artist, diary, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 10:


January 31st: (A response to Cornell’s: A Parrot for Juan Gris). Started: roughly 8:11. Finished roughly 8:55. In my dorm.)

For Juan

Who said that parrots were pretenders
or that this world smiled when he did?

custard-lipped Bramante,
perched on your notions of ‘would’,
when will you learn
that digging your maltodextrined talons into
the of mutability of man
will only give rise to a cake of stares?

Who cares,
that you of all people
help the apprentice see potential in parchment
and that by brandishing your beak on what’s finished
you crack the case of constriction?

I do.
That’s who.

-Amy Struthers

poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 9:


Based on “Hands No. 6” by Kimberly Burnett

3:12. I leave the poem and complete it by 10:21.

Touch in the Time of Touchscreen

Warmth is but a warning and a comfort
depending on who or what you ask.
It’s a finger-flinching endeavor
that’s the branch and blade.
It’s the should, should, should of design
and a vine
in a vaporized vineyard, that sometimes
hits the tongue just…
It’s a byte of that customizable consumption
and the act of waterproofing your attachments
from the contents of that
It’s an obscene
and a profound statement expressing in one pixelated face
how the t-t-times have changed.
It’s replacing the aging appliance with the new
and injecting impulse with a hydra hunger.
About weighing your worth on an exploding ego
and measuring the minutes
attempting to dent
the Pandora’s box of praise.
It’s a phase, phase, phase,
reported as getting better,
short-circuiting and sucking the message
droid-dry from our warm, warmth-starved tips.
Distorted by a 60-sizes-fits-most-doxology,
no apologies are given
when neighbours are reduced to neurons
and virtue is a virus that rusts the ‘terms and conditions’
of the slavery we call

As the gears keep growing, I ask you,
“What…am I loaning?
And to whom do I owe such debt?”

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 7:


I return from watching Laurel and Hardy/The Three Stooges with Tim and Gabe. Based on a design by Vera Brosgol. Started: 9:48- 11:15 ended.

Pear, the prickly peasant girl
on a quest to test her love,
combed the caves and rode the waves
it took while wearing glove.

Alas, her tale is tragic in the sense her pointed hands
couldn’t brave the tether of the weather’s harsh demands.
She happened on a town in which the locals were balloons
then happened to so blind a man the clan had named Magoons.
She ended up as shipwrecked,
and then, a peasant queen
disguised as a poor beggar
so she wouldn’t make a scene.

How slippery a slip-up,
when Pear before the king
speared him with the finger on which
he had cast a ring.

Though he was quite perturbed by pain,
his memories surged back in
as sharp as they were ever
for the harp that was his Pin.

Oh, how the king was smitten, by the point that Pear did prove
that both now sail the continents with confidence in groove.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 6:


I head over to Ryan and Tim’s room to hang out. When I return, I take to writing in my dorm.

Based on ‘L’Etoile’ by Edgar Degas. Started: 11:15. Finished: 11:59.


Is this how the bird feels when, in being released from its cage
it staggers onto a sunrise stage,
and notes
the change of pace
that startles at the flurry of hands reminding it of its forgetful wings?

The bird that sings
of gentility
despite the seasons
and rejoices
in the sensation of flight.
Why stop
when the very flutter of your wings
and song in your step
reminds men that no bar can break you?

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 5:


January 26th: Inspired by ‘Frustrated’ by Annie Preece *4:43. In my dorm* I forget about the poem and move on to different tasks. I’m informed my uncle Richard died. I come back from eating dinner with Ryan and Tim. I don’t want to write a poem and just want to hang out with my friends. 7:37. Finished 8:09.


Emotions are like
wax on wood chips

they’re drips
on gilded lilies

and Achilles
as a dead-eyed
Patroclus look into
and through him.

Rejection hurts like a ballpoint bee sting
which is why I bring
my stick of stories
to the pain that sings of honey.

-Amy Struthers

artist, faith, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 4:


January 25th, 2019: *I awaken from my slumber earlier than 1:27am, but it is by this time I begin typing. I am compelled to write a poem about God’s goodness.* (Inspired by a sketch of The Prodigal’s Return by Sir Edward John Poynter) Finished at 2:32 am.

Into your arms,
I return,
confessing with a heaving heart
and cleaving to your familiar robes
to stanch the wounds I accrued
by pursuing a blind ambition I’d called sight.
How humbling to know it is you who are right
and I am in need of nourishment.
What encouragement,
to see
who love the unloveable
and call me
your offspring
as if such a thing
brings you no shame.
In a world so quick to note faults,
you waltz
with my breaking body
and guide my seeking soul.

You, who warn and warm me,
and light my wintered life,
when unteachable is I all hear,
how I never dreamed
for one as beautiful as you
to gaze upon my wantonness
and weave the words that are your hand on my heart.

-Amy Struthers