical

where they formed and broke away

as glacial continents magma somehow made.

These are warm still, vermillion-hued

as the richest of clay purple itself could shape

if its shadows were a color 

and not the absence of light.

Still, how physical if surreal 

the whole scene feels

cropped by hands way down at the bottom

framing this sight as if squinting.

Sense the surrounding valley of crevices

less damp than dry with not another living thing

scurrying over or growing out of the grit of flint

coating shale for miles.

That cloak is a sort of comfort

for how far down we surely are

in the deep end and wishing

more to float, smoothly hover, fly

than walk further or climb

after camping out, sleeping

in this time that is no where

but everywhere we gaze and gaze.


A resident of NY, 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. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather various links to his published poetry in one place,

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