What does man say of his eminent death, when he follows his fate with a quavering breath? Does he mutter a truth to his comrade beside? Or swallow his fate as he grapples with pride? -Amy Struthers Image by: James Kovin
No One Asks About Blue
It’s assumed that of all of the colours, Blue’s the most misunderstood, for where Yellow is mellow and Green is serene, Blue is the absence of ‘good’. To some, Blue’s a feeling of sadness, hence why they say, ‘playing the blues’, but imagine what colours I’d sing of, if you spent one day in my…
When the blind burn the world with the language of sight, how can they be sure that such torches are light? – Amy Struthers
Some say I’ve the demeanor of that Peanut they call ‘Chuck’, who seldom smiles, and travels miles, to test his lousy luck at getting with a red-haired girl, who barely bats an eye, at a boy who’d rope the moon for love to gift her bottled sky. This is the tale of the grief that’s…
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…
The Tail of a Tale
Some 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,…
As sharp as it is often dull As weak as it is strong As handy as is harmful While as short as it is long What am I? Answer: Nail – Riddle by Amy Struthers Image by Debora Rousse
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
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