Empty Hands
I am haunted by the ghost of my living son.
I am mourning the loss of my child not yet passed.
Somewhere, somehow, deep in the web of city streets
his body of flesh goes on,
carrying the spark of who he once was…
who he might have been.
There has been no memorial to remember.
No one to speak of his loving sweetness,
his kindness,
his generosity,
his open heart.
There are no loved ones gathered around.
No condolences, no words of sympathy.
There is no grave to visit,
no stone,
no urn,
no candle to light.
There is only
my empty hands,
finally letting him go.
© Cindy Weinstein
The Tower
Someone ripped holes in all the metaphors
and now the artists have nothing to paint but
the naked truth.
Someone tore apart all the dreams
And now the prophets have no heaven,
Only stark reality.
The sidewalk is cracked.
The stairs are broken.
The roof is leaking.
The rats are eating the crumbs in the cupboard.
We’;re banging on pots and pans
In the kitchen.
We’re shooting off M80s
On the concrete
In the desert.
We’;re making an unholy racket.
The cacophony is a continuous thread.
Screams of the mother.
Cries of the babe.
Moans at the climax.
Wails at the abyss.
Whimpers in the dark.
Shrieks in the flame.
Howls in the air when the white bones fall.
The metaphors cannot be sewn back together.
The dreams will never be rewoven.
The sidewalk is cracked.
The mother screams.
The stairs collapsed.
The babe is wailing.
At the crash of the climax the rain pours in.
The rats are eating the bones at the bottom of the abyss.
So now the artist paints without guile, while
The prophet dances in the corner bar
To the clanging of pots and pans.
In the holes in the metaphors
In the space between life and dream,
In the heartbeat under all the voices
In the heart beat
Under the heart beat
Under the heart beat
is truth
is reality
is love.
© Cindy Weinstein
Cindy was born and raised in upstate NY. After college she moved to Washington DC where she established her career, her art, and her family. She came to Los Angeles in 1993 with her two young children and stayed until she immigrated to the desert of Joshua Tree in 2017. She has been writing, reading and performing her poetry off and on since she was 17. She has been published in a number of Los Angeles anthologies including Poetic Diversity as well as in Cholla Needles and the Joshua Tree Voice.
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