love, poem, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

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 slate and the final stare,

don’t pay that blue much mind.

When you find

paper-thin parchment just so easily tears,

my prayer is that you’ll use that same-colored crayon

to construct a kaleidoscope

based on the wonder you’ve been told

and the colors you have yet to see.

Today, my heart broke,

which is to say for you,

it is just beating.

May this glue be your assurance that some things stick

despite the years

and wear on the hands that press red into the folds.

-A. Struthers

Advertisements
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.

-A. Struthers

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

A Letter to William

All we know is that she was from Smyrna

And like mother, was a teacher.

 

Who gave birth to two boys

and was wed to a writer like me.

 

I was told

that before her photo was stolen,

she looked like you.

Which is to say, you are a walking remnant of the family I may never know.

 

When Americans adopt babies, they never imagine the consequences of separating

siblings for the sake of some image

and how in building a family,

they break the one that’s left behind.

 

When eyes move about a city that has crossed strangers tied to their own blood

the sounds of celebrations remind me of my phantom philia

and the life I could live

if I knew more about the woman from Smyrna.

-A. Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 45:

I apologize for the hiatus from entries. Last week, I was driven to the ER and flown out to the Bay Area for medical testing. As I’m no longer in pain and was prescribed medication, I am heading back to university this Sunday. Am very thankful. Much has happened since then.

Based on ‘In the Grass’ by Arthur Hughes.

Arthur_Hughes_-_In_the_Grass-1

Heather

Sing to me of scarlet skies and I will paint you a valley,

sealing your sigh in my wind.

One, where on topaz mornings,

I might look out onto restless waves

and see in their rise,

a reason why my heart skips stones.

Or on evenings

when she speaks of thrones,

no rose can compare to a queen of floral reign

when the knights they hail

pause to kiss the hands for which they live and die.

Oh then,

might you and I

brand our blush with the hue we call our passion,

and fashion a love that reminds us of our roots.

-A. Struthers

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 43:

Claude_Monet_-_Woman_with_a_Parasol_Facing_Left

Based on ‘Woman with a Parasol Facing Left’ by Claude Monet.

8:32. Finished 9:39. In my dorm.

 

Here, Besides

In cleansing a pigment-encrusted brush,

who turns their nails to scrape the clay-colored sands

and play with the corals that sprout from a cup of clouded sea?

Where blue bonnets can be,

who dares to wash a wonder that is a window of time

gazing into a glass-eyed girl

or stands to part the ochre shades

that exhale into a robin wind?

-A. Struthers

 

gahan wilson, limerick, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 42:

March 13th: Based on a Gahan Wilson cartoon. Looked at the clock at 11:16. Finished: 11:56. In my dorm.

A man is trapped in a painting.

F(r)ame

There once lived a man in a frame
who garnered far more than fast fame
when his portrait was sent
to a printer in Kent
who thought he could copy his game.

There once lived a printer from Kent
who sealed up his self with each cent
acquired from the sale
of the man in the jail
atop every postcard he sent.

There now live two men on the walls,
the Louvre has so labeled ‘The Thralls’,
since they can’t quite get out
to correct any doubt
their want for the press stressed their falls.

-A. Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 38:

March 1st:

photo

Based on Egon Schiele’s ‘The Border of the city, Krumau’. Started 8:56am. Finished 10:02am. In my dorm.

Home

I fashioned a home from stones I found along the way-

those placed by the riverbeds

and collecting rainwater in emptied fountains.

those

in hollows atop mountains

and those

from the hatbox of my youth.

How humbling

fell the words of Ruth,

when once I witnessed from a parting in my private paradise,

a flood that tumbled my notions of permanence.

Packing pertinence into what a birch boat can carry,

I climb-

casting the beam of a house on my back

and the hope of home in my heart.

-A. Struthers