Poems 1
&
Other Stuff
Something Usual In Any Other Circumstance
The afternoon is sunny after the storm
as Joe and I make our way
up the incline of Black Road
slow going in the old V.W. Bug
Our son rests on my lap
something not frowned upon
before child safety-seat laws
only he’s in a small cardboard box
inside a plastic bag
tied with a twist
I think of the many times
we’ve traveled this road
him wiggling on my lap
gurgling with glee
I attempt to shade his eyes
from the blaze of light
as we drive that final mile
Today we take him home
for the last time
park in front of the empty lot
scorched black where our house stood
the week before
open the small cardboard box
untie the twist on the plastic bag
and one last time he is animated
playing on the sudden breeze
that rises to guide him to his rest
© 2004 Cynthia Bryant
Remarks
Something Usual...
I read your poem several times, each time crying with a new revelation. But what I’ve ultimately come to realize, Cynthia, is you’ve made your son come alive in my mind, and with every reading of your poem by every reader, your son lives again. What a gift you have given us.
❤️️ Becky Bishop White
Heart wrenching. Very beautifully written.
Constance Cheslock Hanstedt
That's an excellent poem. I also write poetry, so I never say something's good if it isn't. I'm so sorry for your loss.
Chloe Wagner
VOID…
stamped across original certificate of live birth
left nameless
…sold by mother-host
to highest bidder of military man
…newness sheen soon worn matte
expectations chiseled to bone
… love-light knew not how to shine
parenting by Doctor Spock or Kinsey
… lesson for wetting her bed
comfort, to turn-about, flow on me
…daily berating words or handy weapons
wipe self esteem
…parental sustainers
Robert Young and Donna Reed
…loaded up with stuff
more stuff to infinity
Empty…
(C)1993 Cynthia Bryant
To have your remarks added to page
send to cynthialanebryant@gmail.com
Hummingbird
Love this little rhymed poem. Small but perfectly formed. I've only seen a hummingbird once, in France, and this totally captures the experience.
Barbara Scott Emmett,
UK Writer Editor Reviewer
Hummingbird
Tiny nervous creatures
Flitters all around
Such intense movement
Without so much as a sound
Stunning, all a quiver
Such a solemn face
Expending all that energy
While floating in one place
Cynthia Bryant September 22, 1998
Lock Her Up
Somewhere
to a nonplussed audience
of her parents
a molested daughter
blurts out the secret
about her lately pouting tummy
how it came to pass
Somewhere
a mother screams
unintelligible sounds rise
to blot out offending words
that present too hard a choice
Calls the police
on her canary-yellow kitchen phone
Somewhere
the fury of a father
shocks high-color to face
as he pummels daughter
in attempts to exorcise
the madness
that threatens exposure
Somewhere
nosey neighbors open front doors
stand in groups in their yards
make up minds by committee
about what sort of folks
and who’s at fault
when laundry is aired
Somewhere
small town police arrive
lights flashing
as parents point to daughter
an undone puzzle on the floor
police gather the pieces
pile her into the back of a squad car
Somewhere
an unheard daughter
serving one-month solitary in Juvenile Hall
revisits over and over
the last few moments at home
outnumbered
incorrigible
Cynthia L. Bryant
Remarks-Lock Her Up
"Powerful Poem"
Anita May, LA Poet/ Editor
"Amazing Poem"
"Eric Howard-Editor and Poet
Epiphany
We think we know the story
heard it since Sunday school
And the angel visited Mary
told her she held the fruit of the Lord
in her womb
And even though her condition was such
Joseph would take her for his wife...
legitimize the heavenly rape
In those times unwed with child
bequeathed a slow gruesome dissolution to an adulterer
death by stoning
at the hands of neighbors
for your shame
So, what if this was your young life alone pregnant circumstance waived
rape or consent death your prize
What would you say
using all imagination under heaven and earth
slacking death's desire
tugging at robes hem
to stay rocks
bashing in your tender brains
We're trying, we're hoping
We're hurting, we're loving
We're crying, we're calling
'Cause we're not sure how this goes
Calling All Angles-KD Lang and Jane Sidberry
Diving into 2020
Who of us could have imagined?
