Joshua Meander


Joshua Meander








I know two deaf mutes.  The sister is silent,

Angelic in quietude like a sunset.

Her sub-group gestures in solidarity

To a manual alphabet that’s a work

Of blessed theater to watch and revere.

Mimes treat them like a cryptic tribe of seers.

Story in movement, her way of existence.

Her nimble fingers can pierce like alarms rung

For emergencies or draw epilogues

With all the detailed code of espionage.

Her language is a composite for world peace.


The brother speaks boldly in a flat gabble.

He has long sworn off every translator.

Awkwardly, his syllables simply uttered

Evoke wrong notes from an upright piano:

He struggles impatiently for euphony

Like a news commentator badly prepared.

Strangers inundate him with requests to stop

Like pigeons on a statue coming to life.

His shrill cries into darkness must continue:

They are secret whale songs, alien to ears,

Vital sounds one must become accustomed to.


I know two deaf mutes. One is a silent

Ray of light in a hushed melodrama.

The other, singing notably off key,

Mutters his tune with firm integrity.






“Come over here.  Yes, here.  Come over here.

Soon you will be awestruck.”   Who is calling me?

Sublime forms in the garden await me,

And I respond like a kite in the wind.

Sublime is completeness  —  to gain a dream.

Then comes the inevitable

Shroud enveloping completion.

And what of the effect of my labor?

Will it crystallize some questions

For those who venture to my space

In this garden of engraved stone?

Folklore embodies these sculptures:

I have come to pay my respects.

I know one day I, too,   will beckon,

Veiled by shrubbery:  “Come over here.”






My signature is an autumn leaf.

My blood is the Amazon River.

Fanfare awakens my spine :  I soar.

I am neither my life,

Nor what I envision.

My lap —  a kettle drum,

Its beat my road homeward.

I am python shedding its skin.

I am cool early frost.

I am flirtatious woman.

I am cavalry man

Severe as a mustache

In appearance, more chiseled than grown.

I am, as well, paint,  brush and  canvas

On which disillusioned

Artists reinvigorate their hunger.

I am the child’s shriek of joy:  At dusk

I am the fugitive

My bedroom wishes to imprison.






Pipe-smoking scholar, reading habitually

In study of Baker Street flat,

Cocooned in philosophical trance

When book is closed.


Adamant listener, to clients’ trembling speech,

Interrupting only when requests for help

About a described incident

Becomes hazy in spots.


Tireless researcher, passing up meals

And sleep when immersed in a case.

Digs up volumes on subject

And memorizes every minute fact.


Athletic man, of slight build

Will track a suspect’s prints for miles.

Has been known to pummel

A conniving brute when necessary.


Loyal friend to Dr. Watson for ages.

They are like brothers

Born from different mothers

Thus, no rivalry exists between them.


Detailed observer, puts all clues

Under magnifying glass periodically.

Retraces each possible escape route

And scrutinizes every piece of dropped lint.


Determined to serve Scotland Yard.

And solve murders in London town.

Each caper challenges his good name,

Though he’s never distracted by his fame.


Available detective, although a busy man indeed.

Fascinate him with a peculiar predicament

His complex mind can’t resist a mystery.

Soon he’ll expose the hidden culprit.


Popular, character of fictional adventures

Was resurrected upon demand

By the readers when the author

Bid farewell to him in tragic scene

Over the Reichenbach Falls with a foe.






Tonight the lullaby of

Solitude is most inviting.

On the outskirts of each town

A nomad will venture

On a dusty trail

To bask in nocturnal splendor.

Lanterns are left in garages.

A million twinkling stars

Illuminate the purple sky.

An invisible harp plays

To the motion of mist drifting

And the muffled thrash of wings

Flapping through the forest.

Each composer listening will

Transcribe the tune differently.

What a privilege to roam through

A dimension that gives birth

To hypnotic melodies.






Suppose I am witnessing

A native ritual

And not a colonized faith

When students meet at dusk

And form circles in the field.


One leads in the middle.

Does he stammer purposely

When he calls in English

For the white slave-traders’ Lord?


Are these African students

Aware how they distort

Their primordial customs?


When a black woman lies down,

Is she surrendering

To Europe’s white-faced prophet,

Or is she simply longing

To sleep upon the Earth?











Joshua Meander2


Joshua Meander


Lives in New York with his wife Yinka, his poetic soul-mate.


A world traveler, short story writer, poet and publisher of Nomad’s Choir Poetry Journal. He is best known as the host of the longest running poetry reading series in Manhattan. Joshua has authored 3 books of prose and 2 books of poetry. He believes that his writing is shaman like and a means of recording his adventures and meaningful observation both to help the public to better appreciate the wonder of life.






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