poetry – Right Handed Rhymer

Untitled

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…

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…

Fare

I am boarding a train with a pain in my paper and the hope of Versailles on my sleeve to believe, in a picturesque setting I am setting my sights on ‘home’. For the things I cannot see, I run. For the hope that the portrait will prevail, I carry. To the sail…

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 for the Society of Classical Poet’s ‘Write A Poem’ Challenge* https://classicalpoets.org/2020/01/19/write-a-poem-on-one-of-these-images/ “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?”…

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…