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Syndic Literary Journal




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


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.



Compiled/Published by LeRoy Chatfield
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