Here, you’ll find the stuff that Stan Stewart has created: poetry, music, inspirations, staying connected with the present moment, photography, and more.
Start now. The waiting is over. Actually, it’s been over for A long time. It’s just my body that Thought the old doldrums Were still in vogue. Catch up now with the Train that’s already speeding ahead. I must be agile, fit and young enough Still to grind the unhallowed asphalt Under my heels. Move! […]
someone told me that there’s magic about the year 2012. i don’t know if i believe in magic, because i’m focused on what’s real and tangible now. i’ve for too long waited for the magic to intrude on my reality, take care of me, remove all cares from me. i know better. and i still
it’s been too long since i had that sense of being two-feet-on-the-ground solid. it may be that i’m too intense for myself or my life is occasionally too much for this embodied state i live in. and thus the unsettled me is too often what i present to the world. even under winter’s snow, the
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
