Melody
By Stephen Mead
(These words stem from having lived through Nixon, Reagan, the Bushes,
and now Trump, the absolute worst. The point is to not let such bastards destroy your inner well-being
for they would just get off on your torment.)
This is the sea change,
that tune made up as we go
facing the day
now drum-sound
through some inner room
one owns completely.
So lucky to feel it thus:
the Grace-Time sight
which feels everything
as paintings
just under fingertips
aching for paper.
What other canvas can be
better sails?
Sure, the Shadow Self doubts,
admitting its cranky place
crock
of venomous crevices:
the lonely envy,
the follies and fears
turning up a cat’s best bluff
on the surface which skirts
whatever oppressive century
this karma manifests
with lying Presidents
vs. homicidal dictators.
Still, fiddle dee dee,
come hum into being just whatever
spiritual thoroughfare
the soul needs to travel up,
up like the poem of phloem, up
like sap from Spruce, up
like arias to the roof
of these heavens we’ve still
to believe in the proof of
but know somehow.