Living in a time of so much suffering and loss
We scratch through the dust bin of history
For an understanding yet to be known
We revile the wagging tongues spewing poison
Daily on screens large and small
Pictures of dead bodies piled high
Most never able to see loved ones at the end
Tireless unsung service workers
Beyond weary in their bones and minds
Less cars going to work Less planes in the air
Factories closed to save lives
Fresh products left to rot
Farm animals raised only to euthanize
Hungry get hungrier poor poorer
Easy targets for a ravenous virus or selfish society
Feral creatures venture out
parade main streets USA
Air fresher, freer of pollutants
Earth quieted hums in harmony
People bitch, yell, demand their rights
A re-opening of things back to normal
Mother sings to those who will hear
Opening begins with minds and hearts
(c) Cynthia Bryant 2020
A Mother’s Lament
Before he was born
only a mound
where a small fish swam
in guileless bliss
as cells knit and grew
Even then did a persona
seeking to experience
make it self-evident
to the host
She knows
there must come a time
when he will trudge that trail
that none may turn from
not even our precious one
She knows this
though she means to arrive ahead
For no noble cause conjured by man
holds worthy weight
to which a mother would willingly
sacrifice her child
No promise of shiny medallions
or precisely folded flag
could honor these innocent lives
or console a mother’s agony
Taken to Wing
My son’s taking a creative writing class
looking for a runway
to take his writing to the sky
Almost ready to be nudged from the nest
test his wings
see if they can hold the wind
buoy him up
skywrite his stories
to ant-like creatures below
The second session slams him
back to earth
as he is handed a poem to translate
into people-speak
one of his mother’s poems
praising the sun going down
© 2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
BIRTH MOTHER
I keep on Knockin',
but no one answers.
There's a "NOT WELCOME" mat
laid out in front of the door.
Debris and cobwebs line
either side of the entrance
address plainly visible
from the street
1 - 2 - 3 Where You Came From Lane
I keep on knockin'
The lights are on
and tacked to the door,
a small sign that reads,
" Just cuz you got the address,
don't mean you're comin' in!"
CYNTHIA L. BRYANT
2/28/96 10:00am
Cold Skin
Cheap masks
quiet grimaces of despair
Years survived chaotic fury
Graveyards layered in myriad lies
piled higher than used-up people
can ever take back
Trudge travailed paths
baked into finite history’s deep ravine
Times of folks whose evil tones
Slipped out like shit from overfed crows
feasting pain and loss
Heretic lost burned in effigy
hoping to create something pure
out of skid marks left by Trump
(C)2022 Cynthia Bryant
“Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.”
Wizard of Oz
Home Now
Hydrangeas bloom beneath stairs
That lead to our door
Safe in the shadows
Climbing every day closer to sky
We remain much the same
Cloistered away life wanes on
as we search night sky
waiting for our stars to change
(C)2001 Cynthia Bryant
Abysmal
I took a shower, not a bath
It was the right thing to do
Easing my spirit back into body
Takes patience, not full Monty
My mind takes notes
June 30, 2013
DISSASOCIATE
WHEN I WISHED UPON A STAR
IT GAVE GREAT RELIEF,
WHEN I DIDN’T WANT TO KNOW
WHERE YOU ARE.
1991
Flirt
Were you born
stars in your eyes
sparkling like fireworks
set ablaze
or does that light
betray tremble
of weakened knees
rubbery stilts
unable to hold
their weight of passion
set free
when your eyes
caught mine
Copyright 1999 Cynthia L. Bryant
Flood of Consciousness
What about the time—
Do you have any
Has it been frittered away
As only
Truly present in the now, can be
Abandoned—
Among dead and undiscovered dreams
All the time guessing the truth
Holding just a little something in reserve
Wanting more, wanting it all
Settling in the end for rationed portions
One at a time, lining up in formation
Gathering for a last chance at bleating
Surrendering to fate, resurrection
What about the time…
May 26, 1998 4:03 PM
Panther
Very Atmospheric-captures Jim Morrison perfectly. What would have happened, I wonder, if the devouring had been allowed to take place?
