"steward" poems
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
When mom was dying,
she felt like everything
she'd worked for
was gone.
She showed me Life
as Its steward
and Death
as Life's reward.
How to lean into
the unknowable
whether I want to
or not.
That our deeds,
carved meticulously into
the bedrock of Forever,
are immortal.
It becomes clearer
that our work
is not for us,
but for It.
This life
is service;
only what we give
is truly ours.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
I send my roots into the earth,
accepting the sacred duty.
The gentle, yielding, firm,
and fertile ground of the mother.
I will water her.
I will protect her.
I accept responsibility
for this ground.
I yield to this process.
Enveloped by life. By time.
I yield to the watching.
I accept what it brings.
I choose to love
what comes before me,
so that what blooms
when I wither away,
may always be love.
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 3:05 PM UTC
At which was the Christmas ******* we pull
And turn this ******* to a Holiday
The Cherriest Bang, makes the Heart blow full
And mix our Best Moments within the Fray
Only to reveal it was yours to keep
Since, anyway, was your Inheritance
And I the Steward; Borrowed for a Bleep
So my Value pays for your Insurance
Which gnaws the Solicitor of his time
With other Clients he in due fulfill
But since your Smile took the most of my Crime
Will conspire your Misexactions, still.
It was always Right, to sing for this Room
In our own Expense, you siphon the Gloom.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Well, did you know that your eyes are mighty beacons?
Great flickering flames of an artist's soul?
Did you know that when I saw you first I felt you, wildly?
Felt a gentle steward of poems among us, a river voice renews.
One utterance from you has me above my tiny tempests,
I've been pleading, even prayed (though out of practice) for more words,
But your words, only your voice! Which has me falling into tension,
And godsent, glorious tension ensues from your stark frequencies.
Rejoice, I do now rejoice and it feels like for the first time,
Surely not? And you can't know but I just cried for our distant meeting,
It is as though a veil is lifted, a dam destroyed, a collapsed ceiling?
But now a fear, such a quiet terror that I may not hear you again.
Oct 20, 2022
Oct 20, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
There is always hope,
though we often sway,
caught in the tempest,
the only remedy is to pray.
Forgive our trespasses,
giants of steel,
piercing the earth,
no steward are we.
Ravaged lands,
children lost,
endless confrontation,
deceptive use of the cross.
Forgive us,
we know not what we do,
this has ever been the truth,
we are all hopeless without trust.
But,
in this wasteland there is love,
hope for a better tomorrow,
idealism going above.
There is always hope,
despite the torrent of decay,
the sun peaks over the clouds,
at the end of the day.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman,
Warsaw, 1759
There was a farce performed the other day
In the cathedral, where, as is my wont,
I'd gone to mass. While kneeling near the font,
I saw, when I had just begun to pray,
A mob of filthy Jews swarm up the aisle
To be baptised. The King himself was there
And even stood as sponsor to a pair
Of thick lips with a most unpleasant smile.
Back home, I asked my steward, Mendel Gryn,
What it had been about. "Pan Casimir,"
He said, "The man you saw was Yankev Frank,
Those were his followers: they claim that sin
Leads Man to God, but now, baptised, I hear
They've all been raised, by law, to noble rank."
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Righteous Isis,
priceless queen, rife with green
vines winding between her lungs,
around her tongue, crowned with beams
of the ancient sun, power of Ra
beneath her thumb, life-giving wife,
wild child of reptiles, pride of the Nile--
righteous Isis,
she who gives birth to heaven and earth,
sovereign sorceress, steward of words,
my ancestress, blessed with flesh, this
bright protectress, next to death with
theft of her name, maimed by insane fanatics
grasping semi-automatics aimed at
righteous Isis,
spliced into terrorist crisis
situations, sacred name on a
radical federation, used for devastation,
appropriation of my divine mother,
brothers-in-arms killing the culture
of their own nations, of past generations, of
righteous Isis,
torn from her temple by
scorned fundamentalists,
prayers to her used to take
insurgent censuses
now when i bow to my goddess,
my empress, the powers suspect I'm a member of
rightist ISIS,
who crosses off competition
with crucifixion,
lays foundations for jurisdiction
with immolation, with detonation,
decapitation of journalists, their
murderous fists taking nations,
rightist ISIS,
whose power rests on the shoulders of dread,
men obsessed with erasing the names
of every goddess we hold close, of every man
who knows Mohammed did not preach death,
of every Buddhist, every Jew, every pagan, every Hindu,
choking the breath from those who don’t believe what they do--
rightist ISIS,
you think you own the sun but not this one,
not this pristine queen who tears the thunder from the skies,
and she will strike you down with pestilent blight
she'll smite you with a blistering light,
she'll drown you and ignite the tide,
and you will die with the second rise of
righteous Isis,
whose hand rocked the cradle of civilization,
whose shrines make the sacral heart of nations,
whose each breath gives divine illumination,
who shakes off the wasted shame
and patiently waits as we chant her names--
all ten thousand in glorification.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.
