The power to manipulate Is as great As that That would create. As such they are the same, Building and destroying, But if love is in the heart Instead of hate We form not the Disillusioned, broken man But create the spirit of a giant Ready to meet The challenge of his fate, Driven like a hungry lion Fully self reliant.
If only I could, I would, but I can't. If only I could, I would turn every tear you've ever shed into a magic potion which miraculously transforms them tenfold into warm and joyous expressions of gratitude for the love that awakens and arouses the spirit and beauty of who you truly are.
I would if I could, but I can't. I will, however, love you until there is no dawn, until there is no moon, until there is no longer a you . . . or a me.
By Shirl A Steward Written and copyright circa 2001
To you John . . . until we meet again, may laughter and love forever fill your heart
To my friend Toni, you are gone but still live in my dreams
Dreams are much like flowers. They germinate from planted seed - invoking much in mental stimulations. They bud, so beautiful they are, so full of the wondrous novelty of birth. They bloom, petals reaching out for all to see, in all the glorious excitement of living, as we contemplate their likelihood of being part of our everyday reality. But alas, they wilt, turning shades of brown, as doubts, frustrations and fears loom, bringing us down, thoroughly disheartened, to face the truth of what really is to be. And then, they die -- recycled into something so entirely different that another seed emerges and the process begins anew . . . seeking the prize inherent in fulfillment of a dream, or they are simply just . . . forgotten, never again to rise. Buck the trend, find a dream and ride it to the sky.
By Shirl A Steward
My wonderfully talented artist friend Toni Donelow Stewart died in 2004. She simply closed her eyes and her heart stopped beating. She was only 41 and had two young boys.
To my favorite actor and long time friend, T.G. Cody
Mystery man, who are you now, a jack of all the talents of the stage? Are you a clown pretending with a silly frown when smiles inside are nowhere to be found? Are you a mime in a derby hat fascinated by the slightest sound, intrigued by the network of your own illusion? Or are you the actor, confused between reality and all the characters you play? What man of nobility would you be today? Oh, master of disguise play no pretense with me. No mask can ever hide a man's true quality. Be what you will to the world but be yourself with me. I do not wish to be deceived.
Mystery man, who are you now, a jack of all the talents of the stage? Are you master of your fate or just a lonely fool who would be king tangling all upon a string?
Fragmented glass upon my window sill so much like the pieces of my broken heart that leave me shattered in despair Jagged . . . sharp so painful to the touch Seemingly beyond all hope of slight repair.
But . . . Is there hope? Could I? Should I? leap upon the chance to rebuild . . . to color . . . to reshape this segmented heap of useless parts into a magnificent, intricate stained glass masterpiece? So unique, so set apart from all common works of art.
Be thou master or slave to thine 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.
Fear of the blank page laid out before me, the naked stage upon which my words will play, speaks terror to the conscious mind, threatens to delay the purge of words upon the empty page. The words that dare conceive my fate, The fear of failure or of fame Enveloping my name, Both of which now seem to be the same.
Soon, however, relieved of rage thus spent, the conscious mind relents to seek unconscious flow. Deciding then, to join the plunge of filling up the page. Once begun, ensues the fun of setting characters upon the stage.
Once a golden idol, now a simple mound of clay. Once my heart's desire, now devoid of life, faded all away. And all that I gave, now lost within our dark abandoned cave. Like an uncomposed symphony, never to be conceived.
By Shirl A. Steward
~ This sounds like it's a sad thought but it can also mean that time passes, the way we see things changes and eventually we DO heal.~
The hummingbird, upon my window sill, Watches while I puzzle through my ego's trap for the day. The little bird, he seems to wait, to know... there'll come a time I'll throw it all away, just to hear the sacred music born in his sweet song, the sound of his wings aflutter in the breeze. Can the legends be so wrong? Does this tiny bird really know the secret of the way... the way that takes us home? Somehow... The Lakota drumbeat connects me to the rhyme of my heart. The ritual sweat brings me to the threshold and beyond. Ancient memories ask to be aroused, The shaman from within rises to the challenge of the task. Our wounded, bleeding Mother Earth calls us to journey home, upon the inward moving spiral to the center holding keys to mysteries vast. In ritual fast we give in sacrifice that which we have taken. We give to the elementals... the wind that gave us breath and the song of the winged, to the tree that gave us fruit, to four-leggeds hunted down, all undefended, to the sea and to the ground that gave us fish and loaves, to the moon that motivates the tide, and stimulates emotion, and to the sun, our blessed source of light, the energy that is our hope to survive, to the universe that gave us Earth, our home. We pay homage to all these, The Earth and elementals, we ask once more they be our friends, ask forgiveness for our devastation. In return we ask to gain the balance of the perfect circle symbolic of the whole, harmonious with all born of and dependent on the one. We dance within this wheel of life, to the pulsation of the Native drum, weeping, as we fast, expressing sorrow for the errors of the past, rejoicing, as finally we feast, in the newness and hope of tomorrow, connected forever, heart to heart to the Earth and to each other, unified . . . at last, complete. Curiosity has drawn us in. The hummingbird leads the way Into the spiral moving inward. We are thrust into the center of the soul returned to the truth of who we are, to the heartbeat of infinity. The beauty of the silent OM tells us we are home.
By Shirl A. Steward copyright 1993
(Dedicated to Anilia Wakan, and the Lakota First Nations, Theme Poem, Earth Days ‘93)
Drawing of sweatlodge by friend Joris Rosse of Hellertown, PA
Hope is believing that The sorrows of today. Are here to bring A new tomorrow. Hope is knowing In your heart That although you suffer pain, The falling of the rain, in time Will clean the wound of any stain.
Hope is born of helping others know The joy of living, The sharing and caring, Of living peacefully together, Each one a part of the other, Every man a brother. Hope is born of love Into a shell, no longer hollow, A gift from him above,
You probably won't hear
anything in the news
about this anniversary
until the 50th is
reached.
However, I realized that
it is significant in the
fact that Kennedy was
forty-six years old at
the time of his death.
For those who were alive
and old en...
MUNCIE -- The clock is
ticking.
At age 21, Kelsey Koch is
fighting for her life.
Afflicted with Job's
Disease, more recently
pinpointed as genetic
Dock 8 Disease, she is in
dire need of a blood stem
cell transplant.
"All of my thoughts are
on get...
Dear Fellow Democrats,
We have control of BOTH
the Executive and
Legislative branches yet
nothing is really getting
done.
It is time for the
leaders and members of
the Senate and the House
to get behind President
Obama and bring about all
the chang...
I have been thinking
about this issue
as I have
heard a few
complaints about the
glitches and bugs here at
Care 2.
You know, all websites
have them (even
Facebook). I tried to
order stamps yesterday
from the USPS
and their websi...
http://clikonrick.com/NBC
i/2009BRCFilm/http://clik
onrick.com/NBCi/2009BRCLe
ica/http://clikonrick.com
/NBCi/2009BRCOlympus/
This year I brought my
wife for her first time
she loved it I could not
get her to come home. her
mother sent out a missing
...
get the feed
