Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement.
Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media.
She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.
All my life, in addition to manager, teacher, dog walker, night librarian, cleaner of tiles, rocker of babies, folder of laundry, dish washer extraordinaire, I wanted to be a writer.
Women are rarely one thing. We can’t resist our innate talent for nesting, team building, nurturing, placing others before ourselves. This is our gift.
Our hearts are larger than we know. We learn this
by plumbing those depths in safety with women on similar treks.
Not only can we write, speak, laugh, cry, loose old bonds which keep us tied, but we find, after many drafts, the titles we long sought rest in our own hands.
Matter persists they say –
not just the stain on your favorite
sweater or the mole on your arm.
Molecules themselves have endless
lives in a material soap opera.
This week one’s Christ, then Mozart
then Charles Manson.
That’s what they say.
Descartes believed he thought
hence he existed – something
his laundress and wife doubted not
his dirty socks evidence enough.
Who would use his atoms next
be thoughtful or obtuse
a tree, a bird, a slug?
I die therefore I live.
We’re each on loan
from earth’s library
one size fits all
pretty or dull, fast or slow
joyful or sad.
Cinderellas headed to the ball
when the clock strikes twelve,
we become someone else.
Relentlessly frugal
earth wastes nothing
in its global recycling.
So too must the light
which animates us
continue its journey
becoming the sparkle in other eyes
or the ache in another's heart.
Before a war we think we know
exactly how the war will go.
Accountants happily project
raised GDP and its effect.
Predict each country will adopt
a free economy and co-opt democracy
who’ll bloom just like a desert rose
but that is never how it goes.
During war the News Hour lists
each soldier whose return is missed
and the places they called home,
a soldier’s life reduced to loam.
No locals named, not friend nor foe
who is who? How can we know?
The war drags on, a swamp, a mire
repeating tours, souls under fire.
It’s forgotten once we start
wars pay for nothing not a part
of their pile of pain and loss
yet we ignore the total cost.
Lives, limbs and minds are left behind.
We're told the same lies every time.
The goals and actions are a fake
leave ravaged landscape in their wake.
Once home, our soldiers dream the war
and wonder what it all was for.
Why can’t we eat clouds?
The tall white ones would be
vanilla like Turkish taffy. Grey
scudding clouds black as Necco
wafers. Snow clouds pure as rock candy
whose splinters of crystal
melt on the tongue.
Green tornado clouds taste darkly
of Key West and Matcha tea.
Dawn’s pink clouds are gossamer light
as cotton candy at the church fair.
Sunset cloud's tang colorful
and sweet as Life Savers.
How fine to dine on clouds and color.
A stranger stands ahead of me
in line at the Post Office
in a dusty black hat
grey gauze hanging below its rim.
Her neck, also dusty, is
bent, the vertebrae like tiny peaks.
An old black jacket hangs from her shoulders.
As she stands in line, she tugs at the jacket
to straighten it. Her worn black pants fall
to just above the cast on her ankle.
Gauze wraps that too.
I am afraid to stand near her,
hang back as the line moves forward.
I cannot see her face but fear
it may be ghastly.
Her turn comes at the counter.
I’m next.
When I glance over, I recognize her.
She is the gypsy I’ve seen here so often.
Her dark penciled brows
and bold rouged cheeks usually
paired with dark skirts and tops.
Today, hurt, she does not look herself.
She leaves a suitcase by the door
while she gets her mail.
That task complete,
she straightens her jacket,
collects her suitcase
and wheels it and her pain
back into the world.
As I approach the river in the fog
a heron takes flight, dark winged angel.
“Good morning, Mom.” I say.
Since her death, I greet
each heron and feel blessed
by the sighting. Mom’s love
of nature saved my life.
When sun sparkles
on saltwater and I feel
the wash of waves,
Jamie, my summer brother, is near.
As teens, we surfed September breakers
then collapsed onto the sand
laughing always
laughing.
All my old boyfriends are
dead (except for the one I live with.)
Maurie, lifted his 6’4”
frame into the boat like a wet otter,
his homely face offset by
a quick wit. His farm town
roots were exotic to this suburban girl.
He believed withdrawal would work.
Good thing we broke up.
John, a handsome bad boy,
drove his dad’s T-bird.
He was my first male obsession.
He rose at Jamie’s funeral
to hug me, share our grief
for old times, old backseats
old friends.
Ann died last year. Forty years
of friendship, knitting and laughter.
Each project and strange new style
prompts me to call her.
In New Mexico, when Linda
decided to drive - Ann and I
jumped in the back seat.
I am still laughing.
When the tall stranger
steps into my kitchen in his tux
asks for coffee and brioche,
I’ll slip up to my room
don my gown, plait my hair
curl with a favorite book
in my reading chair.
With wind brushing my skin
soft music in the air,
I won’t invite him in.
But when his face appears,
I’ll smile and say
“Darling, I’ve been waiting here.”
A hundred questions
cross my mind
What was that song dad used to hum?
What college did my mom attend?
Where did Aunt Marge’s friend come from?
I failed to ask
or make a note
of many things
while they were here
just within reach
alive and near.
A hundred questions
cross my mind
About Dad’s mom
who died so young.
I’ve no idea what she died from.
My favorite stories too are gone
The battleship
for whom Dad played
Hail to the Queen
a serenade.
Salts stood attention at the rail
Dad asked them down to
drink and sail.
He went onboard to drink instead.
These questions come
at oddest times
Old photos with the names now gone
A tune, a food, a place, a song
I wonder and will wonder long.
Banker Bob wears suspenders and a bow tie
is older than God
rents rooms to the newly sober
bridges no bullshit.
Old school AA he brooks no whining
insists newbies suit up and show up.
Never loses sight of the disease
that wants to kill us.
He is just a man
many years sober
doing what we are taught
saving lives.
Don’t talk, listen.
Don’t try, do.
Walk the talk.
Keep it simple.
Help another alcoholic.
Abuse is subtle
Nothing friends see
I'm blamed for his mistakes
He credits my work to himself.
Observes I'm “almost” thin enough
Implies small things lacking
If only I were smarter, prettier, quieter
He laughs when I fail
Photographs my clumsiness
Ignores my success
Mumbles under his breath
the whispered threat
“I’m getting angry.”
He pouts childlike when ignored
Hovers over me in arguments
He buries the kitchen table in papers
Resists clearing it even for parties.
Holds my arm tightly lest I leave
The Christmas tree he promises to take down
remains up until Easter.
His hatchet for cutting up chicken
for the dogs rests against the hoosier.
It gives me pause.
He harangues me while I book vacation.
I select the seats.
I'm in 13A
He’s in 32B.
A WELL TRAVELED HEART 