Barbara Scott Emmett
UK Writer Editor Reviewer
Panther
The stranger's open hands
found mine
grasped them firmly
pulling me up
on to the backdoor landing
Clothed in black
leather pants
that hung low
clung to narrow hips
encircled by ovals of silver
Long-sleeved white shirt
hugged close to
masculine shoulders
several buttons open
down his chest
Restless curls
wandered his head
wild and free
settling on his collar
Intense cat eyes
almost golden hungry with curiosity
took my temperature
With self-satisfied smile
he purred
"Hey honey,
What ya doing here?"
Suddenly self-conscious
I mumbled something
about my old man
being in the opening band
"Too bad"
His lips pursed into pout,
showing me to a chair
That night so long ago
at the American Legion Hall
hand in hand with a guy
whose name I can't recall
lost in a universe of faces
on a darkened dance floor
one beam of light
shone on the Vee-Jay announcer
"Time has come to welcome
here from L.A. with their hit
Light My Fire, topping the charts
Let's hear it for ...The Doors"
Like a clap of thunder
the drums thumped solitary
As strobe lights flashed
the electric harpsichord played the intro
as the young man in tight leather pants
leapt onto stage like a panther
microphone in hand
It is only now in the luxury glint
of recorded history
I realize how closely I had come
to being devoured
Cynthia Lane Bryant
Salt
Small but beautifully formed.
Barbara Scott Emmett
UK Writer Editor Reviewer
SALT
Often when you touch me
in that familiar way
sensation transports me
takes me to the borders of the infinite
a place where you and I are intertwined
with all that have been or will ever be
dazzling jewels like sea foam
sunbathing on the rocks
Cynthia Bryant (C)2015
Soothsayer
Having never nursed a child properly
A dragon has taken up residence
Into the darkened cavern
She brought forth progeny
Fed them off living walls
We can burn them out
Use chemical warfare
Send in the dragon slayer
Armed with a great sharp sword
But because you never learned
How to correctly nurture your own children
The old cavern will collapse
And dragon has a chance to set you ablaze
Save her own
(C)2023 Cynthia Lane Bryant
Afraid of the Dark
A room in darkness
always seemed to hover
wanting to swallow whole
the little girl shaking under
her sheets
And even though
it’s been thirty years
since my father
creeping into the darkness
of my room
broke open my heart
I sometimes
still lay in darkened rooms
expecting the inevitable
to jolt me out of tranquil sleep
into his homespun nightmare
©1996 Cynthia L Bryant
I had the dream again…
the one I am given finite moments
to gather what is needed and get out
Over the years urgent details have changed
an earthquake
a flood
a hurricane
sometimes an hour
fifteen minutes
Always the heart pounding
blood pumping push
for safety
As a child I remember packing the hand sewn
leather purse full of raisins, half a roll
saved from supper the night before,
pennies recycled from daddy’s dresser
enough to make do for an afternoon
of hiding in bushes to avoid an angry mom
I woke to the alarm screeching
windows breaking
smoke replacing air
with only seconds to grab my purse
run from the hellish scene
my babe asleep in his room
at the top of the stairs
Follow the Leader
1.
Twelve, thirteen and fourteen year-old girls
Oprah brought them in front of America
to say
It isn’t really sex
it’s more like shaking hands
an idea that seems to have stuck
like crusted evidence
on Monica’s blue dress
since our former President
thought to use semantics
to burrow under intimacy of deeds
when he came out of his hole of addiction
to contemplate the meaning of IS
Hormone driven teenagers
looking for loopholes
in elder’s behavior
imbue lascivious pastimes
with youthful enthusiasm
of follow the leader
as pimply-faced males line up at parties
drop their skivvies
pubescent females bow low to serve
2.
