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…

The Flutist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song entice the plum-pursed lips gripping for the galaxies confined to sullen sips.   A cup-eared chorus hollers back to smooth the clods of clay molded by the penchant of the potters who will play.   A honey-suckle sound escapes, to which the bees reply, “Had only we a gentry cup…

The Dreamer and Georgie’s Advice

He said, “I’ll be a writer, so tomorrow I will start.”, to which his brother Georgie sighed, “But now’s the time for art!” “But I don’t have time”, the dreamer said. “Then make some!” Georgie cried. “For merry men who lived their life would say you haven’t tried. If you want to dream, then do…

Ribeye Dad

A Ribeye once looked to his son to holler, “Your work is well-done!” To which he replied, “Guess it runs in my hide”, when his phrase met the phase of a bun. – Amy Struthers

From Clock:

For whom do I thank for this blessing, of hands that keep time in this place? If not for my make, then my maker, who fashioned the folds on my face? For whom do I thank for this blessing, of a tick on which some measures rest, when in counting the minutes to seconds time…

What of William?

On beside the lake he strode, in a pensive mood he wrote as if symphonies escaped his grasp and left him with a note. He wandered lonely as that cloud and vanished o’er the hills and yet I can’t help wonder, if he wrote of daffodils? -Amy Struthers

The Canary in the Coalmine

The canary in the coalmine of a culture lost at sea is when the tides like tidings shift the use of ‘we’ to ‘me’.   It’s the stake we stake to gain one and the rope we loose to hold and the winds we brace to chase a bloody basin full of gold.   It’s…

For Whom

For whom do we cry when tears are shed and what does hate reveal? From whom do we seek to be so led, if not that love is real? For whom do we mourn when mournings come and why does man rejoice? If not to sing a song unsung that’s forming by his choice? -Amy…

The Poet (Blood From a Turnip)

The tip of the felt, to capture a feeling in passing, is bound to a page in pursuit of its bind.   Here, the willows once plucked are given new leaves as their roots bear fruit in a silent soil, One that puts their toil to labor of a different kind. One where the mind which…

A Place in Time

They called it A Place in the land of Time though it had no roof or door, when many came to enter in and tread across its floor.   There, young and old did saunter through though none, alas, could stay, as the purpose of A Place in Time was to guide all to ‘the…