Under this soft exterior Lies an even softer heart. It seems to have weathered What sometimes seemed Like pummeling And sometimes seemed Like cradling. Holding on to either Never got this heart Anywhere. Face towards the morning Sun, it awakens to The emptiness of The new day, And seeing the vacant Opening, it is Filled […]
It’s enough to say I give my love away Too easily. Each time, my soft heart Breaks. I’m not that smart When it Comes down to stuff like Feelings. They do spike My pulse And set synapses On fire. Now with this Pharma Stash in my weary Brain, holding bleary (I guess) Expectations so Unspoken
You know it’s gonna cost you If you wear those worn out shoes. They’re gonna do worse than Hurt your feet. They’re gonna make people Look at ya funny.
Sweat pours down my forehead and drips, coolly, first to the pockets around my nose and then onto the desk in front of me. It’s a “good sweat“: the kind where I know that I’ve accomplished what I set out to do; where (even if the next step is not clear) my body/spirit is stirred
3 I was making up poetry in the womb. Mother says so, and you know what that means: Nobody’s gonna question it. And I mean nobody. She may not get around so fast, But Mother’s got a way with her tongue That can lash you within an inch of your life. That’s probably why I
2 Moisture fills the void. This liquid seems more molten Than flowing, though. It does not cool the fear, But fuels it; Basking and bleeding, Its results are burns Of some degree previously Unfelt and unseen by Human flesh. Searing, its reminders Never go away. ~ each poem spontaneously composed by Stan Stewart ~ copyright
1 Fear: You do not come gently to nudge my grief. No. You hover like a sinister monster waiting For my sadness to uncover itself. And standing in front of it, You try to loom As if the grief itself is your nemesis. You hold back and push forward At the same time. Your quivering
Unhung, the painting lies there on the table, pregnantly waiting for its completion. For it is incomplete. Face down, no eye can see if it is beautiful, ugly, vibrant, or plain. Will it be forever unseen? Or will fingers eventually pry the frame from that surface (intended as a place of physical nourishment, but relegated
Pondering The imponderable, I awaken from The dream (Which felt like Reality until That little gasp for Air pulled me away From sleep and into The new dawn). My first thoughts Are not quiet, Contented or Peaceful thoughts. They are the “Must do” thoughts That will also plague Me throughout the day. And strangely, these
Two intrepid Harbingers of anticipatory cusps Zip surreptitiously Over torpid landscapes. “Blah!” Shouts one. “Bliss!” The other. ~ Spontaneously composed by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2013, 2015 by muz4now, Inc.
