Matt Stuart: Poetry

THE GIFT

As he stood and cried out loud
The horses rushed the pasture plowed.

Yellow grass upon the hill
Parted with the fury’s chill.

Trees once stood with branches bare
Among the flowers planted there.

Purples, reds and leaves of green
Painted sketches of the scene.

Where they’re from and where they go
Only One above can know.

Listen, listen he hears them now
Racing towards this hallowed ground.

Like distant thunder or cannon’s roar
They’re coming near, near once more.

They come closer in his sight
The sparrows now take to flight.

Coats of black, dark the night
Clouds of dust obscure the light.

He hears a voice, soft as the wind
“Sing a song, let love begin.”

The stampede stopped and looked around
Searching for the sacred sound.

Where they’re from and where they go
Only One above can know.

Copyright 2008
Matt Stuart

ON THE STREETS

So many people, walkin’ round aimlessly.
All they have is the air they breathe.

On the streets.
On the streets.

Life’s passing by them, as they drift day to day
All alone on the sidewalks, hope to God it don’t rain.

On the streets.
On the streets.

They say, "Mister can you help me?
It's cold here on the ground.
The earth is my table...
There's no food to be found."

On the streets.
On the streets.

Hoping for handouts from the people they meet.
Copper and silver don’t buy too much to eat.

On the streets.
On the streets.

The sky is their blanket, on a bed made of leaves.
There but for fortune, could be you, could be me.

On the streets.
On the streets.

They say, “Mister, can you help me?
It’s cold here on the ground.
The earth is my table…
There’s no food to be found.”

On the streets.
On the streets.

Copyright 2008
Matt Stuart

THE GARDEN

The caterpillar learns to crawl
thru weeds and grass, up garden walls.

Moving with her tiny feet
She crosses sidewalks and the streets.

Back in her garden flowers abound.
Buzzing bees can there be found.

The bees fly ‘round, ‘round the trees…
With their song they seem so free.

Freedom takes a while to be found…
The caterpillar’s on the ground.

She now crawls into her room,
Dark and damp, her own cocoon.

Some sunny day she then flies out.
A butterfly is now about.

Freedom found, freedom gained,
She shows her joy in springtime rain.

She flies so high, flies so low,
Beautiful creature all aglow.

And so we see, and so we sigh.
Don’t be afraid…be a butterfly.

Copyright 2008
Matt Stuart