Bio Note: I create fiber art and poetry in San Bernardino, CA. My poems have appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art exhibits, and dance performances. I create costumes and do poetry performances. I am the author of several books: The Feather Ladder (Picture Show Press), Words Become Ashes: An Offering (Bamboo Dart Press), Today in the Forest with Toti O’Brien (Moonrise Press), and more.
Ideas contained in horse thoughts— I desire to be weightless like a bird. I soar in the wind too. Movement in my body like grasses twist and bend. I evolve to be like Pegasus. It’s complicated. I keep floating on this aerial path. A hole in the clouds leads me to the unknown. Escape expectations. I could possibly care less. My dad wanted a son. Ideas contained in deer thoughts— The shrouded field within reach. I lean and lean. I try to crawl through the wire portal to infinity. Curled barbs halt me. I climb a cement mountain near an orange line. Bump over & over into a wall. Humble my body as car horns blast. Alarmed, I face my fears. I brush away mistakes in the gravel. I’ve lost the path to my mother. Ideas contained in crow thoughts— This trash is mine! I shred, tear small holes, then large. Fling threads across the manicured yard. Scraps of tortilla, tomato, corn nourish my body. Mockingbird tries to claim my prize. I defend this plastic nest. It takes me two years to grieve. I’m not joking. I used to spend 45 minutes selecting the perfect eggplant. My father builds and destroys the tree house.
Feathers and bones in her hands— decaying antlers enrich the earth primal temptress charms the winds a sparrow deprived of the oxygen of myth She journals during the art poetry meditation. Each breath marks a page. She says goodbye to her stream. Creates traction written from the womb. Fire in the third chakra, a mandala of trees and the sun’s aura, burns what you choose to forget. Beginning again, across your shoulders, seeds fan into Passion Flowers. You outline with gutta flames of rebirth. Before rains fall and grasses reach, you are formless.
A Cracked Bowl
The locks have been changed. She attempts to peek through the bent place in the living room blinds. Parents accuse her of stealing the crystal bowl. She has stolen before, they say. She buries her emotions and holds a moonstone. Decay wired synapses. She refuses to collapse. It’s like this: They don’t listen to her grainy seeds of language. She doesn’t have to find the new key. No longer carry guilt of never doing anything right. Punch the lies hard. Walk away from the door. She places a woven crown made of twigs on her head. Shadows behind her ears. Pigeons dart. Summer heat waves of green and plum. Basil scent. Rewrites the moment breathing through alternate nostrils. Goddess cast out.
©2022 Cindy Rinne
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