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 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

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Hermia and Lysander (The Field Trip)

John Simmons (British, 1823-1876)  Hermia & Lysander.jpg

All of life seems to move

beyond what we cannot see.

Tied to the gaze of one looking

and one looking down.


and being touched.


and being moved.


Children gaze

at this imperfect pair-

the stars and feeling they don’t understand

but do.


A boy kicks a classmate in the small of her back

all the while mocking

the outstretched hand

that is his outstretched leg.


-Amy Struthers

(Painting Hermia and Lysander by John Simmons)

poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Hurt and Hope (Prose)


Hurt is like the turning of a loose screw

into a board left in a damp driveway.

The fish in a flat that faces the sea

and the single mother on the long road,

holding spilled milk to a car seat that bleeds.

Hurt is the worm half-stamped by a heel

worn out and worn in by the late-night shift.

The notification left on just ‘read’.

and the breaking of one’s emoji heart.

It’s the sole tossed over the smallest stain

and the vicious cycle that knocks on bones.

Where boots keep rising to blot out ant hills,

hurt festers like the caked-in clods that cry.



Hope is like the rising of the sun

after the sound of Shiloh’s bell.

The joy at discovering a mislabeled hole

and the rush of resurrected memory.

The voice that fills the most hollow heart

and touch that grasps the most sinking soul.

Hope is the message of more

at a table of less.

And the belief not every day is night,

but can be mended in the ashes.

-Amy Struthers

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Make A Wish (Rhyme and Prose version)

I’ve a wish to meet this Superman

with arms that bear such steel,

but the trouble is my Superman

is fighting hard to heal.


I’ve a wish to meet this Superman

they said is made of lead,

but the trouble is my hero

is confined to hospice bed.


He bounces back with vigor,

after downing hefty pills

made of mashed-up kryptonite,

the power in him stills.


He’s needing iron badly

and not flying into beams

to uphold his inner arches

that have sheltered broken dreams.

Being strong despite the odds

of needing iron soon,

and not looking like Clark Gable

when he flies into the moon.


I’ve a wish to meet this Superman,

that’s not like what you see,

but bears the weight of everyman,

the weight of you and me.


I’ve a wish to meet Superman, the only trouble is

he’s in a hospital too

and I doubt he wishes to see himself

or even knows how strong he is,

considering the circumstances

of needing iron and not flying to it.

With the strength of a thousand oxen,

he swallows kryptonite

and fades for awhile,

only to bounce back better than ever

until the next time.

But the doctor says there will be no next time

and Superman’s ok with that

because he knows he’s going home to see his Father

who he thanks for having giving him life

and the ability

to have been strong

considering the circumstances

of needing iron and not flying to it.


-Amy Struthers