Headlines read
Being Gay Means Being Harassed in Schools
School administrators
scurry to stop bullies
like newly hatched spiders
spinning a better theme
Attempt to plait tolerance
into individual moral fibers
where the weave
of close knit fears anyone different
too arcane to be exposed to light
Meanwhile back at the ranch
like the praying mantis bites off
her mate’s head
after connubial bliss
our Commander and Big Chief
would sever homosexual’s rights
decree away
to love, honor and cherish
until death do part
©2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
For Always
I thought that you and I
Would go on forever
Like sky, the color of your eyes
When last our glances met
I thought the years ahead
Would be full of our sharing
Like your first nine months in
The second eight months out
That was almost 18 years ago
Life was filled with your giggles
Before the moment
I lost you for always
September 29, 1998 4:45 PM
Forever Bound
Arthritic ribs, inflamed intercostals
Heaving in painful huffs of searing breath
Longing for past menthol oil comfort
Soothingly applied to over-used mechanics
Tender ointment of childhood's bronchitis
Brought on by holding helpless breath
Feeble attempt to hold back the nights
Or horrors that came by day
Impotent cure, stayed on too long
The rigidity held in armored chest
Like a newborn bundled tightly
After breaking free
Into a world with too much space
August 10, 1998 11:07 AM
Fragrant Remembrance
Senses swoon
under spell of opened amulet
patchouli oil heavy on the air
I climb aboard the moment’s magic carpet
transport to an earlier time
full of kisses that turned knees to warm butter
virtue to a forgotten memento
held onto so long all reason faded
into steamy wanton need
Simmering all that long summer
and first love ‘s tactile tattoo
marked me woman
19/27/2004 12:95pm
Free Floating Fear
The sun won't be up for hours
I sit straight up in bed
My heart pounding an alarm
This is the third night
I am up before morning light
A sense of impending doom
Grips my gut
Thyroid tests come back hyper
Sometimes anxiety is not
A neurotic reality
4/17/2012
Free For All - But One
I walk narrowed hallways
little light to find my way
atmosphere aggravated
by swinging doors
left swinging
no way to lock
keep out the riffraff
living in my home
Total access tendered
taken as welcome
to the inner sanctum
that held the hope
of a small heart
beating wildly
unable to hold back
the marauders
June 15, 1999 8:43 AM
GHOSTS
A man dies alone in a Kansas jail
While a woman at home is serving ale
A child is born, left much on her own
Turns to God soon after leaving home
Seduced by a soldier who fathers me
My bloodline now part of herstory
Adopted out, at two days old
Mother nearly broke the mold
Father used me, for more than his child
Countless years after, spent running wild
Finally finding love, peace at my core
Why would I want to open that door
Setting ancient ghosts loose, haunting once more…
May 28, 1998 11:57 AM
Generation Gap
It is so hard to make my way
Grampa stood for something in his day
Free Love, Low maintenance
Painted wild sliding down the road
My parents never made the grade
Shrank in their parents shadow
Conservative, downright invisible
In their time
It is my day today
Dependable runs in the family
New rounder contours
Class rebellious is my creed
Proudly I join
With my generations cry
VW rules once more
Cynthia L. Bryant © 1999
January 23, 1999 9:52 PM
George A. Romero verses Alan Turing
I want to write something to wake the dead
like the mysterious atomic mist
randomly unearthed folks
in Night of the Living Dead
Stop the zombies perusing
for bona fide truth
under control of the screen
Make people hungry once more
for the taste of one another
become wary of self-proclaimed heroes
with pop-up ads aimed at third eyes
whose unforeseen purpose
hastens psychic deadening
virtual lives compete
© 2003 Cynthia L. Bryant
Moments Before
Siren's sound
Light-flash glares
Rubble to warm
Tucked under a school
upon a shelf astounded dolls
sit in lines knees to chest
Final resting place
past dreams of home
(C)2022
Game of Life
When I lived in the time
Of lonely princesses,
Damsels in distress
When all that mattered was being pretty enough
Having the fullest rounded bust line
The smoothest skin to touch
And nothing was held as high
As the sanctity of young woman's virginity
Raw lust and chaste all in one package
The final word being no….
