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

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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, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 29:

February 19th: Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Started 1:50 pm. 7:00pm.

5.1.5

Johnsy

When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels are as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?

When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?

-A. Struthers

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

How Grand This Vision

How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.

How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.

How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.

– A. Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 13:

51061450_1980932781962335_3310929871181447168_o.jpg

February 2nd:

Diary 12 entry ABSENT. I wasn’t feeling well and decided against writing a poem.

February 3rd:

Still feeling under the weather. Treated cold naturally and am seeing progress. Just need a bit of eucalyptus and vitamin C. 1:17 is when I look at the clock. I forgot to jot down the time before. It’s 1:55 now and I’m in my dorm. The poem is based off an earlier poem I abandoned for revision and my present viewing of Thomas Cooper Gotch’s ‘The Child in the World’.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Life should be lived through the eyes of a child,

whose hands are the claws in the jaws of the wild

and the breath of fresh air in the fog some forget

as they graze by the glass of the age that’s inset.

Life, to a child, rings as gorgeous and grand,

as each reach for creations in stations of sand.

And for a time, when there’s wonder in moons,

they’ll drink up the stars by the jars of their dunes.

Through the eyes of a child, there exists no such greed-

no I, me, or my, in a world full of need.

They acquire what we teach,

yes, the eyes watch us all

to then parrot our beauty and social withdrawal.

While they bloom in a pot, who will plant what they give

to teach the lost child how the wild could be lived?

Would we rather see roses adorning the street

or thorns over sidewalks, exhausted from heat?

You who bear eyes hold the key to their fate.

Yes, you sing the songs to the children who wait.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 8:

peeterscheesesalmondspretzels.jpg

January 29th: Based on Clara Peeter’s ‘Still Life with Cheeses’. In my dorm. 5:23. 5:42.

Served

No lust was dished for dinner,
no blood was boiled to rise,
no goblets gushed of gluttony,
no lettuce leaked of lies.

No I, me, or my in the humble pie,
just tables served in kind,
nourishing the flourishing of
plates prepared in mind.

-A. Struthers