In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.
Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.
At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.
As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.
Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.
When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.
I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.
A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.
Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.
These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.
I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants.
Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes
They claim the sun hurts their eyes
And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair
Breaks the cold, white-white windows
Musicians slam as if they know-know-know,
and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs.
Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break
for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none,
needed none."
He wants to mend the windows, send them home,
and get back to work.
But he is caught in sweltering heat
Their heat.
rosing on every person's cheek
when they turn their heads,
and observe chemical ties.
These mates speak better syllables
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
SHOW ME A FAITHFUL STEWARD By; Esther Esuga
Diligent in his responsibilities
Takes great delight in life's little gifts
Remembers the days of humble beginnings and never haughty in spirit
Handles his only talent with great enthusiasm
Does not feel that bravery lies in the act of insults
A faithful steward
Has respect for people placed in the position of power and authority
One who is meek and open to corrections
Hungry for wise counsel
Never ungrateful because of his understanding of the circle of life
He knows, PEOPLE ALWAYS NEED PEOPLE.
A faithful steward
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
Churn churn,
This boiling *** of thoughts and versions ...
Churns itself.
Driving me to stop and breathe ...
Just long enough to take a bearing ...
Finger in the wind.
Just long enough to pause in the in-between ...
And to take back what is ours ...
What humanity is the steward of.
Have you laughed ...
The laughter of understanding?
The time for crying is past.
Enough tears have already been shed.
It's time to take back what is ours.
What humanity is the steward of.
The power of thought
Transforms all through the alchemy of love and creativity.
The alchemy of imagination ...
In humanity's hands.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 1:17 PM UTC
My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust
- you can call her “Godfather.”
The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - think tiger stripes.
Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.
Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.
When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.
Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while on line (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.
Finally, it was my turn. we cheek kissed (fait la bise).
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We la bise again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.
Ooo! Another steward!
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
God fashion man
from the
black mud of earth
in His own image
the original
aboriginal
Black Man
unmarked nor cursed
by the hand of God
thus created
a steward of earth dominion
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
No, I am not a Christian, rather
I am a child adopted and chosen
I am a friend, He is my buddy
I am a follower, humbly obeying the Leader
I am a disciple, carrying my cross daily
I am an heir of the heavenly kingdom
I am a steward of the gifts that he gave me
I am a servant, loyal and faithful
I am a princess, set apart and of royalty
I am a citizen in but not of this world
I am an ally, no longer an enemy
I am a soldier constantly in battle
I am a conqueror, for He has won the victory
I am a slave, not to sin but to righteousness
I am an ambassador, representing peace
I am a new creation, gone is the old
I am a handiwork, a grand masterpiece
I am a branch yielding much fruit
I am a temple, the Spirit lives in me
I am a light and salt to all the nations
I am His possession, bought with a price too heavy
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Restless
Wounded
Weary
Wild
Working
Waisting
Wasteful
Vile
Hunting
Hurting
Hungry
Guile
Soothing
Smothered
Sinful
Tried
Wouldn't
Willful
Could
Repeat
Shouldn't
Wouldn't
Revel
Met
Wonder
Wander
Meddled
Spawned
Common
Shuttered
Humble
Harmed
Careful
Calculated
Course
Drawing
Waiting
Last
Recourse
Homage
Engorge
Gutteral
Gainful
Grieving
menial
Spew
Dispatched
Dispassionate
Great
Aloof
Merry
Spoof
Wander
Willing
Youth
Cancer
Crevasse
Comfort
Pain
Cuckold
Credit
***
Steward
Swear
Sally
Forth
Slither
Sully
Glum
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
The Beetles
I will now write a love poem and will include
heart, souls, roses and a box of chocolate with nuts inside
but a song by the Beetles keeps getting in the way
“Will you love me as before when I'm sixty-four?”
It was in Tokyo when heard the song I was visiting a girlfriend
who was a stewardess on a liner, the song said it all.
