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Burr Stewart

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Here are samples of my poems, written on beautiful mornings of one kind or another.

Breath 040406

sometimes breathing is all that can save you
the time rushes faster and faster
everything that could have been, escapes
you can only live by breathing
each breath at a time
some with words, some without
some strong, some weak
some fearful, some proud
some laughing, some sad
and every new breath
is your gift

Ever Young 071113

Oh yes,
I admire
a good weathering job
maybe the years of worship
at model railroads
have taught me
or the listening to music
from ancient times
and imagining the squalor
and the desperation
just to find the candles
to light the room
instead of sitting in the dark dirt
while it rained
but still
a big old weathered railroad car
lets you know it's been there for a while
and been around
pulled and shoved and humped
and always rained on
except for the glory of long tunnels
where it is always dry at least
but still so dark and fast and dirty
you don't emerge clean from a tunnel
but in the morning after a shower
why then you really are a new shiny freight car
that was just painted
and you gingerly step into the world
a child on the ballet stage
and today pedaling in the clean air
after the rains/wind everything
looked so clean and crisp
even the shiny rails in the railroad yard
and then the sun was so bright 
I couldn't even see the heavy weathering on
the old
grain elevator monster
but there in the slippery water
rose a huge old battered ship
empty ready for grain
with sky high sides of corrosion
and splotched paint
higher than a forest
and longer than the whole pier
even sticking out on both ends
yes I admire a good weathering job
but this was more than admire
this was true grit
and you could just see
the years of windwaves
salt guano
heat cold blistering sun stars
yet still she sailed
and wanted
grain more than anything
and was so ready so early on 
a beautiful morning
and her name
in huge bright letters
across the bow and stern:
"Ever Young".

The Children 110607

Children were hanging
bloodied off of cement
walls and roofs sometimes
falling to the ground below
sometimes cleverly crawling
into an open window
and falling inside,
breaking bones either way.

The light breeze
heavy with smoke
heat everywhere
didn't keep them from coming
in from the mountains,
fields and boats.

You can't imagine the hunger.
Not a rat or dog
left alive
for miles.
Or weed or tree.
They chewed on old studies
and dirt between the cracks
and threw CD's for play
or for defense.

But the smell

The King was gone.
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Page last modified on June 22, 2011, at 09:46 AM