Poetry by Patrick Meade – 7/17


Whales

From watery sanctum
she dives for the moon
breaches the velum
nudges sky

From watery sanctum
she soars past mountains
piercing heavens
swims to the birth of tides

From watery sanctum
she roams with stars that needle night
drifts into stillness
slips into dream

From watery sanctum
she dives for the moon
the harpoon screams deep
into the dream

Originally published in Verse Afire, The Ontario Poetry Society

Father and Daughter

The pleasure of rain swirls about her
as she plays in puddles at his feet
smiles wade into golden tresses
warm hands cradle his little petite

She stands on stones and stares up at him
casting magic into salty eyes
no ogre could come to trample here
a lion sleeps by her side

As snowy blankets are tucked to sleep
and robins trill the pine
a cupid claims Papa’s pearl
a tear drops in the wine

Little toes have slipped the gate
tiny shoes adorn the mantle
where wearied bones once drifted night
on ocean song and starry candles

Waves wander rugged shorelines
grinding stone into sand
again he strays into dusk and dark
fog crawls across the land

Sky full of molten sun
hides the tempest in the bay
into the mirror a stranger walks
it’s come to steal the wind away

A shadow lingers on the bluff
as the skin of the moon falls pale
her cello cries out to his soul
foundering in the gale

Now lullaby visits soothe the strings
as storms of faces come calling
moments of time adrift in space
seas heaving and falling

Serpent clouds in the window
creeping up along the coast
in her arms he quietly sings
sailing away on the ship of ghosts

Originally published in Verse Afire, The Ontario Poetry Society

Orphan’s Breakfast

Through stained windows
little eyes plead
verdant sky twists morning
rain spews across the pain

Bowls of porridge
cold toast and jam
hide shallow graves
carved into the compassion of pine

In the chapel
orphans sing
in tattered shoes
vacant of souls

In sacred chapel
and blessed robe
he turns wine into blood
prayer into lust

In hallowed hallways
vultures hover
over the lost
and the snared

Where blackened talons
scour the night
scar the lepers
scrape candles of light

Through stained windows
dawn falters
as little boys
scratch at the doors of heaven

 

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.

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