Poetry By
Steve Meador
Published on: 5/18/2010
Banned From The Playground
We get dizzy on the merry-go-round, rock up and down on the seesaw, rise and fall -- fast and slow -- in the swings. The teeter-totter is all push and receive, I am surprised by her strength and stamina. I help her climb the tallest slide in the park, at the top there is hesitation, a little fear. Her legs quiver, I sense when she is ready and give the right amount of touch. She glides down with exhilaration. Birdlike sounds I have never heard escape her throat, float like feathers and land on the tan of my back. Just like that she is finished playing, whispers, in a distant voice, that she knows the kind of boy I am, one that always breaks the rules, a naughty one who kisses, touches, nibbles and licks when playtime is over. She cups a hand over her jungle gym, lays an arm across her sandcastles and tells me to get away.
Published on: 2/3/2010
Advice to Parents
I have the tree everyone on my street hates. The same tree the builder planted in every yard, but mine is wild and gangly, a shock of twigs and branches, with acorns that dangle freely. The problem is that my tree resides in an area that seeks conformity, where every plant must be pruned and trimmed. Branches must be high, so folks who don't watch where they're walking won't get poked in the forehead or eye. My tree is not a pretty tree with its thrust and parry beyond boundaries of acceptability. It gropes into spaces that interfere with UPS or FEDEX trucks with drivers in conforming uniforms delivering conforming packages to tan homes. My tree dares to poke leaves into spaces which defy the sheer madness of conformity. Its gathering of Spanish and ball moss has choked the life out of smaller branches, in a place where death is not allowed. If my tree could talk it would not be in a shameful whisper. Nor would it bore us in some cloned monotone. It would shout and scream: "Look at me, with my gnarly bark and scraggly tentacles, my unkempt beard! Gaze upon the glory of my wildness."
Published on: 4/1/2016
Eavesdropping along I-70
I have a hankering to go to Goodland, Kansas, sit near the tracks and absorb the rattle and clank of grain cars as they waddle past dusty elevators. Then, head to Hank's and grab a fried bologna sandwich on whole wheat bread, with mustard thinly spread and checker-thick dill pickle chips. From behind steaming coffee I'll eavesdrop against wheezy old-timers, slurping through cups of soup and yakking about cattle and corn and wheat. Topics will change. Football, seasons now rusted and others yet to be forged, will burn like habanero juice on the tongues of some. Then, an explosion. The youngest. a man of fifty, maybe sixty, lights the fuse on a stick of dynamite and throws it into the middle of the room with his deep voice, Fellas, I sure hope we see some rain. Soon. It is enough to blast a hush over western Kansas; wheezer minds were blown back to the Dust Bowl.
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