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



Inspired by a sketch of The Prodigal’s Return by Sir Edward John Poynter.

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

Flashback Folder: First published poem

Howdy y’all,

This poem marks a significant milestone in my life, as it was the first time a piece I’d written was chosen for publication. I do apologize for the glare on the glass.

Fun facts:

  1. The parents in The Closest to the Star were given the last name ‘Carter’ as this teacher left a significant handprint on my heart.
  2. Had Mrs. Carter not reached out to publish ‘Untitled’, I don’t believe I’d still be writing in rhyme. For that, we either have Mrs. Carter to thank or punish 🙂


Confessions (a poem based on the writings of Saint Augustine)

At the altar of a holy God,
the knees of man do quake
in silent supplication
for a nation at its wake.
At the altar of a holy God,
the heart repents of pride
professing of the blessing
by the Spirit that’s its guide.
At the altar of a holy God,
man sees ambitions twist,
releasing what was leasing
the perdition of his list.
At the altar of a holy God,
man empties all he is,
to take the cup
that ushers up,
to drink of what is His.
So bellows this poor fellow
with a sorrow in his song,
acquired from ancient Adam,
in a garden going wrong.
I hope I shall return to thee,
and taste a greater fruit-
a pear tree unpolluted,
by what’s suited for its root.
-Amy Struthers