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Sunday, November 5, 2017

Poetry By Megan Denese Mealor

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

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