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Cynthia Moyer Poem
She sits like a song
In her rocking chair.
Grace evident - Smiling radiant
Power curling on spun glass.
Bound to a solitude --"Welcome, Old Friend"
Moving as if to escape the skin;
Magic beats her heart, brights her eyes.
Thoughts ignite her hands.
Wisdom firing from her fingers....
-Ink is the escape.
Her hands have molded souls
And waved to create breezes
That brushed Goddess' hair.
Memories - turned inside-out
Feelings - turned outside-in...
Flesh stolen; enigma given, unaccepted.
Withered grapes on a kitchen window sill
Harbor memories of the vine...
And "Tea-Drops" on socks from a cup long drunk
Hide Steps
Taken in other worlds.
Ink formed thoughts give wings to this simple woman.
Leaving wonder in the wake.
She sings with a pen.
Droplets of playful spirit released from
A squirt bottle,
Taming a busy cat....and the
Impish laughter paints beauty on her face,
Electrifying her hair into sparks that blow across the Universe.
Tiny Fey lurk in the corners
Waiting to come out and dance with her.
And like a song......
The Shaman
In her rocking chair.....
Copyright © Cynthia Moyer | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Cynthia Moyer Poem
Riding darkness like a fevered horse
arriving nowhere
desire drained into
dust devils
an endeavor
escaping light
and the darkness behind my eyes
thrumming with loathsome pains of the soul
so deep
crypt-like
Silent screams claw sanguine rivulets
across
placid ponds of thought
emptying, devoid.
Wanting solitude; needing loneliness
killing to feed.
Jet steed foamy and dying
dusty caws peal from the throat
of a waiting vulture
who devours black carrion like I do.
Copyright © Cynthia Moyer | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Cynthia Moyer Poem
Raising a fire
thoughts light
movements fuel
swirling incandescence
enveloping this silent witness
reflecting pools reveal a smoky glow
that traces my profile with
elegant tendrils
sliding opening
gently unfolding
like new wet moth wings
there
a breath of love sets me aflame
in some cosmic spiral of sparks
glowing amber white
in the purple midnight veil.
Copyright © Cynthia Moyer | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Cynthia Moyer Poem
An onyx layer of cosmos
lies behind the mist costumed trees....
the remains of night falling over the edge
at my back
the first caress of day
rubs my heels with prophesy.
So I come
from a chasm deep
within myself
spinning saffron ribbons
from my aching torso.
Echoing on the living Mountain
returning
to me with
secrets from Her crystal walls.
Copyright © Cynthia Moyer | Year Posted 2006
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