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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Updated: Fri, 6 Mar 2020 11:53 am

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The picture on this profile is by Pablo Picasso, 'The Aperitif'. I admire its boldness, the spirit of strong femininity. There is a poem in my Samples celebrating this realism. I am Canadian - Bermudian - British; of Irish and English descent (Norman actually); a teacher/tutor of Basic Maths, English and Music; a professional singer, an amateur actress, and a published poet; married with twin daughters. I have owned a Manufacturing/Retailing business in craftworks, and later, a Real Estate firm with both selling and letting departments. For many years I had responsibility for staffs up to 20 people while operating four shops simultaneously, and raising twins. It was challenging. I had to learn to be precise; waffling about was a potential killer of energy and effectiveness. But I tried never to lose the focus of that famous idea: I SEE YOU, applied to all persons within my personal sphere. I read widely, appreciate an extensive range of music and greatly enjoy stimulating conversation. I try never to close my mind. Above all, I offer unconditional respect to all persons and expect the same in return.


THE PARTING My heartbeats measure the night. How many weeks now has sleep mocked me? How many months? Late in the breathing hours when My blood’s rhythm drowns my mind, When I softly touch oblivion – My hands betray me. Through my fingertips pulses The feel of you; My treacherous hands throb down your body Until their aching need pervades my thighs – My heart – my soul. But I have nothing – Only the feel of you in my fingers. THE DREAM-FOOTER HEY! FATSO! It was a spring-loving day. YEAH PORKY! So early the sun shone deeply warm. CHOPCHOPCHOP! Across the fields an easy wind sighed Fragrant with cherry blossoms. PIMPLEFACE! Her bare feet disturbed light eddies of dust. HEADLIIIGHTS! Around her thick long hair a red sash glowed. She felt very beautiful. Out of the village proper and down the country road She dream-footed heavily. She was fat – a porky – pimply – impossibly ridiculous – And impregnable; Behind those imperturbable eyes swelled an exotic bloom Ripe to unfold rare petals. She pushed a beat-up baby pram Carrying a peanut butter sandwich, two books, A cheap blanket won at a church fair, Eyeglasses wrapped in toilet paper, And a tambourine: Tin, with six clinky jingles And the ugly picture of a black-haired dancer, Spinning, In vulgar red and bold blue, A free, wild, whirling Gypsy. By the rusted wire gate that no one shut any more because The farmer kept his cows in another pasture, Over the oozy ruts Hop-skipping on the dry spots of the insecure furrows, Dragging the carriage, She dream-footed heavily, The jibes of the village street only a field away. Down to the creek Where dashing little waterfalls slowed To a single sinewy current in mid-stream And the banks lay in opaque water smoothness, Damp and glossy with long marsh grass, Where only the long-fingered weeping willow could point And the golden-eyed bloodroot see, Down to the creek She dream-footed lightly. Nobody to call: ‘HEY FATSO! CHOPCHOPCHOP! By the froggy sky-mirrored water she danced, Tapping her tambourine, Quivering with the nervous delight of silken sleeves Cool slipping down her arms; Dizzy from the swimming trees excitedly flying around, Her skirt a swirl of red, orange, green, blue and Yellow – a treasure, striped in every bright colour, Hanging to the ankles. As she jingled her jangles and joyously stamped Her naked feet, she sang, ‘Tra la la la la la la,’ The clear song of a shameless bird calling In the springtime. She flung herself panting to the cushiony earth And twined her fingers in the sweet grass. A violet brushed her nose. She smiled; it was so pretty, its open face so big. Closing her eyes, back she sank And dreamed. TO FELLOW POETS if my mind worked like your mind where is the joy in that because your ideas broaden my ideas you thrill me perhaps I would not say it exactly so but enough so to understand your thrust and pull to glory in your view of things all things I find the halo of humanity is receptivity. FLASHBACK Icelandic ash swept over Europe high altitude shroud scouring glass and metal all flights cancelled for six days the sky breathed naturally serenely blue washed with dimpled sunshine dappled clouds of long ago whimsy on lazy wind eye comfortable content to be weather vanes too soon jet trails scored the atmosphere criss-crossing tic-tac-toe skewed by schedules and altitudes heavy metal global bound wounding glorious sunsets like truculent children scribbling on ancient canvases modernity re-defining outscapes inscapes airspace refugees dribbled home LINES ON PABLO PICASSO'S 'L'APERITIF' slim flower head red pollen bold erect on scarlet stalk whispering scented smoke with green breath absinthe moist wormwood curled the perfumed whiff of rosy cunt pressed at bay damp between satin thighs more sleek than silken stockings garter strapped tantalizing roads to mossy fields ungated arm like a swan’s neck imperious conducting conversations her way pulling and pushing the lusts of men and women with her acrobatic words grinding mince out of reasoned philosophies she balances the tray surely the phallic bottle and the open-lipped glass upon her palm spread braced against one sturdy ham crossed over GIRL IN A LAKE on heavy eyes the full moon cast gilded shadows swan path shafting seductive to the shore where she dropped her clothes and entered liquid light jewelled feet icy lustrous pale arms high uplifted now wide eyes of unwavering clarity enraptured dream-wooing dream-possessed she sank gleaming to her knees in the bitter midnight water open palms thrust upward - reaching - offering - beseeching – through her hands she felt sweet vines tumble upon white breasts mellow blossoms shining wetly dark eyes fixed the blinding moon enchanted ravished a black mass mounted the shuddering lake a nervous breeze whipped down the water invisible leaves slipped into gobbling waves drooling tongues licking snatching at her nakedness pushing silken thighs against hunched rocks aghast she reared from their sucking mouths stumbled back to shore where trembling uncontrollably she folded her clothes over her mind HURRICANE In lusty wind the cables whine From pole to pole bending matchwood Wands by the throat fiercely. Riding at high mast the grim-eyed beetles Clamp spiked boots deeper and check Safety locks on leather girdles. With unnatural fingers they fumble for Lurching wires that clash spitting sparks And lunge apart merrily hissing. Rude logic measures steel, wind, the wand. It knows one fateful gust will undo mathematics. One dancing wire with threaded jowls Could tear a man’s head from his fearful shoulders And send it flying into the gale Like a funny ball, Into the maws of the thrashing trees spewing Great cracking branches As dandelion hair. Frantically we bang the shutters together And throw the lawn furniture into the shed Higgledy-piggledy; Push the picnic table against the back door And try to grab the jumping clay pot that Leaps out of its macramé net upsetting the Surprised ivy on the porch steps. Leave it! Get in! Get in! Cowering in the heart of its snapping bush One gorgeous, red hibiscus not yet shredded Bleeds on my eye. Blindly I dash to its rescue, and pluck it free, Cupping it in my hands, gently. Back through the gale I jack-knife Cradling its unblemished beauty. I set it in the window – To shine For the men on the lines.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.


