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Treasures to Remember A volume of the collected written poetry of Cynthia Lynn Remus.(works from 1969-1984)

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Edited and written by her son, J.L. Antonic Illustrated by her grandson, Jordan Antonic

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foreward

Cynthia Lynn Remus (Oct 1953 – Aug 1989) Cindy was inspired by the world around her and brought that inspiration to those that knew her best in the forms of lyric, poetry, and laughter. She found beauty in nature. And nature found beauty in her. These are those reflections.

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dedication

For her sons, Kurt and Nicholas

Her four grandsons, Jason, Joshua, Jordan, & Jackson

And honoring, The Lupus Foundation of America

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THE POEMS

seasons hatchmatcher crossroads june 11 hopes tanka cinquaine family heirloom for mary nine snails five two spider (nov 3) four the collector high lake

my two stones

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seasons the seasons went and we followed them, sun spilling warm the secret spring – we found ourselves sitting silent. Summer’s sorrow Cannot hold me any nearer, I am a part of the cycle of wanting then having and losing. my songs whisper silence by fireside – in cradle green I held close and wanting forever. yet – autumn’s arrogance did not care of dying leaves or embers, its wind paraded them – and buried them uncaringly. winter’s watchfires slowly faded. i held the warmth of embers in dying fire only to be burned.

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hatchmatcher dusk surrender quiet as you invade another world timeless of your own. silver swarms flash in fading sun. try to match each one in its minute form. forth and back, back again, rhythm rod reaches out comes to rest and yet – the test is not below. nothing now but you. darkness covers and time begins again as a way is made home. I remembered – ‘many men go fishing all their lives without knowing, it is not the fish they are after'.

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crossroads

i followed the signs of the crooked arm and walked alone in the silence of the day until i came to the crossroads there we came to meet new purpose and became one – i left holding the sun and missing you.

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june 11

you were always there in daydreams amid tall grass and dandelions reflections of cloud passed in my eyes mirroring blue i wondered how Spring always knew of Summer’s warm hand in hers. fall leaves always danced and swayed – like someone waving good-bye .

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hopes

h o p e S

ave pen etals ver till

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tanka

winters have often had their spider spinsters with their silver threads, to cover and encase all things that are warm and feeling

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cinquaine

raindrops come quietly in small plinks of soggy wetness that drain my soul like a sieve.

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family heirloom for mary

care who for aged pictures of some gone and pressed flowers? dolls with faded faces in trunks lace yellowed and frail like memories of someone who suffered too long. tarnished tea sets and left over linens for how long can they endure? history is cheap and readily forgotten as winter that melts away. but blessings and doings and treasures to remember and it is these we find hardest to hold.

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nine

i remember here, by the fire, as i watch the flickering red and saffron; the snow piles in dark places which have melted. and sunsets that whispered quiet good-byes, of winter spent alone of quiet tears and warm reunion. the weeds wear new grass thin as of late which brings back memories of the same, and winter once again grows cold.

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snails

sometimes we think we hear them, they are not dying. they have withdrawn. quietly in the silence of their shells they sink and melt into the sand. they are the refugees of an endless world of solitude. and i, and you, have come to be the snails of yesterday once when simple minds sang free we showered ourselves upon the world. now we sleep in consolation there endless sleep without a care. when words grew loud we slipped away and melted in the sand and the water rolled upon our backs as the tide came slowly in.

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five

the mirror is a world reversed where lonely faces rehearse their lives in clown and un-faces seeing something that was never there.

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two

nothing is the same remembered twice .

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spider (Nov 3)

fixed between the shadows of trees flashing signals in the sun, quicksilver threads are entwined in concentric circles and widows peak, while hesitant fingers create a pattern. spider spinster, in all her lace, remains a simple brown.

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four

i have placed back the missing mirrors filling months of emptiness with reflections of you.

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the collector

i pinned a butterfly to a board, naked it lay there crucified; its life oozed out like blood from bullet holes – although i could not see it. i pinned happiness to a board. stripped, it lay there as i stuck the sombre pins through its paper fine wings. its life trickled out and left me in my nakedness although i could not see it.

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high lake

Evensong; when clouds of silver ripple on the lake and muskrats waddle down the shore like little men returning home. And the loon glides gracefully, her eerie call warning of nightfall. Night calls in the forest as an owl poses his questions in fading light and small rustles heard scurrying among the underbrush give way to quiet chatter.

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high lake (cont'd)

smells of pine and wet dirt come over me in waves while my anchored rowboat rocks close to the near by shore. like a child in a cradle i lie snuggled in among the cushions and gear; my pole lolling above the water.

An eagle propels itself and breaks the mirrored sunset to catch a fish; more than i have caught all weekend. Whippoorwill a constant refrain of a time i had thought i’d forgotten.

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my two stones

i remember the water home. a time and place, i used to know. lost pages of a life i’ve left behind. crashing on the shore though the places remain, the faces have changed. the dawn awoke the day years and seasons have brought new days, new doors opened one-by-one. and i just knew those Decembers weren’t so cold with you warming them

...

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my two stones (cont'd)

even before he told me the thought of you still brings somehow i already knew smiles, and tears, and song. i picked up two small weathered stones from the cold Lake Michigan shore and although each passed day has faded the memory of your voice. i still carry them i will always carry you

with me.

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from the editor

Such is the state of this broken world that some things – even our bodies – succumb to certain ravages. And although our journey on this earth may be short and often painful, remember that you are not your pain; you are not your suffering; you are not your trial. Your legacy is not your present sufferings, nor how well you endure them. Let it instead be the beauty of how you transcend these to bring into the world something that is uniquely yours. So raise your voice, sing your song, bless your children, and write your story.

For these are treasures to remember.

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Afterword

This volume of poetry was compiled by the editor from a handwritten journal given by Cindy as a gift to Irene.

With the exception of a few minor spelling corrections, the text of this volume is presented as originally written.

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