hope – Right Handed Rhymer

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas

It began with a tree and a garden in the palm of an ardent Creator, who gifted the world salvation, before man had recognized his fall. Beauty among us. Truth before us. And in a moment, paradise lost. Until the hour, when upon a cross made of uprooted garden, He became the atonement for our…

Ray (Based on a True Story)

Your name was as it sounded-a candle in the dark,to guide me through the tunnelslifting melodies of larks.Rejected from fine Julliard,you swayed as you played Bach,when they offered you bravadoshould you flourish with the flock.“Alas” they said, “you’re talented,but must step into place”,when they noted that such movementswere preventing you from grace.But you, just like…

Poem

Poem There once lived a young boy named Poem, who didn’t quite know how to rhyme, who fancied the fields and the flowers, his mom felt he’d sing of in time. Young Poem liked rowing and painting, and took well to Latin and Greek, Yet, for all that he grew, both in mind and in…

Paper-thin Parchment

When I was six, I crafted a heart from glue and loose glitter on a morning, too far gone from now. At an age, where a cow jumped over the moon and sung of spoons I had yet to bend on plates, fated to be shattered by falling stars. Dear six-year-old me, trapped between the blank…

Untitled:

Inspired by a sketch of The Prodigal’s Return by Sir Edward John Poynter. Into your arms, I return, confessing with a heaving heart and cleaving to your familiar robes to stanch the wounds I accrued by pursuing a blind ambition I’d called sight. How humbling to know it is you who are right and I…

Mr. Why

There once lived a boy by the last name of Why who never asked questions or thought. Without man’s permission to guide his ambition, he only retorted with ‘ought’. When sitting in class, he would look to the board to see what the teacher would draw. But in holding his pencil, Why happened to…

The Priceless Piece

For those who can draw, let your own soul be seen, never mind those who say it is drivel. To the walls of the MET, let the critics reflect, that such wonders began with a scribble. For those who can sing, let your own song be heard, never mind those who say it is…