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Tommy Carroll

Sat 25th Mar 2023 13:32

6 years Cynthia and I missed giving my responce? (Hiawatha)

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Tommy Carroll

Mon 10th Jan 2022 22:44

Thar hiz a fing in ma fridge
Tha dear not spike its naym
Han so I hav called hit midge
I fink it com from Spayn

Hit ides beheynd da Milk
And laffs wen the dor clouses
He as a chin lak Acker Bilk
An does has e' suppozez

Once he ate all me lard an gin
Han had folks there far owez
E' even ad mor drinks sent in
An spent me dosh on flowez
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◄ Icelandic poem 2 In the voice of Bjork

Twisted ►

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Tommy Carroll

Fri 7th Aug 2009 10:27

because Cynthia that's where Bjork comes from : )
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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Thu 6th Aug 2009 20:31

I'm now in the groove. Do some more. What's the connection with Iceland?

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jennifer Malden

Fri 10th Jul 2020 14:43

Thanks Cynthia for the kind comment on A Visit to Vulcan. Glad you found something in it.



Mon 6th Jul 2020 00:07

thank you Cynthia for your brilliant take
of my silly poem
you made more sense out of it
than I did!


Thu 25th Jun 2020 06:50

Thank you my beauty ?. I will follow your words of wisdom. Hopefully I will learn to appreciate art one day and leave meaningful and insightful comments on your work!



Tue 23rd Jun 2020 12:16

Thank you for your words of welcome Cynthia. I'm eager to prove my mettle among a group of people who write such beautiful thoughts. I like what you think. I like how you think. There's a positivism and lack of cynicism that I see which is very refreshing. Otherwise poets are all doom and woe.


<Deleted User> (18118)

Tue 19th May 2020 09:12

Hi Cynthia, Thanks for your message.
Yes, I'm still working with children at the school, although Lockdown has made it very difficult. Only the most vulnerable can attend.
I enjoy reading your poems very much and thank you for your comments on mine.


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Ruvi Galhena

Thu 7th May 2020 05:35

Hi Cynthia,

Thank you so much for your comment under my profile and Im glad u like my new poem.? looking forward to hear more from you.. and it's so great to know you are related to twins, Im one of twins ?


