artist, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 22:

February 12th: Woke up early and messaged Alex/watched Chuck Palahniuk interviews. Spent a good portion of the day communicating with Micah. Later in the evening, Gabe and I get Olive Garden. When we return, we’re set to watch t.v. together, but I remember I have a poem to complete and need to answer groupchat. I tell him he has to wait. Started 9:08pm. Finished 10:42pm. (Based on Joseph Christian Leyendecker’s painting ’The Violinist and His Assistant’).


Moonlight on 7th

Who could imagine a tree 

singing of heaven 

in an uprooted forest

or the Actaeon of ambition 

daring to quench his thirst 

with a sonata

that waltzes on glass?



stir the sonnets of broken bars

and the metronomed soles

downing the beats  

they call 



Tossing peanuts into caps, 

a sleight of hand,

sprouts diamonds from the waterlogged wells

and in a misguided hope, spares a penny for good luck.


In a city that’s forgotten its core,

what’s to make of the hollow, 

in which the hair of Pegasus still sounds?


Grazing the grounds,

the stag strings his bow with a quivering arrow.

His marrow?

The moonlight.

-Amy Struthers

poetry, prose, Uncategorized, Van Gogh



I gaze upon the Madame
so long as admiration permits,
hoping by a small chance,
she may take note of my heart-like hands
and steady the beating of my banal brush.

This mystery, who mutes my madness
and tames the tenebrific chuckles of a feverish mind.
Imagine how richly I could paint the heavens,
if one such as her was my wind?

She, who of all women born
understands me most and yet, least of all-
a candle in my coffin
and the pull of a muffled bell.

I love the Madame as intended
which is to say,
she is too heavenly for me to wish earth upon her.

She is time outside of time,
and the kiss of an angel who smiled.
Who am I to defile this gift that was meant for the world and not me?

-Amy Struthers

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

poetry, prose, rhyme, shakespeare, Uncategorized, war

The War of Rhyme and Prose

The Montagues and Capulets is a tale of tragic throes,

yet nothing half as hapless as the war of Rhyme and Prose.

Its fragments seem to tell the tale of rhythms crossing stars,

that happened by their fervor to foment familial bars.

Good Rhyme when met by pretense, in the riddle that was Prose

skipped her mental pitter at the flitter of his flows.

And in seeing Rhyme had rhythm, Old Prose fell off his feet

and said without her reason that his life was ne’er complete.

The two did meet in secret, for none could bear the shame

of mixing up the metre with the measure of their name.

Faint ‘Iamb Yours’ were muttered by the flutter of the page

which escalated friction in prediction of the phage.

When word broke out they wronged their tome, the two were told to part

and ushered from their opus into isotropous art.

The weight of all the fighting by the pen that was their sword

severed ink, as Prose did drink, the critic of his chord.

Good Rhyme was soon beside herself, for depth that did depart

and sung, though so inside herself, of how her beat had heart.

Each age has seen its liking,

though in form, some do detest

the pairing of a dactyl with a tactile anapest.

The moral of this war of words

is that their feud found way

to mystify the masses in dividing present day.

The only hope we have to end the war of Rhyme and Prose

is not to feed the fodder to the slaughter of the close.

If, perchance, we’re lucky,

such words will find a way,

to heal the strains of sorrow

in the sonnets that we play.

-Amy Struthers

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

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 life

as their roots take root

in a silent soil,


that puts their toil

to labor of a different kind.


where the mind

which drives the hand

spills blood into the field

that gave it turnips

and consumes the very thing

which gave its stomach


-Amy Struthers