The Poet (Blood From a Turnip)

The tip of the felt,

to capture a feeling in passing,

is bound to a page

in pursuit of its bind.


Here, the willows once plucked

are given new leaves

as their roots bear fruit

in a silent soil,


that puts their toil

to labor of a different kind.


where the mind

which tills the hand

spills blood into the field

that gave it turnips

and consumes the very thing

which gave its stomach


-Amy Struthers

The Park

Northern pintails brushing blue,

the crescendo of their wings,

weaving windsong into words

some say that, “Up jumped spring.”


The rising sun, through veils of dun,

atop a pool of glass

with flitting beams, does bend the streams

to cast a liquid brass.


Children fashion cradles,

and white whiskers out of string,

and fumble through foxed pages,

grazing grass on slowing swings.


Some, in a pensive mood do trace

the wisps that form the whale,

as froth stirs in a weightless sea

the poets long to sail.

And yet, despite the fluxing airs

that turn the tails to grey,

those perched below,

where quill pens crow,

will write of how they play.

-Amy Struthers