Fri 24th Apr 2020 13:59

yes, i WAS afraid of my sister
she was older, bigger, and

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jennifer Malden

Thu 23rd Apr 2020 18:13

Thank you Cynthia for the comment on 'Doing it gingerly', glad you enjoyed it.


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Thu 23rd Apr 2020 10:57

What a lovely comment to see from you Cynthia. Thank you so much. And right back at you. I hope you're safe and sound somewhere! ?


Thu 23rd Apr 2020 08:28

Hi Cynthia - long time no speak and thanks for the generous comments (Foreword etc) so much appreciated. I am actually ploughing through some past career experiences and of life itself, towards a different kind of anthology. Perhaps one day I will produce another printed offering having already done so at various other times…. ?

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Nigel Astell

Thu 23rd Apr 2020 01:47

You brought memories back with your poem of when my granddad who as a lover of oil paints painted a magpie in all it's glory.
Thanks for your like on Pushing Boundaries.


Wed 22nd Apr 2020 23:02

Thank you Cynthia "Bell"
I know that's not right
but it has a nice
ring to it!

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Nigel Astell

Thu 16th Apr 2020 23:23

Thanks glad I made you laugh

what was so good about our session is when main picture of the poet speaking changed to another - - - sometimes it showed an empty chair maybe they could not wait for the break!


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Sun 8th Mar 2020 17:47

Hi Cynthia, thanks for commenting on Strangeness and Experience. It was actually inspired by your poem The Waiting Room (and my throw-away comment reply to you). It got me thinking and then came out as this poem. ? So - doubly thank you! Tom.

The wicked and the kid

Thu 27th Feb 2020 08:05

Hi Cynthia,

I'm not exactly sure what you mean by 'challenging' but I'm taking it as a compliment! Thanks for your post on my page.
I hope you have a wonderful day.



Mon 3rd Feb 2020 17:25

Hi Cynthia - Promises - thanks for commenting on this in a positive way - I did wonder how it might go down with the readership. P. ?


Wed 29th Jan 2020 18:23

Hi Cynthia - Wraiths - just my nowadays style of presenting I guess - reads better than it looks on screen. Thanks for noticing. Blessings. P. ?


Sun 19th Jan 2020 00:33

If you wish to post
you must log in,
if you are a log
you should not be posting-
log off.



Sat 18th Jan 2020 19:00

I have very much enjoyed reading through your work,

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Sun 12th Jan 2020 22:20

Hi Cynthia, it was very nice to read your comment about my profile. I have been off the site lately, but you teased me out again. EFIT is the method of getting likenesses for crime identification shown to witnesses etc. which replaced PHOTOFIT consisting of lots of pieces of a face overlaid based on their description. I think that was an older method pre digital age. In my case I used it as an illustration of conforming to expectations . I hope that is a help!

I hope you're well.

Regards, Ray


Sun 12th Jan 2020 11:13

thanks for reading my poem.
it ain't much.
but what do you expect
from an old codger
on his last good leg
my mind is about
the only thing
that still works without hurting.

O.L. Buzzerd

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Ruth O'Reilly

Tue 24th Dec 2019 10:28

Wishing you a very Happy Christmas Cynthia! Stay Blessed.


Mon 9th Dec 2019 21:46

Hello, Cynthia

I enjoyed reading your poems and especially I like "GIRL IN A LAKE".
i look forward to reading more of your work.

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Tommy Carroll

Mon 2nd Dec 2019 20:16


Cynthia Buell Thomas

Thu 31st Dec 2009 15:41

Happy New Year, Tommy. I almost detect the glimmer of optimism lately.

Cheers Cyn

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Thu 14th Nov 2019 16:20

Greetings Cynthia.
Apologies that I haven't referred to your comment sent, Wed 7th Aug 2013 12:15! Oh dear. It was for the :Hands of Ankh". I wrote this piece after a dream in a language unknown to me. Thank you for your sensitive comment.
Much appreciated.
Love & Light.
OL. Eli


Fri 25th Oct 2019 18:46

Thought fairies - so unpredictable - here one minute and scarpered the next. What's so irritating is when they don't come back at all having allowed something to chase them off. P. ?


Sun 13th Oct 2019 10:27

Having your poems
I had to blush.
they seem to deal
with lots of lust
I take my leave
sign off i must
for fear from pant
my lance will bust.

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Fred Nicholson

Sat 12th Oct 2019 17:04

Cynthia, I thank you for the welcome.

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