Questions

What does man say of his eminent death, when he follows his fate with a quavering breath? Does he mutter a truth to his comrade beside? Or swallow his fate as he grapples with pride? -Amy Struthers Image by: James Kovin

No One Asks About Blue

It’s assumed that of all of the colours,  Blue’s the most misunderstood, for where Yellow is mellow  and Green is serene, Blue is the absence of ‘good’.  To some, Blue’s a feeling of sadness,  hence why they say, ‘playing the blues’, but imagine what colours I’d sing of, if you spent one day in my…

Untitled

When the blind burn the world with the language of sight, how can they be sure that such torches are light? – Amy Struthers

Good Grief

Some say I’ve the demeanor of that Peanut they call ‘Chuck’, who seldom smiles, and travels miles, to test his lousy luck at getting with a red-haired girl, who barely bats an eye, at a boy who’d rope the moon for love to gift her bottled sky. This is the tale of the grief that’s…

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…

God or Man?

(Inspired by a Joe Tessitore photograph) “God or Man?” he asks of me, “That truth of which I’m told. Tell me if you can,” says he, “Which path does lead to gold?” “Of riches internal or outwards?” I ask. “Of wealth overflowing or small?” “Of that which will flower this desert” says he, “Of that…

The Tail of a Tale

They say that golden stories stem from treasures long forgot, or grow from tales as big as whales that scarcely hold a plot. But like all stories, bland and bold, each poet has their root- a source from which they pulled their page to turn their cherished loot. As it so happens, many creatures stirred…

For Where I Am

For those I have met on my journey, whose path pointed back into mine, by gestures and jots sewn to thousands of thoughts, of this, it has been His design. For the seasons both hopeful and lonesome, of the months bearing titles like ‘May’, with each day forming showers in drought-ridden lands when dew drops,…

Riddle 1:

As sharp as it is often dull As weak as it is strong As handy as is harmful While as short as it is long What am I? Answer: Nail – Riddle by Amy Struthers Image by Debora Rousse