CYNTHIA PITMAN - POEMS

Cynthia Pitman is a retired high school English teacher. She has had poetry published in Vita Brevis, Leaves of Ink, Amethyst Review, Postcard Poems and Prose, Right Hand Pointing, Ekphrastic Review, Literary Yard, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Three Line Poetry, Third Wednesday, and Mused. Her first book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

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The Butterfly Effect
​

​I didn’t ask.
He had more to say,
but I turned my back
and walked away.
What was it?
What would he have said?
Maybe that the day’s sun
had scorched the white sand
with its furious heat
and the seething, simmering grains
were burning the bottoms
of his bare feet,
making him run away.
Maybe that the lake
only looked calm,
but a storm was coming
that would churn its waters,
stirring the mud below
until the roused lake bubbled
a deep dark brown.
Maybe that the grass on the ground,
wet with the cool evening dew,
would lie flat
if we would just lie on it together again,
looking up to the sky
to name the stars.
Maybe that we hadn’t talked enough
and that we should talk about it
just one more time.
Maybe that we missed something,
some desperate thin thread,
some last-chance lifeline
that could still bind us together.
Maybe that good-bye
wasn’t always that final.

Or maybe that it was.

Excavation of a Dream
​

​I sit at the kitchen table, elbow up,
propping my chin in my hand
in front of my heavy laptop.
It whirs and whirs,
trying to steer me back to work.
But I won’t go.
Instead, I lean into my daydreams.
I gaze outside.
So many layers separate me from the world.
The soft-pink rose-lace curtains that I chose
to mimic my grandmother’s house
hang light,
overlaying a window with fifteen panes --
all of the panes etched with roses
that sift through the curtains.
Beyond is the shade from the trees,
light and dark gray on the ground.
Someone must have come along
and spilled white paint over the shade,
for blots of white mottle it.
They move with the wind.
The grass lies green,
lime-green and forest green,
its color decided by the shade.
Below is the dirt.
If I dig, it is warm at the top.
But if I dig deep, it becomes cold.
Clumps cling to my hands.
I return to my laptop.
I begin to write.
I dig deep
and dirty my hands
with unfiltered words.

The Lady of the Fountain
​

​The cold, hard marble of her stature
belies the passion
of the Lady of the Fountain.


She leans slightly forward,
her frozen hair pulled loosely
to the back of her neck.
Her serenity shows in the soft turn of her cheeks. 
Her lips smile a quiet Mona Lisa smile. 
Her gown flows. 

Slick streaks of green and brown and black,
trails of the rains she has borne,
follow her cold curves down to the pond below.
Warm water,
scaled with brown-green algae,
gathers at her feet,
summoned by this Lady
with her curves and flow.
 
A soft mist settles on her shoulders,
caresses her frozen arms,
kisses her frigid lips.
Within, the Lady feels warm water begin to swell.
Then this vibrant force surges,
engorging her quivering veins.
The burgeoning power pushes
through the growing quiver
to the rounded water jug
she tips toward the pond.

Then -- the surging water pours from the lip of the jug.
The ecstasy of its release
as it spills her life-force
swirls the water in the pond
around and around and around.