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January 09, 2008 |
| Shirl A. Steward -- Spiritually speaking | ||
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Poems about life and love |
| March 30 2006 03:14 |
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Master or Slave? to thy own destiny? Do you foolish await the mountain to come to you before you start the climb? How long will you search the clammy, cold, hard ground within thy darken cell for a key that is nowhere to be found? Are you willing to believe you have the power to create within yourself? For the slave awaits to be told what to do. But it is the true master Who makes his fate unfold Entire of itself. By Shirl A. Steward Written Oct 13, 1987. |
| March 29 2006 21:40 |
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Mr Wander-lust doesn’t know which way to go, hoping his parents will be true to their word and leave the inheritance he has long sought as a prize. It’s said about town, this man is claiming to all except, of course, me, he can’t be pinned down, yet keeps saying to me, he’d settle down in a flash with the right woman around. And, yes, it is true. Some days I am this woman in white which this knight among men has chosen to crown as his queen. But, alas, within hours it seems insults and denials abound as I turn into the dust in the road He has left behind on his flee To escape that grip of that horrible fate, forever-after-ness. "No," he says, "not me, I can not let it take hold to rob me of my precious freedom . . . to roam, exploring all the world totally unfettered . . . totally unbound. shame on all those who would dare desire, Who would dare to share his precious few moments in the sun. By Shirl A. Steward, written Oct 16, 2004 to Bobby, my 'Mr. Wander-lust' |
| March 24 2006 22:36 |
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the beauty of our love, its richness and its sanctity. How truly precious be that sacred seed conceived. Its power easily transforms insanity into playful shenanigan. So much here be fertile ground for a spicy round of tempered discord, yet my heart is softened by the mystery of my enchantment. Or maybe it's my amusement at this obsession to control. The need to collapse the total abstract into the unyielding linear. Yet, I continue to play, even when it wears a little thin. And why I ask? What shall we teach? What shall we learn? Could it be, there be something in abstract for you and in the linear for me? By Shirl A. Steward Written and copyright 1991. |
| March 24 2006 22:32 |
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Love replaced by wailings of the lonely dead Trying to survive in a pretend plastic world, no place to hide. How indeed does one get by when every effort spent must provide, what sometimes isn't enough for even a loaf of bread? Alas, just to have a few dollars for a taste of wine to forget the shock of losing all one has. . . the unattainable, unsatisfying job that only served to paralyze and crippled one's need to roam, oh, so little, the precious time, wasted, in endless begging for a dime. chased by debtors to the streets, with no place better than a cardboard box to call a home. Can it be true, dignity was stolen too? What a way to spend a life. Fear dwells where love belongs. Shamelessly, competed with and parted from labor's fruit, stolen away the last chance to harvest all that one is due. Alone and embittered by the struggle to hang on, be it right or wrong, to these belong all things that tarnish, rust and fade away, as does this rhyme, with the setting of the sun. No life at all, it is ironically, a timed existence. . . without time. No time to live, no time to share, no time to really enjoy the beingness of being, to dare to be in love's embracing flow, a place of existence where none go hungry, nor lack the comfort of a safe, warm, welcomed bed. this place seemingly a stranger to the world, lying dormant, as if dead, well concealed within the heart of man, like a rare perfect pearl trapped in the body of an oyster, a voice calling from within, forever begging to be shed. By Shirl A. Steward Written and copyright August 2, 1990 |
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