However dark The early morning, I know that the Sun is coming. I wake. Anticipation’s door Opens into another Bountiful day. Sometimes, in the Darkness, I am not Yet sure what The bounty will be. And so I open my Eyes not knowing Yet exactly which Moment will bring The dawn. ~ by Stan Stewart […]
Beautiful: This poem Really Is “for” you. Yours is the One smile Guaranteed To bring out mine. Your request Is the one I cannot refuse. Your eyes The ones I long To gaze into When everything Else is placing Demands on me Or you. This is real. Really. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2011
In Winter, Sunlight hangs vibrant Colors against Snow’s canvas. Momentarily, her artwork Takes up the whole sky And asks we humans to Bathe in the chilled glory. In our futile rushing about And failed multi-tasking, If we were — even for that Brisk moment — to respond Solely to her invitation, Something in us would
The inception of The dream Is rarely like Its ending. The dream Begins With the Dreamer. After starting, Everything is Up for grabs. Will the hero And the heroine Be everlasting? Or will they Even survive Until the final Curtain? I don’t need to Be the hero Or the survivalist. I only need to Live
Wind whistles trees, Caverns, Trestles, And houses along Its way. It carries its part well. It knows it by heart Or improvises; Carefree and winsome. Yes, I do think The wind makes up Its song as it goes Along. Not too many variations To my ear, at least. And yet never boring. Drifting in and
Orbiting around The center of my World — which seems To me to be neither Sun nor other Solar core — I am propelled Without course. Just this spinning That seems to be Ever taking me back To the same place I’ve been. And yet, in the Midst of this Getting-nowhere, I find myself moved
Listening to the drip, drip, drip Of a day of thaw Is a great reminder: I want to miss neither The individual drop Nor the deluge. Both have their own Beautiful part in the Flood. Each is complete In itself. Both are beautiful. I easily become Transfixed on The drop. It holds so much Mystery
One thing counts: It may be love, It may be compassion, It may be delight, Or it may be beauty, But one thing counts. I awake to the chill of Morning and know that This is not a day to be Wasted or even Taken for granted. For to make even one Thing count, I
“Ev’rything’s getting fixed.” What this means to me Is that though there’s Plenty that’s broken – Ranging from the practical To the internal to the Relational – It’s all in motion Towards wholeness. Being splintered apart is Painful. Being brought together Is healing. I have known enough of Being broken apart. Let this day and
(give the heartspace) Given its opening And closing, This heart is less A witness to The outside world And more a testament To its own inner Habits and occasional Hermitages. Not too priestly though Is its reckoning. It is more of an Artist: Full of itself at times And crushed by Its own weightiness At
