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Best Poems Written by Cindy Thompson

Below are the all-time best Cindy Thompson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Childhood Memories

Summer day, I ventured out to play. Swung up high in the sky, climbed my favorite tree, pretended I could fly. Discovered cloud-formed shapes, spied a stratus dragon and cirrus whales in capes. A quick game of catch with my pal Sam, then we built us a fort in the barn; with fake guns we felled foes and yelled “Bamm!” Summers and childhood passed quickly by, Sam and I now Afghanistan bound. Soldiers under a hot desert sky, our minds revive those halcyon days when our mission was just to have fun. “Stay alive” pleads our new mission’s phrase.
Written: July 28, 2021 A 3-6-9 Poem Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Emile Pinet

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021



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Daisies and Dreams

When Spring’s soft murmurs broke the stillness of the rolling hills, He took his guitar outside to welcome days of daffodils. His music wound throughout the pines in greening melodies, The gypsy lady heard them and was stirred to fantasies. Across the daisy meadow, his tunes reached out to her at night, On his front porch she could see him bathed in yellow cabin light. He played upon her heartstrings with chords he never planned; She was his gypsy lady ... he was her music man. At night, she softy crept into the nearby forest glade, With moonbeams woven in her hair, she danced the notes he played. He watched her whirling, twirling form reach out to him in love, But bound by love to another, he cursed the stars above. Each night she gathered up his songs in the folds of her gypsy skirt, Then shook them out as a healing salve for her heart’s deep, aching hurt. Danced among his guitar songs, wore his music like a shawl, The image of his smiling face was painful to recall. When sunny brightness swept across the daisy hills he pined, While, cat-like, memories of her slipped in and out his mind. Each night her presence in the glade made him sing a sadder tune, ‘Cause he belonged to another; she belonged to the moon. She danced throughout his moonlit dreams, he knew his thoughts were wrong, Though he was bound to another, his heart sang a different song. She knew she could not have him, his ring showed he was wed, At night while she lay lonely, he was warm in another’s bed. Years passed, the gypsy’s youth was gone, but not her love for him, His fingers stiff, he still played on though her moonlit dance grew dim. He strummed out songs of passion with a calloused, shaky hand, She was still his gypsy lady ... he was still her music man. One April’s eve those piney hills lay bathed in quiet peace, His guitar sang to her no more, his soul found sweet release. From the agony of loving her through years of silent pain, Now daisies pushed up through the sod in a gentle spring-time rain. With silent gypsy sadness, mourning love’s unkindly loss, She lay upon his sun-warmed grave, head pillowed by cool moss; Tears glistened on her grief-worn face, her heart burst from the pain, In death, she’d be his gypsy lady ... and he’d be her music man.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Catching Fireflies

That magical moment each summer
when the first fireflies appeared,
blinking me, winking me out of the house.
Jar in hand,
stealthily advancing,
trapping one and then another. 
Illuminated glass glows,
a mystic lantern,
a tragic prison.
By morning’s light,
their bioluminescence extinguished,
tiny bodies lie in repose.
Now, years later,
I blame my unfortunate luck in love
on my errant firefly actions.
Surely I am being punished
for lacking an all-creatures-great-and-small
respect for Mother Nature.
Atonement will come only
if I instruct my own children
in the art of catch and release.
But I simply can’t rob them 
of the childhood ritual
of lightning bug delight
in a jar.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Childhood-Clouded Memories

The cool summer day
beckons me to my backyard
to flop my aging bones on the ground, 
gaze at the clouds still making formations
I remember from my youth ...
a cirrus dragon, definitely a dragon;
a cumulonimbus whale,  a stratus poodle.
Memories of those halcyon childhood days
flit in and out my mind
like the lightning bugs I caught in jars.
Hide and seeking,
roller coaster riding,
Red-Rover-come-over days.
Drippy popsicle afternoons spent
merry-go-rounding at the park
until I fell over in sheer joy.
Running from house to house
to play with cousins
who teased me relentlessly.
Snagging candy and hugs from aunts and uncles 
who smiled and loved me unconditionally.
Then, in an instant, the sky darkened.
The clouds and memories disappeared slowly.
Then they were gone, a magician’s vanishing act,
and me questioning if they ever really existed.
Only the love remains.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Heart Dance

Approach me in a dance of love,
let distance play no part.
Embrace me in a pas de deux,
though miles keep us apart.