All the while whispering maybe
Importance stressed on the chase
Being sought, never in being caught
It is long since the race has ended
Young conqueror bringing home his prize
Setting up their first fairy castle
Filled soon with next generations gamers'
Schooling them in the unspoken rules
Coming, cooling autumn days
Quiet in their expanse
Bittersweet duration spent in fine ivory towers
Pendulous breasts sagging, ageing skin dry
And etched with road maps
Stretching across claimed territory
Long ago captured, settled
And turned out to pasture
July 9, 1998 4:08 PM
Gilligan’s Dirge
My couch has become a birthing chair
my dying dog lies between my thighs
his favorite blanket covers him to stop shivers
my pain and his rhythmic and constant
Alone together I am aware of his breathing
Uneven ragged labored
signaling the end of days
separating each tiny fiber of living memory
from the pup that came to live in our home
At five weeks so small
he fit in the palm of my hand
an unwanted runt to the bitch who bore him
an early valentine present of love to me
All head then
With short little legs
Unsteady in their gait
Curious, ever exploring
the home where he soon ruled
His black and white fur tuxedo
Covered a strong muscular frame
Months gone now
The baggy suit hangs over visible bones
his playful personality already asleep
The only familiarity left
licking his mom’s cheek
and his joy to bathe in sunshine
As I attempt to help birth him today
Back into the light
Gift Givers
As I walk Main Street in my hometown
I imagine how you don’t dare walk down yours
streets that lay in rubble
another car attempts to pass
carries enough humph
to send dozens to hospitals
the rest to paradise
We come to bring freedom of rights
Christian values, not unlike early missionaries
loaded with wisdom and trinkets
bound to enlighten indigenous heathens
bring them to God
one way or another
We clothed their nakedness in European garb
while we stripped their beliefs, their dignity
stole their resources and lands
made them into our image
the way we did with God
Even now those who won’t make the transition,
or enter the hallowed halls of democracy
will go the way of American Indians
as we fill them with our diseases
to possess to devour to fear
white men bearing gifts
©2006 Cynthia L. Bryant
Gilligan Sings the Blues
They say
It’s a dog’s life
nothin’ but sleepin’ eatin’
waitin’ to have our day
but
Gilligan sings the blues
They don’t know
the trouble I’ve seen
waitin’ to be fed
made to watch
while they eat
beggin’ for a crumb
Mournful eyes dartin’
to catch folks watchin’
then to the locked door
wishin’ they’d hurry
not wantin’
to entertain their scorn
Lost in a world of confusion
where some toys
I’m encouraged to chew
while others bring
the wrath of humans
what’s a pup to do
Like now
here I sit patiently
hopin’ someone
will throw my ball
instead she types
at the computer
while
Gilligan sings the blues
November 10, 2000 10:28 AM
Busy-Blue-Eyes
Although the gift has come late
like a well-deserved vacation
at the end of a tough run of daily grind
friendship she has found me
Busy blue-eyes
don’t miss a beat of the heart of life
compassionate caretaker
to those who lose their way
need a comforting arm
to guide them along
the maddening pace
humans going nowhere fast
February 17, 2002 4:03 pm
At Fifteen
Held captive
in four walls sturdy
doors that locked
air sucked out daily
and someone else held the key
Where eyes wandered
over posters
pictures
words that shouted
Rebel
collaged alone walls
hung across the ceiling
Lost into the rhythm
the sounds
of music
words that shouted
Rebel
Onto pages of books
that lifted spirit out
set soul free
words that shouted
Rebel
Something my jailers
never expected
(C) May 13, 2000 Cynthia L Bryant
Atlas
He must have been
on a walk that spring afternoon
stooped to smell marigolds
I bet that is when it happened
a casual acquaintance asked the favor
Carry this
for a moment would ya?
