faith, miracle, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

And God So Spoke a Miracle

And God so spoke a miracle

that answered every prayer,

to show me of His mercy

molding tender loving care.

For over sixteen seasons, I waited for a sign

that came in but a gesture mild, but ever so divine.

And God so spoke a miracle

that healed a broken heart

which gave the mind its luster back

to sing His salve through Art.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 40:

A-Quiet-Read-Albert-Lynch-Oil-Painting

March 11th: Based on ‘A Quiet Read’ by Albert Lynch. Started 9:08. Finished: 11:46.

The Good News

So softly cooed the darling dove who perched upon my sill

to sing of how the ages in the pages served to spill

winged words that gave some men their flight

to bring the joyous news

to nations knowing not of need in deeds that form their dues.

 

“Dear darling dove, of such a love, how must I know the book

of which you sing, as if to bring, new eyes through which to look?”

 

The darling dove, of such a love, flew out and placed by me,

a branch of which I’d always passed, so that my heart might see

how such a vine could salve my eyes, to watch the wash of hues

of what’s it’s like to come undone so that you feel your fuse.

-A. Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 29:

February 19th: Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Started 1:50 pm. 7:00pm.

5.1.5

Johnsy

When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels are as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?

When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?

-A. Struthers

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

How Grand This Vision

How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.

How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.

How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.

– A. Struthers

artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 1:

dante_gabriel_rossetti_-_proserpine_-_google_art_project

January 22nd: *I awaken from my slumber with a loose line in my head. As my mind seeks to attach it to some narrative, I recall Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ and take to typing this poem roughly near 5:20am in the morning* (Finished around 6:55am).

Proserpine

An empty incense burns beside
anemones upturned
and beckons for the beauty
in the alms that were adjourned.

Bequeathed to Death, as if to Life,
the curse of Myrrha holds
the remnants of remembrance
by the seed that stains her folds.

An alabaster artifice
is all that’s left of love-
A portrait of the daughter,
none would slaughter twice the dove.

-A. Struthers

-Image: Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ (1874)-