A few days later I met a cook smelling of ***** and underarm
sweat, he told me my girlfriend had a lover on the ship
a steward, I confronted the man we had a fight and I was thrown
ashore. She had stolen my heart, but I had the song;
so I will not write this love story after all,
perhaps tell you a story of Frieda, who collected monkey poo,
kept them in glass bottles and inhaled the scent
but she produced wonderful paintings.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Please forgive the simplicity of rhyme,
for I wish to be clear and take my time.
It’s never been “pc” to be Christian in any century,
out of step with the World, in what ones does or sees.
Having ideals may make me seem pompous,
even though I have no desire to impress.
I’m attempting to follow a Heavenly Plan,
by being a godly steward and serving fellow Man.
What I write from the heart, for me is real;
although as a guy, I’m not supposed to feel.
For some, the Principles of God make no sense –
However, my Faith is… no elaborate pretense.
Author Notes:
From the book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
Benedict met Mrs Cleves
in one of those
out of town bars
and they had a few drinks
and she told him
about her ex and
what a ******* he was
and how he used
to mess around
with those air hostesses
(he being a steward on a plane)
and he'd even boast
how many of them
he had had that week
and Benedict listened
and drank his drink
knowing that after this
they would go back
to her place
and drink more
put on some Delius
on her hifi
and have ***
on the sofa
or maybe make it
to her bedroom
if time and passion allowed
but she talked on
about her ex
and how she met him
after she came
out of the convent
(Benedict couldn’t picture
that scenario)
all innocent and pure
and thought love
had been found
Benedict sipped
the last of his drink
noticing how her hair
was like that French queen
he’d read about
who’d had lost her head
on the guillotine
and still she yakked on
about the ex
how he liked
fast cars and women
and drank too much
and disliked
her Scottishness
or her whiney voice
Benedict wondered
what she was like
back then
before the pounds
had landed on her
before age
had begun to settled
into features
and remembered
that time they had ***
on the sofa
and they’d fallen off
( too much *****
or what he couldn’t now say)
and the downstairs neighbour
had banged up
from the room below
and she said
shut the **** up
you old hag
and all said
in her Glaswegian tones
and they lay there
on the floor
she **** naked
and he semi clothed
with Mahler’s 5th bellowing
in the background
and as he came back
from his thoughts
she was still talking
of the ex
and he wished
she'd finish up
her drink
to get back
to her place
for more ***** and ***
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
hyped blood moon leaves me longing
no doom, no massive uprising
just another day
so many times the end of humanity
has reared its head
only to falter
when the day actually comes along
who among us remembers Elenin –
it is only through the revisiting of ancient ways
that we stand to exist beyond the horizon
returning to experiencing oneness with the natural world
as a part of instead of a steward too or protector therein
Carlin calls it ego, but I think stupidity
holds humanity at sway
thinking less pollution can somehow fix the Pacific
except fallout has been a part of that sea
since the late 1940’s –
no one looks to the Lorax
or even Woodsy the Owl
instead focusing on the little green head
on dollar bills…
pill popping beer swillers killing the planet
while claiming to be the smartest and greatest nation..
my patience is running out –
doubtful change can happen through human interaction
I wait for the earth to rid itself of this virus
massive tectonic upheaval
super storms
lice….
we all gonna die,
and it will be all our fault –
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Sista of Love Light and Joy!
All is as it shud or need be
Are U not the end and beginning as U are
Is it not grand Joy to stand upon the
shoulders of Giants and See the Trees and Rocks
as those Coming Greater still!
In the Heart Centered Beingness of
Love Light and Motion Know Thyself...
that is Steward of Our Rolling Home...
See Perfectly Ur Continuum Where…
the Beginning End and Begin again is U...
so therefore Rejoice n Sing Angel Sing!!
In Love Sista Love!!!
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
The Influence of Arborfield which is still On My Conscience
It's the guest room at Dun Jipping and I'm quaffing tepid tea
From a chipped pint *** with AAS that someone's passed to me.
And although I've tasted better tea I really can't complain
About this brew I'm drinking now, I think I should explain.
When young and given jankers (seven days and never less),
The powers that be would always make us work in officers' mess.
And if, while there, we'd feel the need to go and have a ***
We'd take off lid to tea *** and urinate in their tea.
And the cook would laugh and swirl it round, the steward serve it up,
Then he'd come back to kitchen and tell us who'd had cup.
But that was years and years ago, we squaddies then but brutes
And here no one's on jankers, and we don't take in recruits,
Thus this tea that I am sipping, uncontaminated tea,
Might be strong and tepid but I know it's free of ***
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 1:37 AM UTC