Poetry by Patrick Meade – 9/17


Not to fold the sleeves of morning
but to wait her table
nor douse the wick of stars
but to lift the curtain

Nor scar the meadows of Monet
instead stroke petals
not to curse the guns of John Lennon
but imagine

Not to strangle
earth of blood
but to soothe
her veins

Not to scream against the heart
but suture its gash cradle its pain
crawl into its cave
pluck thorns from its flesh

Not to close
the eyes of children
but to light
their candles

Put dancing shoes
upon their feet
open the door
let them waltz to the moon

……..THE SPIDER………..

Fragile arc caught in a vacant sky
I must move out from the homeport
but to where and why
and what is this feeling that comes from within
that whooshes its bellows again and again

And what’s out there
what’s on the other side
and if I go
will they accept me, will I fit in

Or if I am washed away
by the morning rains
besides I only have seven legs

But still I must go
do I know to where I am going
am I even half way to a destination unknown
maybe I should turn back….again

WAIT ! Does it matter to where I am going
does it matter how far I have gone
for I have decided not to stay in this web
and I have decided not to bury my head

For I am a SPIDER and a SPIDER must spy
and I am a SPIDER and a SPIDER must spin
does it matter if I get blown away in that wind

For I am still a spider
and I will cast away
again and

Pat Meade Picture

Patrick Meade was born and raised in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, where the brooks, ponds and ocean seeped their way into his daily life. Surrounded by owls, clouds, blue skies (once or twice a week), the trance of a forest, smiles, valleys and steep hills, his home became part of his fabric. Patrick has been writing poetry for ten years, and is currently at work on a novel, Lemon Pies.