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

If Words Were a Waltz

If words were a waltz on a page of this stage, men might linger on language, and languish the age as each tip of the heel, with each click of the tongue, renders syllables spoken or broken, as sung. Where each note is a blot bleeding thoughts into strings, when the spots we call words…


Based on ‘The Millinery Shop’ by Edgar Degas. Grace in the folds that she fixes- dignified modest… 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…

A Longing Fulfilled

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…


Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Johnsy When paths aren’t all that tangled, and dreams are spun and cast, and bushels aren’t 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…


Proserpine An empty incense burns beside anemones upturned and beckons for the beauty in the alms that were adjourned. Bequeathed to Death, as if to Life, the curse of Myrrha holds the remnants of remembrance by the seed that stains her folds. An alabaster artifice is all that’s left of love- A portrait of the…

The Flautist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song entice the plum-pursed lips gripping for the galaxies confined to sullen sips. A cup-eared chorus hollers back to smooth the clods of clay molded by the penchant of the potters who will play. A honey-suckle sound escapes, to which the bees reply, “Had only we a gentry cup our lot…

Cat Burglar

There one lived a cat that could bark, its owner would perch in the park, as to lap up the looks on the faces of crooks, confused, as they tripped through the dark. -Amy Struthers

A Hill to Dye On

I’ve a hill to dye on, child. What have you to say? I’ve a hill to pray on, child. Where have you to sleigh? I’ve a hill to lie on, child. What have you as fair? I’ve a hill to beat on, child. Where have you a snare? -Amy Struthers


There once lived a horse with no hair, a conman had seen at the fair. So he threw on a wig, and did book it a gig, as ‘Mullet the Magical Mare’. -Amy Struthers