There’s a nail on the wall -tilted and pocked above some half-chalked sketch of a man paying no mind to the chrysanthemums. He, who makes no fuss about the lights being on or off, stills in the room that studies his window, and welcomes us with the same worn-out expression we oblige. Out of formality…
Tag: poetry
Prayer (A poem based on Adam Elsheimer’s ‘The Stoning of Saint Stephen’)
Based on Adam Elsheimer’s ‘The Stoning of Saint Stephen’. Prayer Lord, Repeat in us the assurance that this house is not our home, that no harsh word is without consequence, and that no trial stands without divine reason. When, rooted in our heart, the longing to pray for strength comes to the forefront of all…
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…
Deciphering Kubla Khan (Multi-lens Theory)
Deciphering Kubla Khan (Multi-lens Theory) In 1797, a writer by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge took to penning a poem that would come to be published in the year of 1816. Known to the world as Kubla Khan; or, a Vision In A Dream: A Fragment, the meaning of the text has long…
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,…
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
