Divine Poetry

Gail Steuart will share her poetry and photography with readers.

churchI took this photo of a choir rehearsal by candlelight in the unfinished sanctuary of the church in Houston. My son-in-law designed a large part of this building, so it was a special occasion for me to get to be there.


Darkness hides – leads one to rest and a warm retreat.
It s a mystery that the womb is dark, yet is the place of creative motion.
The familiar coolness of the night – where dreams are the incubation of meaning.
Things become clear here because of darkness, but are then revealed in the light.I must have forgotten that poetry comes from the first intimation of the soul.

It’s time to stop moaning about my pitiful widow’s life—

Time to reframe my sad picture of husband and wife.

Let sparkles of life and adventure come ahead,

And thank God I’m among the living –

Instead of the dead!


aria next move


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.


granddaughter clara signing her book no baggage


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.


Sung to the tune of My Country ‘Tis of Thee

My country ‘tis of thee,
My land of poetry.

Sharing with a group for fun –
I like it such a pun!

Well, lets write some more.
Isn’t that what life is for?

anna 2 years


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

again forever.



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.


anna yarrow

arthur harold steuart

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.

arthur steuart

barry and gailBarry and Gail

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.
Drawers Full.
Shoes Lined up in a row.
That Beautiful Jacket --
His favorite boots.
I Open the closet and all those
Things linger in memory.