Ages of Man

Ages of Man (a poem based on the “All the world’s a stage” monologue from Shakespeare’s As You Like It) Ages of Man   Infant: Out of the pellucid womb, I grasp for reeds I can weave Schoolboy: into a song. Hoping by a smile of favor, I may play Lover: a fragrant note. Soldier:…

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…

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…

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,…

Ping

Anticipation Swells like a bruised peach-plucked for Malnourished fruit flies. -Amy Struthers Image by Bruno Reyna

Dear Night

Is the robin resting, dear Night? Or is this hole I’ve fashioned into a home the source of a nest upturned? To think the cause of this silence yearned for what my leafless limbs could gather and this hungry beak could break. All for the sake of a white-picket birchbox muted by the steel I…

Portrait

From the ground we lap the springs, that feed our vein and fade our wings and drip into a dust we sweep, as held by time in stills we keep. -Amy Struthers Image by Nathaniel Chang

The Pursuit of Air

Breathing is just a dance with air which is why, some of us feel more of out breath than others and why our exertion bears a name as similar: ‘Winded’. It’s why our amazement is ‘breathless’ and why elation lands us on clouds- The sky, and the stars, and the streams and hills filling our…

If Words Were a Waltz

If words were a waltz on a page of this stage, men might linger on language, and languish the age as each tip of the heel, with each click of the tongue, renders syllables spoken or broken, as sung. Where each note is a blot bleeding thoughts into strings, when the spots we call words…