Poetry – from MEGAN MEALOR

Ripening

 

mother was our madness

 

and our curves

even her silhouettes were silver

 

        mother could grow marigolds

                              in November

 

she was our snake charmer

 

our static cling

 

(Previously published in the Mother’s Day 2014 issue of Broad!)

 


 

Little Punk

 

The wrathful kid with the fierce fingers

and a penchant for torturing ants won’t

stop breaking eggs on the sidewalk,

won’t respond to the vigilant old lady

shouting from across the street in the

kooky green house with lace for blinds.

He splatters the eggs like a delirious Picasso

from four or five cartoons I’m sure his mother

will miss.  I think his father works twelve hours

a day, six days a week, in some nearly-extinct

job better left to computers who don’t have

two mortgages out on some disfigured dark

eyesore with a leaf-choked lawn and a tornado-

prone roof which blocks out the sunrise.

I think his mother cleans the kitchen counter

twenty times a day.  The trampoline sags

like a heartless sonnet.  The basketball net

unthreads in self-pity.  Splat!  

Now there are no more eggs to scramble in

silent, screaming testaments, and the kid

heads home for another sapless sandwich

of a supper.

 

(Previously published in the April 2014 issue of Deep South Magazine)

 


 

Color-Coded & Iridescent

 

You dress in dogwood rose,

claret, jungle green;

chisel Chinese violet

out of bones and ebony.

 

I found a scribbled sonnet

inside your june bud jeans,

saw the way you danced in Venice,

your lines a sleek, sweet cream.

 

Your eyes could be a landscape,

its sky every shade of blue.

The instant when your heart stood still:

the most fuschia part of you.

 

(Previously published in the Spring 2013 issue of Obsessed With Pipework)

 


 

Distance

 

I allowed you

to sail me over lakebeds,

pull me up cliffs,

across broken bridges.

But I could not kiss you

with any trace of thunder,

even when the sun was

sinking into so many oceans.

You told me once

that there would never be

enough sky, but always,

always too many stars.

You wished you could

count them with your heart.

Love was the sacks

of luminous, worthless stones

you made me carry

up and down

blue mountains.

 

(Previously published in the Fall 2012 issue of Digital Americana under “Megan Hall.”)


 

the darkest art

 

cackling sonnets

inside every snare

spectral sunfalls

beneath roaring hale

unleashing calamity

these most ambrosial

of refrains

rabid moonbeats

become fancy

become flight

bloodless zion

cradled in

precarious constellations

seething grave

of gehenna

beckons

with a boil

withered wildflower witches

live on

to lament

our wintered woes

sing siren-soft melodies

into blacksmith night

hearts ablaze

as pillared wax

dripping

sonnets

on fir splinters  

windows polish

into prisms

yawning moonlight

breaking open

in the daze

between black shores

upon perfumed elms

windless waters

still remembered

from the moments

we were faultless

undiminished

in the eyes

of any god


 

To Whomever Listens Here

 

I will sustain for you in consecrated constraint,

tethered to this slatted kitchen door.

There are lesser visions, I am certain,

in your more honest reflections of me.

 

Where will you wait for me

when the yellow dahlias have finished

spinning into dawn?

 

There are never too many echoes or footfalls between us.


 

deployed

 

emily was right about you

 

from the peril and speck of jade

in your scrutiny

 

         (boozer flatfoot, a flair for us floozies)

 

to the way you yield your demonic seduction

in the murky, stained, disheveled moments

 

          (where she and I cannot exist together)


 

Relics

 

memorize me

in the slanted dawn

of your attic,

taking pictures

with my heart

 

unfind me

in the quatrain mist

outside the coffee trees

 

open up

the farmlit skies

shaking with the sea

 

lose me

in the newborn dimmet,

unlearn me in your cream

 

lie stiller

than a peony

bashful in the breeze

 

shed the solace

wrapped around

the bases of your bones:

autumnal afghans, freesia fleece

 

put away

those lost engravings

from your father

 

read to me

the only outcast star

in the tide

 

strike wilder

than a daisy

dining on its shade

 

conjure poems

from your sinew,

making all the right mistakes


 

mockings, midnights

 

the lion wants

what it still has

the warlord cat

it bides its cream

this sideshow

sun-starched calloused cleave

merciless minions

spread freelove venom

borneo black plague asps

we report paper cuts

and piranhas

us fragile inner city bees

i didn’t hollow

this canyon

between us

i didn’t carve it

from a dream

we meet at three ends

romancing embers

into echoes

so many heartbeats

later

you devour

lilac locust breeze

silicone sonnet sundae shade

baskets of billabongs

trapped in your bass

dreaming of frequencies

in the next lane

you never failed

in the phase

you waned

it only matters

when the moon is

unrehearsed

unexplained

electrifying snowflakes

branding bullets

with your everlasting

examining

our apparition

it flies solo

at the seams

shadowing a village

it pebbles

at our feet

we forget

we forgot our every father  

somewhere they trace

themselves

back to the tide

somewhere they lose

their opals

in the maze

try try try

we could never

jump-start skies

treason

your lone infatuation

mocking the martyrs

of the blaze

loose chantings

from our fingertips

the only part

of you

i take with me

into coal mines

past the bombs

wherever you flee

i feel your limerick

in my bones

however you undo

i find the starset

in my tree


 

Mapping

 

we finished in callous calligraphy

what we never felt the need to do

heart to heart

fire to frenzy to fracture

there were vast, luscious moments

we will remember in

agave Antigua whispers

Bavarian bread crumbs

winter-capped Norse summits

bleeding blue lyrics on Baltic beaches

crawling through granite and Greenland

deflowering Irish violet lullabies and

English rose sonnets in our shrieking wake

you manifested the anonymous almond shores

where I will one day overture my soul

these posturing postcards

will be our postscripts

those Nova Scotia steamship whitetips

our final coup de grace


***

me21

Megan Mealor has been writing stories since she was three years old.  Dozens of her poems and short fiction have been featured in such publications as Digital Americana, Hello Horror, Belle Reve Literary Journal, and Better Than Starbucks.  She is currently working on her first chapbook, Bipolar Lexicon, as well as a full-length royal romance novel entitled My Lady Mercedes.  She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her fiancé, three-year-old son, and two black-and-white cats.

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