Poetry and other creations by Stan Stewart. Sometimes, it’s just the poem. Sometimes, it’s the story behind the creation.
Beads of chilled raindrops Rest and mingle on the Stepping stones outside Our door. They stick to shoes and The pads on the feet of the dog Where they wait for rugs and towels To wring them away. Winter rain is much like The tears shed in isolation: Moisture may collect and Even join together.
A pod at the end of the Winter-brittle twig Jostles in the morning Wind. Fragile and stalwart, It’s duty done, It hangs in seeming Repose and awaits The next moment of Transformation. It’s first change was Glorious: The day that its Silky sack Burst with the inner Seed. All decorated with fluff, They went their
I’ve been so distracted lately. I was laid off in September. Now it’s December and I’m Looking for my new livelihood Still. Since I have no job, I’ve been commissioned with Walking the dog three times a day. I like that I used the word Livelihood. So much more true-to-form than “Job” or “Work” or
Lights around a tree And a shiny ball Have been hung There by you to Celebrate giving. My sense of celebration Is on the wane this time Around. External changes have Affected me and I am Longing for abundance While experiencing Scarcity. When I stretch to the End of my being, I see that there
Ah, yes! There it is. A simple trick; A reality check; A call to consciousness. Frankly, call it what you like. I like it: My eye is drawn As you walk by. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2010 by muz4now, Inc. All Rights Reserved. 32/1,000
Maybe it was Winter’s start Or the setting on the thermostat. I can’t imagine that it was me. I had only the warmth of my heart To give to you. Yet somehow, in the rush and Bustle of my artist, techie, Introvert/extrovert, self-marketing, Trying-to-find-time-for-friends Life, I looked to you as if I was being cold.
I look out the window Into “our woods” And notice the awe With which I hold This time and place. It was not always so. Which allows now To hold even more Gratitude for me. The giant dreamcatcher Hovers between Two trees and Invites me into Further dreaming. For I have been dreaming All along.
I rarely edit my poetry. I don’t remember why I got into this practice. It probably has to do with my love of improvisation. Life is like that. We have to make it up as we go. Otherwise, it could seem to be too twisty. I like predictability and I like surprise. Well, I’m not
We built this house. Though the concrete and two-by-fours Were already in place We surely built it. It was our hands that turned it Into an artists house And made it into a home. Without your eye for beauty And mine for practicality, None of this would have Come to pass. It is an extraordinary
Has it been hours or days? I really can’t remember. The soft touch of your cheek Against mine seems still-present And long ago — Simultaneously. So I wait in longing, Expectant anticipation. Cannot believe this is What I live for And, then again, believe it with All my heart. Fatigue will not win out. Though
