Passaggio

Note: Poem is named after a song by Ludovico Einaudi.

Late this evening
I saw light and dark shadows
flicker in and out of clarity
through my bedroom window
creating silhouettes
of disfigured phantoms
and dancing figures.

The earth rumbled
of things yet to come.
Slowly, softly, swiftly,
the rain fell.

The droplets continued
one by one as the spheres fell
the thunder soared and died
then soared again
creating a dissonance
of sound and rhythm.

The last wave of light and sound built to a crescendo
of rage blanketing lighted houses with darkness.

Lighting candles one room to the next,
I am haunted by memories of the last storm.

I had been at the piano when the sounds came.
As I hit each note, the rain unraveled.

A simple drizzle:
a sprinkle of heaven’s blessing
to barren soil.
I was excited to hear
the inclement weather
as I had not seen
rain visit in months.

But the earth rumbled
of things yet to come.
Slowly, softly, swiftly,
the rain fell.

The thunder bold and brash seemed out of control
the lightening that followed was determined to cast fire
to the whole earth.

The metronome kept pace as the cacophony
of wind and rain and thunder and lightening
crashed into my chest.

Raining once again,
a scent of asphalt and soil
fill the atmosphere
darkened clouds of a muddy gray
embellish the midnight sky
an adornment of rage and tranquility
cover the earth like a veil.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved

Unraveling

Through an open window,
the notes flutter in;
they move about the room
discussing the refrain and
all that is yet to come.

Sitting in a cup of tea,
her hair pinned in a loose bun,
she is stitched in moments of
what could have been and
what should be.

Memories unraveling
as she pulls on patterns.
Sewing recollections back together,
such toil leaves her with pricked thumbs.

A quilted patchwork of
what seems upon what is.
Mismatched fabric and
unfortunate realizations of
tangled thread so late in the day —

she worries her masterpiece
will never be complete.
How she had hoped it
all would come together
just so.

An assortment of fabric
sits beside her:
an eternal collection.
Her thumb bleeds;
the thimble drowns.

As the music dies,
the corners of her mouth
form a perfect smile.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved

Lucky Girl

He wears a shirt that says,
Chicks hate me.
One by one,
they flock his way —
each perching, fluttering,
strutting for his attention.

He stands aloof.
His head cocked back,
watching with a smirk,
and perfectly tousled hair —
as they scrape and claw
vying to be the lucky girl
chosen to try to change him.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved