Poetry and other creations by Stan Stewart. Sometimes, it’s just the poem. Sometimes, it’s the story behind the creation.
Winter white has painted The world outside and Left nothing about the Shape of local geography To imagination. The rocks dressed up in Snow and the trees Dressed down for The season place the Forest in stark contrast To the jutting buildings We humans erect for Shelter and bragging rights. White and gray: Looking so […]
Cold winds have Blown in the snow. They caress our House and nestle Into its corners And crags. There is nothing Outside that needs To be done. The dog is walked. All is safe until Morning. Inside, the fire is warm And we are curled up Together. Your eyes are flickering In time to the
Needles of dried And lifeless pine Lie strewn about Under the ancient Tree. Still beautiful, It is no longer the Majestic monster That ruled the yard Nine years ago. Now, the boughs creak As the wind rustles though Dried pine cones that will Never drop. They are not the fruit of The tree as they
You shiver in the chill Of the moment. Not a Winter’s chill, But that sort of shiver That starts from the base Of the exhale and will Not let go; will not rest Until every atom of air Is gone from the lungs. And I do hear your Expiration of air: Little tornadoes of whirling
My shoes are wet with the Condensation of too-quick Changes in atmosphere. They are soggy Through and through, So they will Not serve me well as Protectors-of-feet or Treaders of terrain. I need rugged, practical Footwear. Needing to be attentive To the saturated chill Will just distract me from The trail. My focus must be
I rarely lay awake at night And wonder why I’m not sleeping. When I do, I think it’s because I am a poet. It’s a sort of “poetic justice” For the many nights that I Sleep so well. In the daylight, I don’t ponder much other than My own heart and soul And the ways
Frog, prince or king: We get the stories so mixed up. We think that we must rush To get to the happy ending And so we pick up the abridged Version. This abridgment turns out to be An adaptation and reduction of A poor translation from the original German by a frustrated clerk At a
You hear not only The words spoken, But the words Between the words And the silences Between the words. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2010, 2017 by muz4now, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
(I went to write a poem And my mind was blank, So this is what I got:) Grey sky Heralds The Winter Chill. In the same way, How did I not See what was Coming in that Conversation? I am not blind. I am not deaf. I am not dumb (That much was too sure).
I walk about with an Old wound On my heart. Though I think I keep it Hidden I know that it Leaps out from my being At times both desired And not. The scar tissue is like A white wall Around my insides, As if it could Protect me from The next injury. Neither the
