Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
I don’t think about you anymore.
Not about the first days
when I shyly took your offered hand
and walked with you
wherever you went.
Not about our first kisses,
sweet electric sparks
that shocked my heart.
Not about our late-night trysts,
the urgent touching,
the fierce yearning,
the heat.
Not about the inevitable waning days
of passion that chilled our fervor
and silenced our hearts.
Not about the break,
the crack,
the crevice,
the final breach.
Not about the later walks
without your hand to hold,
not about our ended endless kisses,
not about our distant frenzied trysts.
Not about any of it.
Not about you.
Never about you.
Not anymore.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
The raven-black stallion,
tired of being saddled
with people and their problems,
broke from the barn
and headed straight for the hill.
The closer he got,
the faster he ran
and the more he sweated
until, at last, he reached the top.
There, in his own sweat,
he baked in the kiln of the noon sun,
becoming a hard, dark totem
of running free.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Keep a tight rein on me.
Otherwise, I’ll kick and scream
and fight to unleash
what cannot be said,
what must stay hidden,
what dare not raise its head
and reveal itself to the world.
I keep it close.
I know what it can do,
what pain it can cause,
what chaos it can wreak.
I know that the unsaid
cannot be let loose
or I will stand accused,
denounced, ashamed.
Hold the reins.
The unsaid will pull and pull,
wanting to sound the alarm
to warn against me,
against the reality of me I keep inside –
not the unreality I keep on the outside
where I try and try
to stand quiet and still.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
O Seraph, stone of the gods,
how is it that you were torn
from the crag above and flushed
by the tallest of all waterfalls
to be lodged into the bottom
of the chosen river?
Though at the world’s peak,
you fell so hard that you sank
deep and deep and then beyond.
Did the rock of all ages
strike you from sight?
Or did you mine yourself
from the heights of glory
to join in the cacophony
of the rushing waters,
to be forced forever
into the rough bedrock
and be slowly shaped by eternity?


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Come with me to the center of time,
where caverns are carved from black onyx.
We can watch our reflections in envy
as they dance in the sheen of the dark walls.
Yours will lift mine and spin me around,
breathless, in the airless cave.
Mine will hold yours close, and closer still,
absent a heartbeat to keep time.
Together we can watch ourselves dance eternally
in the echoing cavern of love undone.


- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Paul Plyler

Keep a scarecrow on your shoulder
to ward off the black-winged birds
that nibble at the fruits of your heart.
They like to pick at them slowly,
each little peck stabbing in time
with every throb that pulsates
through the veins of your life-blood.
Hold them off.
These blood-thirsty predators
do not scare easily,
so you must make your scarecrow brutal,
with a vicious lust for a fight.
No straw hat, plaid shirt, and blue jeans.
Instead, steel armor, steel sword, and steel shield.
These are the weapons your scarecrow will need
if you are to be saved from the onslaught
and live free in life’s field.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
The rain tree showers you
with her yellow flowers,
and, like her branches, your arms
stretch high and wide
while the flowers fall
from your silhouette,
as the two of you sway
to the wind’s violins –
perfect lovers
in perfect rain.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
When they ask where I am,
tell them I went kayaking –
meandered downriver
seeking the hidden cove
arched with water oaks
dripping their gray Spanish moss.
Tell them I’ll stay there,
eyes closed, mind clear,
in the cool air of this leafy cavern
until dark. Not until then
will I make my way back,
only to go there again and again
to find the roots of where I began.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Out of the dusk
walks the muse of the night
who gathers the darkness
and whispers a secret in its ear,
the secret of her handmaidens,
the stars,
who hide from the sun
but will dance for the moon,
diamonds sparkling
in a velvet black sky.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book of poetry, “The White Room,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
Careless, we make eye contact.
We instinctively look away.
We should listen to that instinct
and stop. right. there.
A connection, however brief,
is always too dangerous.
The spark from the static
of that split-second coupling
ignites a wildfire of ecstasy.
But this one quick breath of a bond,
this unexpected reckless consummation,
this blinding climax that sates
the ache of loneliness
that claws us raw inside
will ultimately consume us
as it consumes itself,
leaving nothing in its wake
but the cold ashes of isolation.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
A trampled scrap of paper
scoots with the wind across the dry dirt road.
On it are written someone’s last words.
They cannot be read.
The lines of the hand-scrawled letters
bend in the folds of the crushed paper,
mangling the words. To catch the paper,
smooth it flat, straighten the lines
and read the words is no more possible
than it would be to find the writer,
soothe her pain, and reshape her future
that is already past.
But the words are there.
No one need read them for them to be there.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia B Pitman

- -
The world is flat today.
No curvature of the earth
creating in us such primal verve
that we twirl and twirl
with outstretched arms
while we lift our faces to the sun.
No curling winds unfurling our skirts
as we dance with the wild lilacs
by the cold trickling stream.
No morning glory.
The sun has risen, but that is all.
Our spirits did not rise with it.
They remain tethered to the ground.
The world is not round.


