artist, creative, creativity, poem, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Memento Mori

Tell two artists to create life in words

and what you’ll receive in a pulse

will be enough.

Living begins when we see that every person passing through

harbors a story we do not,

has a solution to some problem

we have yet to realize,

is the voice for one lost

and the encouragement to one beginning.

Tell two artists to create life in words

and you will see in a toss why the coin has two sides.


Anat asks ‘Why’

to which Art replies,

“Does the faint tapping on a goatskin drum

steadily grow louder the more we learn and seek to play thunder?”


A thread as tied to hers

spun by colors she has yet to see.


In a toss, we mark our coins.


As men utter ‘life is without reason’ or mutter, by exhausted breaths, that

‘artists lose…or gain to understand’,

Anat plays to a tune that time forgets and begets.


With an eye towards heaven, the doting daughter replies,

“You and I are the voices,

forever searching for others who will understand,




a dying world into one that lives for art:

the heart of the people,

we’ve somehow forgotten

make us whole.”


Tell two artists to create life in words,

and what you’ll receive in a pulse

will be enough.

-Amy Struthers

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry

Based on ‘The Millinery Shop’ by Edgar Degas.


Grace in the folds that she fixes-



and bold-

shifting her shift,

in the storeroom, she drifts

perfectly poised in the cold-

There’s a warmth to the textures she touches-

there’s a depth to the dip of her hand

when, in humming the beats widows spin from the streets

she’s moved by a gossamer band.

-Amy Struthers

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

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.

-Amy Struthers

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 48:


Based on Jacques-Louis David’s ‘Napoleon Crossing the Alps’.


I ask my students who they admire and am surprised by a gap-toothed grin.

To Alex, it is Alexander the Great.

To Sarah, it is Walt Disney.

And to Bobby Moss, it’s me.

In collecting their papers,

I catch in glittered cursive,

a response from a girl who seldom speaks,

“Who is the hero of history?”

scribbled out in loose gel, a faint ‘and why should I care?’ trails off the end-

apologetically double-lined so as to express shame for her own conviction.

Such a reply makes me pause to wonder why we spend so much time in books,

and yet rarely bob our heads out of the answered waters to apply such ‘knowledge’ to

our daily life.

“Who is the hero of history, when eternal lives look to temporal men for guidance?

And why is it we sculpt men whose blood is no more blue?”

I ask Alex what’s to be learned from the lesson and he replies,

“that some men are worth more than you.”

In twenty years, may this boy recall the weight of ‘greatness’

when he looks into a sea of dead-eyed men

and moving against the current,

finds in the recovering addict, a gentleness that hooks his soul.

One day, may he acquire

that the school of fish does not end in the classroom,

but can be found on the corners

where men barter virtue for viceroy.

-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