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Best Poems Written by Cindy Thompson

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

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

Summer Sentinels

Sunflowers,
cheddar-cheese petals
surrounding seedy-brown-mustard centers,
stand guard over hot summer pavement
like mighty oaks.
Laughing children
run in and out the yellow forest,
slaying dragons,
rescuing damsels in distress,
then pretending to be astronauts
sailing across space 
to a planet inhabited
by tall, green stalk-like aliens
with golden helmets.
Did van Gogh imagine such things
as he painted so many saffron blooms?
Did their sunny dispositions
have any effect on him?
Did he really love those festive flowers?
Look for answers in the pensive starry night.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

Ode to Pasta

You are the stuff my culinary dreams are made of.
Unending shapes and sizes.
From skinny linguini to the rounded orecchiette 
and squiggly fusilli.
As my tongue tastes morsels of your saucy tubular goodness,
I compose a rhyme of the ancient marinara to atone
for my over-the-top pasta love.
Stuffed, plain, buttered. Swimming in Sunday sauce.
The tastiest were those plain whites I pilfered from the pot
before nonna caught me. Whack! with the wooden spoon.
It’s rumored my very first uttering was mangia – an oft-heard word
spoken by mama as she attempted to feed me.
“You’re going to turn into a rigatoni
if you don’t eat something else,” she implored.
Ha! If I were a rigatoni, we’d be cugini.
I only liked you, beautiful al dente you.
And semolina only, please. I accept no impastas!
You’ve been with me through thick and thin,
mostly thick ... around my hips.
Late night comfort snack,
midday bowl of depression-busting goodness.
The breakfast of strong Italian women!
You are Sophia Loren’s guilty pleasure.
Mine, too. With the emphasis on pleasure.
One bite and I am transported back to childhood. 
Visions of homemade pasta drying on pristine
white flour sack towels tantalize my taste buds.
You, dear pasta, are la bomba.
My love for you is unending, until we all farfalle down.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

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.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

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.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

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.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

Life Preserver

Escaping the depths of the murky lake,
leg-kicking upward in frantic haste,
arms grasp for purchase
in what surely will be my watery grave.
Head breaks the surface,
lungs gulp for precious air,
burning, aching subsides,
drown-panic-dying moment passes.
Another failed attempt by me
to prove I am not aqua phobic.
So reminiscent of our years together
as I flail in the waters of regret
for sticking with you
for better or worse – mostly worse,
suffocating from my fear of you.
You stand on the shore 
of Lake Verbal Abuse
while I flounder
in the depths of inadequacy,
never doing enough to please you.
I don my mental life vest,
swimming away from your cruel intentions.
Embracing the water’s cool surface,
its buoyancy, its life-giving waves,
I float my way to freedom —
if only in my mind.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

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.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

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.

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

Son Song

With pangs of birth
Stir up the earth

My lungs explode from sky to ground
I scream a lullaby of love
It reaches to the stars above
Encircles womb with notes profound

I scream a lullaby of love
My soul is etched with songs newfound
Ancestral chords throughout resound
It reaches to the stars above

With pangs of birth
I scream a lullaby of love
Burst forth with neonatal sound
It reaches to the stars above
Stir up the earth

Stir up the earth
With pangs of birth

Details | Cindy Thompson Poem

Cold Moon Clarity

Winter cold moons its way
through my bedroom window.
Frosty beams glint off Dad’s photo,
a standing sentinel
to memories of a live ill-lived.
Wooden-framed seductive smile,
handsome rugged looks,
bely the sad inside his mind.
“Regettsive behavior” I called it.
Regret for not loving our mom more,
for not honoring their marriage vows,
for not being a good, good father
to four daughters who idolized him,
yet hated the pain we saw in our mother’s eyes. 
Winter cold moons its way
into the depths of my soul
reminding me of childhood days 
filled with paternal love insecurity
balanced with fierce protective mother love
that gifted me with resilience.
Resilience to release to the clouds
what was, what can’t be recreated,
a naïve what-wasn’t-ness that lulled me
into thinking things were better 
than they were.
Winter cold moons its way
into the darkest corners of my mind,
illuminating the cold truth of life.
Icy moonlight rays remind me
photos are not true pictures of the past,
prodding me to relegate the smiling father
to the pile of faded photographs albummed in my heart ...
faded memories, faded hurts, faded reality.
But with deep-down, cold-moon clarity,
I know he loved us.