Poetry Blog by Cynthia Buell Thomas

The Doctor

I visited a psychiatrist once

Greatly troubled by recurring dreams of conflict

From childhood.

Dark, debilitating intrusions

That growled and spat, ripped and shredded

All decency and peace:

Pulses of Hatred - Ghouls in my head

From childhood -

Lying in wait!


He sat behind a huge desk

A small person

Fortressed by this great wooden plank

Covered with paper...

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Alpha male

My sister's family is close knit

but very casual, full of animals.

That summer the house dog was an Airedale

A big animal – wiry – intelligent.

Friendly enough but very watchful

Proprietorial even

Of people and premises.


As usual, if visiting, sisters do helpful chores.

One morning I stooped to scoop

Some towels and shoes from the stairs

To carry them up to thei...

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She came home after three weeks

my lusty first-born daughter

leaving her sister in further care

to steady a nervous heart.

The weeks in nursery had been fraught:

Rows of babes in baskets keening day and night.

No peace - ever.

No touch of human hand beyond necessity.


The knot of tension in her wee neck

Was like a marble.

My heart hurt for her distress.

I held ...

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The Dive

One hot summer's day

I stroked out from the slim coral beach

To a high rock in the small bay

With intent to dive


The pocked outcrop was easy to climb

From the water surface.

The tide was high

The sea as still as glass

Visibility clear.

I raised myself on to the rock

And peered down

Deep to the bottom

As into a glass of water

And could not judge its...

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To me

In contemplative mind

There is nothing more beautiful

Than a naked tree

Stripped to bare grace.


Twisted and gnarled

Broken and bent

Dark scribbles on the sky



Fighting upward - outward

The merest twig pulsing 

For light -

And the Universe.



Clutching with hungry roots

And thirsty throats

The thick muck

Of ...

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Poets and Poetry

Sometimes I sit looking out the window -

Not seeing.

A book on my lap – not reading.

The radio soft with song – not listening.

Or lying upon my pillow - not sleeping.

Just thinking.

Giving my brain free rein

To pursue its peculiar passages.

And this scope often spins into 'Poetry'

That esoteric web of human connection

Through millennia.


What is it exactly? Poe...

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My Mummy Can Do Anything

She tucked the twins into bed

With the sun

Both children tired and ready to rest.

Darkness fell quickly

Warm, fragrant and black.

Night creatures were instantly busy.


Clinking about with pots and pans

She finished evening chores

And made a tasty sandwich

For Daddy's late night return

Weary and hungry.

Suddenly, the faintest call:

'Mummy. Mummy,' plaintively...

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In Praise of Books of Poetry

My beloved books sit

Huddled on shelves - shelves and shelves -

Thick spines thin spines snazzy spines bedraggled spines

Finger-worn with years of turning pages

From school days and formal tuition.

Or glossy new, recently acquired

Slim and shiny from fellow poets

Who share their words on stage or internet

Many - like me – self-published - unchallenged.


From these ...

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'My Song of God' by Ewan Thomas Holt, Age 11

I think God is a regular person

who is anything

and everything

and nothing

at the same time.


I think 'heaven' is a thing

a place and an idea.

There is no proof.

You can't touch it

see it or hear it.

But dead things may find life again

in a separate world.


I like amazing things:

giant waterfalls and volcanoes

tiny red spiders and seeds

and my f...

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