In the Silence

it is in the silence
I hear your love
aging with the passing of time
it is a singular beat that
resonates like a vibration
from a distance

it is in the steady stream
of unspoken words

as long as the years
we have known each other
as consistent as dawn
as resilient as dusk

it is in the silence
I hear your love
deepening

© 2017 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved.

Chasing Phantoms

I wear my sadness like a dress
string that ties at the back of my neck
one that cups the form of my breasts
embraces the curves of my hips
glides down the small of my back.

It is a little red number
this sadness that I slip into
when I am in the mood.
It is a mourning of moments,
and it is just the two of us now.

I play the songs that solidify
my pangs of self-loathing and want.
Alone. I rock from side-to-side
matching the movement of my sway
to the movement of the song.

I wear this dress well
this feeling of anger, sadness, and pain.
I can feel it tugging on my belly.
It runs along the sides of my waist

pulls me in closer and tighter
like a deep embrace.
Sliding my fingers along the hemline
hands interlocking tangling
themselves within fabric
losing sight of time and place.

I place a hand along the string
tied at the nape of my neck
and wonder if it is time to let go
before the evening is gone.

© 2017 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved.

An Ocean Between

Secretly, she wished he was not
here. Knowing he returned
creates more pain than believing he
was still states away with an
ocean between them.

The afternoon breeze fluttered through
her hair; she found herself hardly
paying attention to his chit-chat.
Her eyes moved slowly over him.
She noticed he still leans back in his chair
his hands loosely clasped together
over his stomach. His eyes beautifully
brown and a smile warmly welcoming. Losing
herself in his countenance, she is overwhelmed
with sadness. Before she can regain
her composure, she stumbles over her thoughts.

Last she saw him they were saying good-bye,
she thought he would leave and quickly
forget her. After all, he was young then.
In the totality of his life, she was of no
importance. Her life had already solidified.
But he was just beginning. She knew
she would fade into a distant memory ––
a five minute story in his life. Tears streamed
down her cheeks, slid down the sides of her lips,
fell into her hands as she tried to clear her face ––
an unending stream of consequence.

She was wrong. She was wrong
about this and about them.

A smirk appeared on her lips
a delicate staccato of laughter
escaped her mouth
in the hope he could forgive
her for having walked away.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved.

Haunted

Wails and whirls of icy wind
crash into the two story building
and swell from house to house.
A shadowy realm past twilight
creeps into the earth’s atmosphere.

The violent storm of night
whips around my face
stealing my breath like
an unwanted kiss.

The bitter cold burns
pockets of nerves
down my throat, and
my mind is forsaken.

Thrust forward by the twisting air,
I see a gate,
broken through years of neglect,
wildy swinging open and shut.
A scarlet soaked rust drips
from iron rod to iron rod.

Jolts of thunder light up the floor
covered in shards of leaves
that break under the wind’s presence
wildly swirling and swiveling in
neurotic patterns like the mangled
collage of an obsessive.

At the foot of the front steps of
this long ago abandoned house,
the atmosphere grows bolder
like the sound of wind chimes
overwhelmed by the treachery of
an angry night.

Tattered shingles clinging
to the roof of rotted planks,
splitting through their center,
clang and clamor for death.

Ice forms like
distorted patterns of winter
scattering the surface
of anorexic tree limbs.
A suffocating chill grabs
hold of its roots.

And my cries for release
from this purgatory
are muffled by my shadow
as it sways in a circular motion
mocking patterns of life.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved

A Woodland Marsh in Nova Scotia

A bystander recorded today
a woodland marsh
uplifting the roots of its trees
breaking apart sheets of grass
into patches as the ground swelled.

The earth let out a breath
inhaled
filling its core with air
exhaled
releasing the land back to its floor.

Perhaps, it does
—the ground—
perhaps, it breathes.

This planet of ours, Mother Earth,
we have encased her
in a corset of cement

cinched her waist with bridges
buried in her chest tanks of gasoline
pulled from her bones gallons of oil
poisoned her lungs with chemicals

burned on her face acids and toxins
smothered her beauty with billboards
plunged into her wrists rods of artificial light.

Perhaps, it does
—the ground—
perhaps, it breathes.

Struggling for her next breath
as we bomb and break her spine.
We continue to take turns leaving our mark
until the day she finally lays still.

© 2016 Cyndi Piña, All Rights Reserved

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