Wednesdays are for poets

When you’re gone

Thrum of the plane
as it flies above me–
the Doppler shift
means you are flying

What will I do
when you’re gone?

By Cyn Bagley
Written 14 April 2014


Wednesdays are for poets

The Gypsy

A patchwork skirt whirls
‘round bare ankles;
bold, flirtatious
eyes lined with kohl.
One shoulder slips from a
yellow peasant blouse as
bright-red lips purse—
a perfect kiss.
A red sash emphasizes
her tiny waist. She turns.
Her skirt spreads out
displaying calves, knees, thighs.
Looking my way, she winks,
then glides down the street.
I watch as boys, men, and grey-tops
ensnared, follow her—

trying to touch the golden
bangles on her wrist.

By Cyn Bagley

This poem was dedicated to Dr. Atkins, English professor at UMUC European Division, in 1997.

Wednesdays are for poets


“Leaving so soon love,” I ask as
I watch his muscles flex, seeing
the graceful dance of youth, as he

gazes on me—fully in bloom.
His finger slides down my neck, down
to the hollow between my breasts.

“Yes,” he answers. “I can’t lie here
all day making mad passionate
love. I have other poets, you

know.” He smiles, lingers, and touches
my rounded stomach. Soon, soon, I
know, the words will come, pouring from

my fingers onto the blank page.
I watch him close the wooden door . . .
secure . . . knowing that soon I will

give breath to ideas, thoughts, and
poems—knowing that we, muse and poet,
have fertilized the well of dreams.

Cynthia E Bagley
Published in Poetry Monthly, Issue 75, June 2002

Repost Oct 1, 2012: When the cat’s away

We watch her drive
the Suburban down
the dirt road.

Knees on the couch
we watch her go
we time our watches

An hour-
to run through the house
screaming like banshees

An hour-
to eat the chocolate
hidden in our drawers

An hour-
to climb trees
to make mud pies
to sniff the roses

Cause when the cat’s away
the mice
have a heck of a good time

The Answer – a sestina

I called you on the phone,
You let the call
go to voice mail.
I dialed again —
you did not answer.

Last night, I wouldn’t answer;
you shut off your phone.
I called again
I filled your voice mail
with many calls.

“Please return my call,
you’ll get an answer,”
I begged on your voice mail.
You shut off your phone,
and today,
I feel remorse again.

Why dial again?
You won’t receive my call.
or any day, you will not answer
your phone;
I only get your voice mail.

Snail mail, voice mail–
should I try again?
I worry that your phone
is out of order, and cannot take the call.
The question or the answer
are less important than finding you today.

I go to look for you today.
I’d rather see your face, than hear your voice mail.
I reach the door. Will you answer?
Or refuse to talk to me again?
I call.
You answer. I forget about the phone.

I pull you close into my arms, again.
You had not heard the answer to your call;
for in your hands, you held a broken phone.