The Flutist

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 may never die.”

-Amy Struthers

The Dreamer and Georgie’s Advice

He said, “I’ll be a writer, so tomorrow I will start.”,

to which his brother Georgie sighed, “But now’s the time for art!”

“But I don’t have time”, the dreamer said.

“Then make some!” Georgie cried.

“For merry men who lived their life would say you haven’t tried.

If you want to dream, then do it. If you want to write, then GO.

As nothing ever comes of talk, I’m interested in show.”

“Alright”, said he, “If you insist, for surely you are right.

Oh Georgie, can you tell me how we both began this fight?”

His clever twin responded

by pulling out a pen

to write upon his brother’s hand, “Let’s have this talk again.”

“Oh Georgie, please! Have you gone mad? But why repeat it twice?”

To which good Georgie snorted, “That’s what comes of sound advice!

You must repeat it daily, for as silly as it seems,

that’s how artists, like yourself, achieve the stuff of dreams.”

-Amy Struthers

From Clock:

For whom do I thank for this blessing,
of hands that keep time in this place?

If not for my make, then my maker,
who fashioned the folds on my face?

For whom do I thank for this blessing,
of a tick on which some measures rest,
when in counting the minutes to seconds
time enters to end in my chest?

-Amy Struthers

The Canary in the Coalmine

The canary in the coalmine

of a culture lost at sea

is when the tides like tidings

shift the use of ‘we’ to ‘me’.

 

It’s the stake we stake to gain one

and the rope we loose to hold

and the winds we brace to chase

a bloody basin full of gold.

 

It’s when a Midas media

so turns our love to lust

and drains the seeking sailors

in the clutches of its rust.

 

When the bards are pinned by poems

and the sirens flop their speech

and the masses lose their glasses

when the snakes begin to preach.

 

When race divides the very land

imbedded in its claim

and everyone’s a sailor

on a whaler riding blame.

 

The canary in the coalmine

of a culture doomed to fail

is not all men are set to sink

if some so learn to sail.

-Amy Struthers

For Whom

For whom do we cry when tears are shed

and what does hate reveal?

From whom do we seek to be so led,

if not that love is real?

For whom do we mourn when mournings come

and why does man rejoice?

If not to sing a song unsung that’s forming by his choice?

-Amy Struthers