Short Cinched Poems

I put a saddle on the wind,
and rode it through the storm

The bridle placed, the buckle cinched,
the reins, my horse reborn

Inside each stirrup passion spurs,
the present now in hand

Behind whose mane I charge within
—in search of who I am

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)...

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I put a saddle on the wind
and rode it through the storm

The bridle placed, the buckle cinched,
the reins, my soul reborn

Inside each stirrup passion spurs,
the present close at hand

Behind whose mane I charge within
—in search of who I am

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)...

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I put a saddle on the wind,
  and rode it through the storm

The bridle placed, the buckle cinched,
  the reins, my horse reborn

Inside each stirrup passion spurs,
  the present now in hand

Behind whose mane I charge within,
 —in search of who I am

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)...

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1970’s FIX


Tied, bound, cinched
Must-a-bin-bad

Fastened, secured, fixed
Must-a-bin-bad

Trussed, restrained, enslaved
Must-a-bin-bad

Strung, laced, affixed
Best lay still

Learn not fight it, else
It gets tighter

																																													          Sunshine Williams...

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The echo was unmistakable, her arrival was imminent,
        that spike heeled stride through the back alley leading up to my door.
Already a striking beauty, her black patent leather high heels only enhanced her stature.  In her khaki trench coat, cinched at the waist, her sage green silk scarf loosely caressed her blonde curls as she blew me a kiss....

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my fields on fire, my mind is lit
no amount of rain could ever douse this 
I can't sleep I'm just to wired
this sweet, sweet taste of pure desire

I'm drinking this wine but it doesn't quench
my soul roped in and tightly cinched
the more you give, much more I want
my heart upon your sleeve you flaunt

I feel your skin as we ride this storm
all past dreams have been transformed
lightning strikes and leaves its mark
tattooed deeply on my heart...

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She is a defined woman
short blond hair
gives my thoughts wild abandonment
my feelings juxtaposed
into new understanding of her
she is all woman
her body
cinched at the waist
defining the upper and the lower completely
eyes which seem to foretell
things evermore
a defined woman
psychedelic sixties posters
on her wall
I sit in my room waiting . . . until . . .
reincarnation complete
Jim Morrison picks up the phone
She hears her phone ring...

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I can’t put myself out there
Emotionally, you know
The heart is really the most fragile thing 
Like a fine china cup
Outside, where it’s cold and windy
And hateful and unwholesome 
Spiteful and too bright 
I don’t want to be chipped more than I’ve healed 
I’m in this cupboard 
Safe. 
So my heart is Anxious. Anticipating. Angry that no one has come
Calm. Controlled. Cinched in place
I’ve succeeded in keeping hell out
But now heaven can’t come in...

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Thomas Watson works to cure
the diversity of man
with computers to assure
no one takes flight from their plan

as the mesh gets cinched tighter
behind lines then walls of stone,
dooming writer and fighter
to brave barricades alone

while the cabal keeps gaining
freedoms we should be saving.
Brotherly trust drifts; waning
flags are waving, still craving

blood for profit and order
with smiles and needles in hand
to dissolve creed and border
in culling their grand demand....

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