Megan Denese Mealor has been writing her entire life. Language has always been a confidant and conduit to be counted upon in both her best and worst of times. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, most recently Literally Stories, A Long Story Short, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her partner and son. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder at fifteen, Megan hopes to inspire those suffering with mental illness and to bring recognition to the importance of the arts as potent medicine.
Manic Blues
i should stop hiding
behind futile doggerel
alleviating icy inclinations
with morsels of discord
leaving my fragility
stripped of all eruptions
(who are we without
our wieldy eruptions?)
we are wendigos
breathing in
our own black deaths
that’s who
i never stop speaking
soon enough to fill
these jilted echoes.
do i, dearest dust
dearest desk?
dreaming is like sowing rotten roots
Poet Megan Denese Mealor
A Makeshift Sky
no allegory left
in the seeping spoilage
of your ramshackle grin
rusty vibrissa scour
no bee sting promise
for your star-washed cities
or smoking cedar bridges
shuffling the dawn
no bird cherry silk
for this swain of anew
your apologue pallor
blackberry eyes bereaving
our retelling, now unsold
Friday in October
The keepsake pond teasing
these bitter lime curtains
twinkles with tenacity:
sleek silvery minnows
greylag goose warming
a clutch of golden eggs
an alabaster ibis contemplates me
through the screened portal
tangled rainbows reflecting
in the shimmering breeze
climbing fern unleashing
lawless shade for keystone turtles
peeping past feathery veronica
to imbibe the lounging sun
Circa 1950
i remember you against the feral sepia tree
the sunset dazed around you
leaves like burnished prisms
eyes a dappled echo
we still meet there
long ago
Green River Eulogy
don’t search for me on neon streets
don’t long for me come christmas eve
just think of soaring honey trees
drifting in the spangled breeze
and you will hear that where i go
has no more rules to ebb or slow
the embers i once called my heart
now a matchstick in the dark
The poet is very brave and the story of her is very drastic. But a good poet is the one usually who have gone through such feelings.
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