Uncategorized, poetry, artist

Diary Entry 30:

4:09 pm Sigma lobby. Based on ‘The Singing Butler’ by Jack Vettriano.  Finished 11:12 pm my dorm.

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Gain

At last, I danced with Autumn

on the sands that were our stage,

and branded in Blythe’s bowler

every choler of his wage.

A love that stemmed from thorny brush,

to now, my blushing hue,

clutching to the comfort of a dream that died in dew.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 29:

February 17th:

Gabe, Ryan, Tim, and myself all meet up in Stewart. Gabe tries to persuade me as to why I shouldn’t leave the university. I didn’t feel up to writing a poem.

February 18th:

Felt like falling asleep in class. I didn’t feel like writing a poem.

February 19th: Fell asleep in the lobby and woke up to get ready for class. Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Started 1:50 pm. 7:00pm.

5.1.5

Johnsy

When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels are 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

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 18:

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February 8th: 6:49am- based on Hector McDonnell’s ‘Temple of the Winds, Mount Stewart’. 7:16am. My dorm.

 

A Room With No View

In a room with no view,

what is there to see,

when elision of vision

forgets what is free?

For if it is free,

what is it that binds

my stare to this square

so bedecked with these blinds?

A pane of the glass through which life is beheld

distances death in the lies that we weld.

For if it is death,

why do I grab grout

to somehow turn in,

what I wish to keep out?

-Amy Struthers

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

How Grand This Vision

How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.

How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.

How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.

– Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 13:

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February 2nd:

Diary 12 entry ABSENT. I wasn’t feeling well and decided against writing a poem.

February 3rd:

Still feeling under the weather. Treated cold naturally and am seeing progress. Just need a bit of eucalyptus and vitamin C. 1:17 is when I look at the clock. I forgot to jot down the time before. It’s 1:55 now and I’m in my dorm. The poem is based off an earlier poem I abandoned for revision and my present viewing of Thomas Cooper Gotch’s ‘The Child in the World’.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Life should be lived through the eyes of a child,

whose hands are the claws in the jaws of the wild

and the breath of fresh air in the fog some forget

as they graze by the glass of the age that’s inset.

Life, to a child, rings as gorgeous and grand,

as each reach for creations in stations of sand.

And for a time, when there’s wonder in moons,

they’ll drink up the stars by the jars of their dunes.

Through the eyes of a child, there exists no such greed-

no I, me, or my, in a world full of need.

They acquire what we teach,

yes, the eyes watch us all

to then parrot our beauty and social withdrawal.

While they bloom in a pot, who will plant what they give

to teach the lost child how the wild could be lived?

Would we rather see roses adorning the street

or thorns over sidewalks, exhausted from heat?

You who bear eyes hold the key to their fate.

Yes, you sing the songs to the children who wait.

-Amy Struthers

poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 9:

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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…
r-r-right?
It’s a byte of that customizable consumption
and the act of waterproofing your attachments
from the contents of that
bashful
Hippocrene.
It’s an obscene
gesture
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
model
and injecting impulse with a hydra hunger.
About weighing your worth on an exploding ego
and measuring the minutes
spent
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
song.

As the gears keep growing, I ask you,
“What…am I loaning?
And to whom do I owe such debt?”

-Amy Struthers