Tag: Cindy Buchanan

Named by All by Cindy Buchanan

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Named by All

I’ve stood still—bereft—unable to remember
my name even when I search for it in the shrill
cry of an osprey, a stream rippling its banks,
the whisper of pine boughs. Too often,
all I hear is the muffled monotone of loss

droning between sky and rock, between my spine
and sternum, like the buzz a dying fly makes
as its legs claw air. In these moments,
when I am lost in an alien world with others
who yearn to reclaim their children from the realm

of hungry ghosts, I must unmask
and walk curious into here and now, attend only
to breath, lean into possibilities nascent
in the tight, pink buds on a rhododendron bush,
in the eggs of a song sparrow, and accept, no,

not merely accept, but comprehend, that I am not
trapped between is and isn’t. Ospreys and flies,
the ache for a lost child, the recurrence
of growth, bright and green, on the tips of boughs
in spring—I am named by all I encounter.

*

Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, has a B.A. in English from Gonzaga University, and studies poetry with Jeanine Walker in Seattle, Washington. She is a member of two monthly poetry groups, is an avid runner and hiker, and splits her time between Seattle and the Baja. Her work has been published in ONE ART, Chestnut Review, Evening Street Review, Hole in the Head Review, The Inflectionist Review, and other journals. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net. Her chapbook, Learning to Breathe (Finishing Line Press), was published in 2023. Find her at cindybuchanan.com

Summer Afternoon by Cindy Buchanan

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Summer Afternoon

blossoms on the red buckeye tree
droop detach fall they do this
every year and yet every year
        I am surprised by dying

already my hands miss the way
I’ve cupped upturned faces
of petals marveled how
        the bright red panicles

jutting from tall stems thrust their ruby
throats through foliage thirst
for the tongue of a bee to whisper
        honeyed promises

of splendor eternal but what if
everything clung stubborn forever
unchanged can we really cherish
        what cannot die

*

Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, graduated from Gonzaga University, and lives in Seattle. Her work has been published previously in journals including Evening Street Press, Tipton Poetry Journal, Rabid Oak, The MacGuffin, Hole in the Head Review, and Chestnut Review. She is grateful to her monthly poetry groups and the community at Hugo House for their wisdom and support. Her first chapbook, Learning to Breathe, was published in 2023 by Finishing Line Press.

First Rise by Cindy Buchanan

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First Rise

Sixty-two years after I was lifted up
into the cab of my uncle’s farm truck,
I return to where my grandmother’s house
once stood. Only the light of the early morning sun
remains. What did I think I would find?

The start of that long ago trip north to Alaska
exists in a photograph someone took
as my grandmother, her back to the camera,
reached into the truck. Her hand on mine
will linger there until the photo fades.

The salty taste of missing can fill a mouth,
distort time the way a canyon
distorts sound. On this August morning,
I smell my grandmother’s bread baking,

feel her flour-dusted apron against my cheek.
I touch the rim of her ceramic bread bowl,
and I remember how bread rises before
it is punched down and shaped.

*

Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, graduated from Gonzaga University, and lives in Seattle. Her work has been published previously in journals including Evening Street Press, Tipton Poetry Journal, Rabid Oak, The MacGuffin, Hole in the Head Review, and Chestnut Review. She is grateful to her monthly poetry groups and the community at Hugo House for their wisdom and support. Her first chapbook, Learning to Breathe, was published in 2023 by Finishing Line Press.