If Words Were a Waltz

If words were a waltz

on a page of this stage,

men might linger on language,

and languish the age

as each tip of the heel,

with each click of the tongue,

renders syllables spoken

or broken, as sung.

Where each note is a blot

bleeding thoughts into strings,

when the spots we call words

are the birds bouncing wings,

in the dance we call breath,

by a gesture of speech,

when the throats sending quotes learn the motions they teach.

If words were a waltz,

we might cherish the sound,

of finding our footing in losing our ground.

For in rhythms we find, that words give as they take

when sentences reason for structures they break.

-Amy Struthers

The Night Train

The Night Train

All children’s ears fall on the pulse of the night train’s shiftless hum,

never knowing where it’s going, or in turn, is coming from.

Every year, its starlight travels low, as to not disturb the night,

whose perfect moon, beyond the trees, is turning hills to white.

A quiet steam sifts through the air, melting bits of falling snow

as the night train chugs through sapphire clouds and beams of amber glow.

In a sense, perhaps it’s best it passes once a year,

for the night train wouldn’t be the same without the Christmas cheer.

It’s as if the course sees it is one, for the moon becomes its star,

when the trees with lights of brilliant whites are mirror of its car.

Oh night train, must I wait another year to see your steam?

Passing by my way just once and fading into stream.

-Amy Struthers



Based on ‘The Millinery Shop’ by Edgar Degas.


Grace in the folds that she fixes-



and bold-

shifting her shift,

in the storeroom, she drifts

perfectly poised in the cold-

There’s a warmth to the textures she touches-

there’s a depth to the dip of her hand

when, in humming the beats widows spin from the streets

she’s moved by a gossamer band.

-Amy Struthers

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


Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’.



When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels aren’t as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?

When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?

-Amy Struthers

May I Mourn?

May I mourn for the morning that has yet to rise

and dry the tears that have yet to fall

for a cause that may give me no cause to

part the forming clouds and uproot the wilted daisies?


For the sake of a song I have yet to write

in spite of the pain I have yet to feel,

may I mourn?

-A. Struthers