Two steps forward ... then 20 back,
your energy beckons me on.
Bodies fused, we touch the moon
and dance from dusk ‘til dawn.

We choreograph our inner fears
while seeking heart-deep healings.
Afraid to dance the love again,
afraid to bare our feelings.

A pause, our hands just barely touch,
Our eyes lock in a stare.
Too much? Too soon? Or not enough?
Then Destiny issues a dare.

Electric passion flows between us,
minds and bodies await our fate.
In Time’s ubiquitous continuum,
our spirits bond to celebrate.


Contest:  The One Who Touched My Heart Poetry Contest
Sponsor:  Regina McIntosh

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021



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Dusty Love

Dusty, neé Hermione’s girl,
Is proving to be an equine pearl.
Rescued, adopted and chosen by Kym,
Peaceful-life living is not just a whim.
Beaten, starved by her former owner,
She flourishes under the love Kym’s shown her.
Dusty gets spooked when humans come close,
She turns, slinks away and looks morose.
Trust – a factor that’s hard to regain,
Chunks of her broken spirit remain.
Dusty’s thoughts are kept tucked inside,
Does she dream of a playful romp and a ride?
Or is it the past terrors of hurt and abuse,
That linger to cause her to be a recluse?
She regally stands on a knoll in the field,
Sun-dappled chestnut hide revealed.
Flaxen mane crowns this queenly steed,
In tribute to her Haflinger breed.
Kym hopes Dusty’s faith in people restores,
... If not in this world, then in heaven’s outdoors.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Rest in Pieces

The Grim Reaper called on the family; funeral arrangements will be finalized today. A somber procession of all the wrongs that tombstoned our relationship march past, one by one, casketing our “what God has joined together, let no one put asunder” years. Appalled bearers of the pain of separation, the children, grief-stricken, but tearless, gaze at us with bitter looks of betrayal, while becoming joint custody statistics. Ashen memories will repose in the urns of our minds until scattered by the winds of time. Perhaps we were so afraid of old age, we couldn’t conceive of growing old together – as if growing old apart would restore our youth.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Prodigal Moon

Alabaster moon
prodigal with pearlescent promises,
extravagant assurances,
pretends to symbolize
jazzy moon-in-June romance
for young lovers.
Gibbous guitarist plucks out honeyed
heart-string progressions;
passion-fueling improvisations
entwine as two hearts syncopate
to soul-stirring rhythms.
Feeling the beat, tapping those feet
jitterbugging hips sway in sync
towards the dark side of the moon.
Gyrating in a sensual frenzy
of broken dreams,
exhausted bodies execute
a heart-break dance of missteps.
One last mournful note
and the music ends.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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Moonlight and Proses

Storyteller weaves his tales
throughout my mind and heart.
He alchemies my leaden days
into golden thoughts.

We soar above the shrinking earth
on word-filled wings at night,
glide on intellectual planes;
it’s Truth we seek to find.

Charting unknown territory
of heartlands, minds and brains,
we plumb the depths of mysteries
that rule cabbages and kings.

Like Capote penning portraits,
his stories glow so real.
Their 3-D essence touches me
in déjà vu surreal.

He’s captured me in tidy yarns,
with friendship for a knot.
Allowing him to nurture me,
he feeds my starving heart.

He takes me here, he whisks me there,
with legends of the fall.
But one place I can never trod
is deep inside his soul.

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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E Pluribus Unum

Carrying worn suitcases packed tightly
with meager possessions, lofty dreams,
bringing hearts filled
with longings
for the familiarity of homelands
and family left behind,
they came to America.

Schowengerdt, Rabun, Mazzei,
Erickson, Keeton and Rausch.
RaGusa, Martin, Devries,
Kaplan, Renfro, Czypryzs,
Morrissey, Hartpence, Colbert,
Collier, Roth, Proia and Ward.
They came to America.

Shining through immigrant tears,
Lady Liberty’s freedom torch
beaconed the way to portals of hope.
Beyond ... the future’s golden glow
beckoned the brave to create a new America
molded out of the melting pot of diversity.
They came to America.

Standing hand in hand at Ellis’s shore,
in reverent silence,
hearts bursting with pride,
a hundred mother tongues
with single voice proclaimed
in perfect harmony,
“We are America!”

Copyright © Cindy Thompson | Year Posted 2021

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