Joshua Michael Stewart
Many people have often said that they like to hear me read my poems just as much as they like the poems themselves.
So I decided to record a spoken word album. It contains recordings of some "fan favorites" as well as some new work. It also includes snippets of interviews I've done for radio and podcast shows, and there are two musical interludes included.
If you click on where it says "lyrics" you can even read along with the poems. And the best part, you can listen to the album for FREE! Though you do have the option to toss a few coins my way if you wish. This is where you can put that belief in supporting local artists to good use.
You can find it: HERE!
Poet and Potter Michael Medeiros has used a couple of my haiku on his newly crafted creations
My third poetry collection, Love Something, has been released by Main Street Rag Publishing in the Fall of 2022.
It sells for $15 + shipping.
You can read sample poems and order here:
In Love Something, Stewart reveals a bitter, sometimes monstrous personal history softened by compassion. For all he, his family, even country have suffered, this poet has chosen a life which refuses to be wasted. Stewart writes with a clarity of image and pacing which allows joining his pain, anecdotes, celebrations and humor to feel irresistible and welcome. Reading this book is as natural as curiosity and says love all you are able. ~Jody (Pamela) Stewart, author of Infrequent Mysteries, The Red Window, & Ghost Farm )
Through gritty odes, heartfelt homages, hard-built elegies, and elegant praise poems, abiding love and gratitude rise out of deep pain and loss. Joshua Michael Stewart’s marvelous collection, Love Something, will leave you shaken, startled, but looking up in awe of the beauty and music left in the wake of gunshot: “a flurry of starlings—melody/swooping across the sky.” ~Kristin Bock, author of Cloisters and Glass Bikini (Tupelo Press)
The smell of ferns and understory
after rain. The tick, tick, of stove,
flame under kettle. Bing Crosby,
and not just the Christmas records.
Cooking meat slowly off the bone,
and every kind of soup and stew.
To come this close to nostalgia,
but go no further, leaving behind
the boy who wore loneliness
like boots too big for his feet.
That time of evening,
when everything turns blue
in moonlight, when darkness
has yet to consume all for itself.