artist, music, musician, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 44:

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Based on ‘Signora Al Pianoforte’ by Giovanni Boldini.

Started 10:34am outside of Stewart. Finished: 12:14pm. My dorm.

Untitled

Who hands a song to a chorus of one

to hammer each note into place?

Is not the musician, a certain position

assumed in a window of space?

Who lets in and lets out

and so gathers the nails

on the tails of the notes that they form-

from the pulse of the moon,

and the twister in June,

to the bister blown in by the form.

-Amy Struthers

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gahan wilson, limerick, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 42:

March 13th: Based on a Gahan Wilson cartoon. Looked at the clock at 11:16. Finished: 11:56. In my dorm.

A man is trapped in a painting.

F(r)ame

There once lived a man in a frame
who garnered far more than fast fame
when his portrait was sent
to a printer in Kent
who thought he could copy his game.

There once lived a printer from Kent
who sealed up his self with each cent
acquired from the sale
of the man in the jail
atop every postcard he sent.

There now live two men on the walls,
the Louvre has so labeled ‘The Thralls’,
since they can’t quite get out
to correct any doubt
their want for the press stressed their falls.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 40:

Wrote a poem while tired entitled ‘Penmanship’ over break that I’m not pleased with- will be scrapping parts of the work to create a better poem later. Met a woman at the thrift store who inspired me to begin writing a song. Hoping to set music and lyrics together so that I can post a demo of ‘Ivy’. Back from break- time to get back to get back to my practice. Made dinner with Gabs the other night and am exhausted from staying up past 2 in the morning talking.

A-Quiet-Read-Albert-Lynch-Oil-Painting

March 11th: Based on ‘A Quiet Read’ by Albert Lynch. Started 9:08. Finished: 11:46.

The Good News

So softly cooed the darling dove who perched upon my sill

to sing of how the ages in the pages served to spill

winged words that gave some men their flight

to bring the joyous news

to nations knowing not of need in deeds that form their dues.

 

“Dear darling dove, of such a love, how must I know the book

of which you sing, as if to bring, new eyes through which to look?”

 

The darling dove, of such a love, flew out and placed by me,

a branch of which I’d always passed, so that my heart might see

how such a vine could salve my eyes, to watch the wash of hues

of what’s it’s like to come undone so that you feel your fuse.

-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