Cindy Rinne
creates art and writes in San Bernardino, CA. She co-authored with Michael
Cooper Speaking Through Sediment (ELJ
Publications). Cindy’s book, Quiet
Lantern, is forthcoming (Turning Point) and spider with wings is forthcoming (Jamii
Publishing). Her poem, “Mapping” was
nominated for the Liakoura Award by
Pirene’s Fountain. Cindy is a
founding member of PoetrIE, an Inland Empire based literary community. Her
poetry appeared or is forthcoming in Young Ravens Literary Review, Rose Red
Review, Eternal Haunted Summer, Cactus Heart Press, The Wayfarer,
Dual Coast Magazine, Artemis Journal, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, and
others. www.fiberverse.com
Womb-Door
I
The idea of being known
Successful
People have expectations
Perceptions
Like a seedling pushing
Through dry earth
Cracks
Feels wind for the first time
Rain pulls the fragile
Leaf
Down. Going backward into the
Ground.
Ice cold, damp, split
Footprint breathes close
Reach to the sun
Afraid to return to who I was
No voice among the murmurs
Invisible
People have expectations
Perceptions
Purple Crocus/Bee |
II
Quiet
Still
Breathe deep.
Pause
Moment
Breathe in sky –
Breathe out clouds.
Walk
Listen
Chant
After a time of frost,
The first bud reaches
Skyward
III
The leaf hovers over the ground
Bees approach the flower
Click
Plant introduced
Unique
Beautiful
Left womb of ground
Reaching arc of sky
Community
Solitude
Clarity
Memory Pockets
You explained the difference between Tibetan and Zen Buddhism and could pronounce the name of the author of my daily devotional on mindfulness. You spoke the name of the coffeehouse we worked at as teens, “Nexus” – a word buried in pockets of memory. You turned out to be a good cook. I served tables as glass coffee cups chinked. Helped overdosed. You are still in touch with a friend I barely knew. He has a family. His name brings back days at Westport – India prints, incense, and black light posters. You spent the past two year’s caretaking your mom who still knows your name, but needs others’ full-time care. I wonder if she remembers me, the little girl from up the street with dark eyes and black hair? I was careful at your house because your dad was a cop.
Curls Dyed Gray
Sofa cushions wheezed under
Two, young sentinels. Their eyes
Stared through my forehead, hands
Perched on their thighs. Dust
Spat as they leaned, grabbed, stacked
Clacking, restacked a tower of
Books –
Small tight ball of fur darted, zigzagged,
Barking as the women, one blond
Of soft waves, the other, side buzzed,
Curls dyed gray cracked
Open torn edges, pointed mid-page, aspects
The other poked, deep woof
Grabbed a slice of pages,
stabbed woof mystical
Spiritual of attitude woof
Inner
Noice
Flipped pages woof The anima, who
Can initiate a man woof into the mystery
Of his own woof feminine being
Is projected
Woof Pages clapped open woof
Lover
The wolf
~Cindy Rinne