Gail Steuart will share her poetry and photography with readers.
Why am I suffering here where I’m meant to be free?
It seems like a prison, and I want to flee.
The bars seem to hold me, as I’m peeking through.
My spirit is climbing, but what can I do?
The message is clear.
The time isn’t yet.
My body is only beginning
To let the growth that is there be shown as the Source
Like a river starts tiny and grows to it’s Force.
I don’t understand their drivel.
When they speak, it sounds like trivel.
MY words will be more meaningful.
When I speak out, I wont be dull.
I’m waiting for my words to come.
When I talk, I won’t be dumb.
I’ll wiggle my mouth and move my face.
I’ll speak the truth with words of grace.
I’ll bet you just can’t wait to see
What wisdom will come forth from me.
MY POTTY CHAIR
What is this strange apparatus?
Can it be a clysmcatus?
May I ask, what is it’s purpose?
I have no sense of any worthus!
Mother seems to think it’s finne.
‘tis her purpose, what of mine?
I do not know or realize
What’s down BELOW or IN THE SKIES.
I’m just here awaiting wisdom.
Does it come from cataclysm?
Gail Steuart 6/2/87
This strange apparition comes jerking at me.
It comes from this side – then the other.
Maybe it is part of mother.
Finally it’s in my mouth.
I suck, and nothing’s coming out.
So good, but nothing’s in it.
I suck and suck and such.
These steps are as tall as my legs are long,
But I have discovered STEPS.
UP and DOWN, DOWN and Up.
I cannot stop to rest.
I don’t know that I will be taking these same steps over and over
Walking this wall so high.
Step by step, S L O W, S L O W
I have no fear. I’m so bold.
I do not know that grandma’s hand is close behind me
Always there to love and guide me.
The lap long mine belongs to another.
This crying, noisome, ugly bother.
Mother’s closeness… over there.
This new one does not know to share.
How can I let her know my loss.
This other one is sure the boss.
I’ll wait a while until she’s free.
Then slip up quietly on her knee.
This poem is dedicated to my father, Arthur Steuart.
At his funeral I realized for the first time that his name started and ended with
Don’t look art in the face and expect to see a mirror.
This creation will bring new color and light into a rather sad exterior.
I can’t imagine fast enough to capture this new adventure.
The force of intelligence is enough to scatter the dullness and
Make a scattering of light and – if you listen a field of sound.
Mountains are background for the nearest revelation, yet
If they are viewed as the foreground, they reveal their undulations
And shadows and if a power lense is applied you can see the
Canons and trees and hear the wind blowing up the crevises.
There is in each square inch a hidden world.
A man is never seen as background in such a painting, but
Man is so temporary and so small it seems that the whole of creation
Would not focus on him if he were not the painter.
I would put him under a tree in an unseen crater and let
Him stay there until he can capture the Spirit of ART.
Poems Dedicated to my husband, Barry Blumstein
who died on May 28, 2018
Rocking back and forth on my wings,
Ready to take off into the unknown where the answer
Lies hidden –
Can I fly alone?
In My Closet
Where his clothes hung.
Shoes Lined up in a row.
That Beautiful Jacket --
His favorite boots.
I Open the closet and all those
Things linger in memory.
WILL YOU REMEMBER?
You took the road least traveled
Inner mysteries unraveled.
Friends were witness to your quest.
Broken Dreams were laid to rest.
You did not have time to say good-bye
Doubting loved ones questioned why.
Now your picture hangs above
The rocks and stones with words of love.
Dried silk flowers their vases filled
Mark the spot your blood was spilled.
White cross pointing to the sky
Attention drawn of passers-by.
Its arms outstretched in welcome, too.
Know we will remember you.
Gail E. Steuart
March 9, 2007