artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 7:


Based on a design by Vera Brosgol.

Pear, the prickly peasant girl
on a quest to test her love,
combed the caves and rode the waves
she shook while wearing glove.

Alas, her tale is tragic in the sense her pointed hands
couldn’t brave the tether of the weather’s harsh demands.
As Pearl so speared a town in which the locals were balloons
and happened to so blind a man their clan had named Magoons,
she ended up as shipwrecked,
and then, a peasant queen
disguised as a poor beggar
so she wouldn’t make a scene.

How slippery a slip-up,
when Pear before the king
speared him with the finger on which
he had cast a ring.

Though he was quite put off by pain,
old memories surged back in
as sharp as they were ever
for the harp that was his Pin.

Oh, how the king was smitten, by the point that Pear did prove
that both now sail the continents with confidence in groove.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 1:


January 22nd: *I awaken from my slumber with a loose line in my head. As my mind seeks to attach it to some narrative, I recall Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ and take to typing this poem roughly near 5:20am in the morning* (Finished around 6:55am).


An empty incense burns beside
anemones upturned
and beckons for the beauty
in the alms that were adjourned.

Bequeathed to Death, as if to Life,
the curse of Myrrha holds
the remnants of remembrance
by the seed that stains her folds.

An alabaster artifice
is all that’s left of love-
A portrait of the daughter,
none would slaughter twice the dove.

-A. Struthers

-Image: Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ (1874)-

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized


Leaf oh leaf, of fleeting grief,

where will you fall tomorrow?

When once your vein laps up the rain

so soon will flit your sorrow.


Bee oh bee, of majesty

where will you rest your crown?

When once the springs supplant your wings,

so soon will wilt your gown.


Gannet, oh dear gannet flock,

when will the wind recall?

The sonnet of your ecstasy

embedded in your squall?

-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

flute, flutist, music, musician, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Flutist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song

entice the plum-pursed lips

gripping for the galaxies

confined to sullen sips.


A cup-eared chorus hollers back

to smooth the clods of clay

molded by the penchant of the potters who will play.


A honey-suckle sound escapes,

to which the bees reply,

“Had only we a gentry cup

our lot may never die.”

-Amy Struthers