- - -
I am a retired English teacher. I began writing again after 30 years of teaching. My poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Before the floods flashed
and carved the hills into red rock caverns,
before the fires flamed
and felled the forest trees,
before the wildlife panicked
and dove into the rushing rivers,
before the birds flew too close to the sun
and, as with Icarus, their wings melted
and they fell into the sea,
before the teeth and claws of the gnawing rats
rattled then scuttled
the worm-holed warped-wood battleships,
before the lions cowered
and fled the highest ground,
before the clear skies melted
and bled blue,
before the sun turned on us
and burned our eyes,
before the snows followed
and froze them open,
before the wild winds raved
and pushed us apart,
before the raging waters rose
and swept us under,
before the whole earth split
and devoured us in fire,
before we knew
that all we knew
would soon be through,
we stood together, hand in hand,
laughing.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Hearken to the wind-chimes.
They announce the coming symphony.
Their hanging xylophone of cacophony
beckons the wind home.
It hears. It comes.
It blows by the leaves
of the waving oak trees
with the soft sound of a brush
circling on a drum pad
in rhythm with the wind.
Car engines on the highway hum,
a collection of clarinets
that bewitches the audience
into spellbound rapture.
A car honks –
a trumpet blaring a reveille of warning.
A semi joins in –
a sliding trombone of freeway dominance.
The grinding of its gears
modulates the key
of this composite symphony,
the bass and the bassoon
causing the earth to rumble.
A train rattles the tracks –
a saxophone singing
a syncopated song of longing
for far-away places and far-away times.
The tympani roll thunder.
The cymbals crash lightning.
A mandolin of rain strums the scene.
Sing out.
Sing out the hallelujah hymn
of all things mundane.
Praise them.


- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Part of the sleet was comfortable,
a reliable foe.
Its slanted needles,
the spit of the sky,
jabbed our winter coats
with a sense of purpose.
Coming fast and determined,
the icy spikes failed to pierce
the thick wool coats
we wore as armor.
For that, we cheered,
reveling in victory
over our old foe’s attack,
knowing our snowsuits
and our water-proof boots
would keep us safe --
all but the face.
We tried to look down
but could only look up,
frozen in awe
at the sharpened water
sending down pain
so constant and sure,
it bloodied our eyes
wide open.



- - -
I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. My first book, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.” -
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

When Sorrow comes to visit,
We feast from dusk ‘til dawn.
We binge on acrid memories
To celebrate him home.

I greet him at the doorway,
Embrace him with a laugh:
(“Why do you stay away so long?”)
I kill the fatted calf.

I hone the blade to piercing;
Mortal flesh is rent.
We fill our cups with overflow
Of bitter sacrament.

We raise a glass to visions
Turned rancid with regret;
Whet our frenzied appetites -
Toast all we can’t forget.

We reminisce for hours
(“How Hopelessness has grown!”),
Share tears in fond remembrance
Of all the hurt we’ve known.

We gnaw the carrion carcass,
Gorge on life unjust,
Suck marrow from the brittle bones,
Sate our wanton lust.

Then purgative Redemption
Administers release:
She guts our bloated torment,
Bestows her blesséd peace.

Sorrow gathers up to go;
He lumbers on his way.
I watch until he’s out of sight. . .
Then clear the mess away.


- - -
Last summer, I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“We announce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding. We do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a scaffolding.”
– G.K. Chesterton, The Ball and the Cross

No flaring posters for me.
I didn’t fall off a scaffolding today.
I just kept climbing,
finding my way.

No 911 call for me.
I didn’t get hit by a car today.
I just kept crossing,
finding my way.

No breaking alerts for me.
I didn’t drown in the lake today.
I just kept swimming,
finding my way.

No screaming sirens for me.
I didn’t have a stroke today.
I just kept breathing,
finding my way.

No big headlines for me.
I didn’t get shot in the head today.
I just kept running,
finding my way.

One obituary for me:
I didn’t make it to the end of today.
I just died trying
to find my way.


- - -
Last summer, I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Eric Pitman

He squints his eyes, adjusts his hat,
Hunkers down and grips the bat.
Elbows up and shoulders high,
He takes a breath, then lets a sigh.
The ball comes straight and hard. He swings.
A hit! He runs! His feet have wings!
He tags first base. He’s safe! But then
He eyes the field and runs again.
The ball flies fast toward second base.
He slides. . .
He’s still. . .
He smiles. . .
He’s safe!
They tell me this is how it was;
I’ll never know for sure because
I closed my eyes and missed the fun
The day that baseball stole my son.


- - -
Last summer, I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
“We want to hear ‘emergent voices,’” they say.
“But I am not one,” I reply.
“Rather, I am a ‘submergent voice.’
Slowly I sink deeper and deeper into the hard dark water,
leaving above me a bread-crumb trail of bubbles --

one
°
after
°
another
°
after
°
another
°
°
°

until I am entirely submerged
under the solid weight of solitude.
All I want is for someone else
to hear me when I scream.”


- - -
Last summer I began writing again after a 30-year hiatus. I have since had several poems and short stories published, including in Leaves of Ink.

Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

- -
Dedicated to Rebecca Pitman

Sing out the dark.
Sing out the sadness.
Sing out the fear
of being alone.

Sing out the pain.
Sing out the heartbreak.
Sing out for weeping
soon to be done.

Sing for the light
to shine down upon you.
Sing for a peace
to soothe your soul.

Sing for the day
when you look up above you
to see the sun shining
and all the clouds gone.


- - -
I began writing poetry again last spring after a 30-year hiatus. This poem was written for my daughter, Rebecca, after her husband, Kevin Nagle, died on 11/26/18.