Precariously hunched over
the weight of the world
on his shoulders
I know how he felt
Perception
an interesting game of the ages…
(C) 2002 Cynthia L Bryant
Cookies for the Children of Haiti
On any given day
kids of every age are seen sitting
legs crossed squatting
nibbling this much sought-after staple
in the La Saline slum
Women up early
cross an open sewer
to buy dirt
$5 to make a hundred cookies
Climb rope ladders carrying buckets
up to the abandoned prison roof
sift out stones and twigs
infuse dirt with water
on occasion add some sugar, salt and butter
fill over-sized clay pots
thoroughly mixing with hands
some while nursing
Scoop out a handful at a time
arrange into cookies on the ground
left to dry in the sunshine
Sell to others waiting
offer hopes of rich minerals held in the earth
a way to slow the rumble of empty dreams
Back Alley . . .
Taken to a hovel
one of many
seemingly abandoned
away from prying eyes
outside
broken stucco
straddles cracked parched earth
rancid rusty cans
yesterday’s news
splintered bottles
We enter the doorway
room lit by one bare bulb
questions of sanitary conditions
answered simply by lift of eyes or nose
seated in thick silence
on stained threadbare couches
fetid women
white knuckled
dark eyes iris less
here for the cure
none acknowledge our entry
completely submerged
each in her own
cloth of shame
Tranquilized
corners of vision fracture
add a surreal sense to surroundings
resign to my plight
Mother by my side
chatters about decorating the living room
dispels the image in her mind
my fear rises
Menacing strangers
lead me down the dark hallway
a lighted room holds a table
cover ripped
equipped with restraints
pungent odor of ammonia
burns tearing eyes
my legs are placed into stirrups
lights glare above
thoughts
murderous
matched with longing
serve Daddy up
sacrificial in my stead
Gas hastily given
squeals crash
orange yellow red lights flash
assault my senses
awake into a nightmare
the sound of terror screams
white-hot pain
my womb surrenders
body contracts to hold on
sounds of a ruinous remedy
run into a far away bucket
outraged
my mind screams again
I come to
two tampons
fill the ravaged wound
overloaded mind splits
beyond belief or care
Father’s sin scraped away
clean
murderers paid in full
I am encouraged to leave
post haste
forget the bodies
buried out back
shoulder the shame
March 18, 2000 12:01 PM
Crematory New York City 9.11.01
Incinerated
except those souls
who take flying leaps
out of 100 story windows
claw the air for breath
no wish to be consumed
by evil intent
Thousands
vaporized in seconds
reduced to ash
inhaled into heaving lungs
as the terror filled flee
hopes and dreams fall
like paper tears from heaven
Cremated residue
settles in hair on clothing
as death masks
Leaves folks
all the same color of shock
never mutes
the horror felt beneath
Blocks away
medical teams ready
for legion of injured
the dead
Few escape the pyre
to fill beds
body bags for burial
Saviors of souls replace savers of lives
Soot layers parked cars
neighboring buildings
Fills in gasps of anguish
at every breath
From manmade ovens
the smell of death rises
innovates New York skies
Firefighters and police remain
mangled among iron wreckage
mingled with concrete dust and earth
While the undead dig for bodies
or shuffle quietly in orderly fashion
across the Brooklyn Bridge
away from the scene of the crime
© 2001 Cynthia L. Bryant
Crazy Is . . .
Chaos
from one end of my world
to the next
Uncertainty set up bivouac
unpacked its demolitions
removed the pin from grenade
early on
Came in the guise
of father flying bombers
over sleepy villages
of Viet Nam
at dawn
On patrol
roaming daughters’rooms
to feed his craving
for something sweet
after dark
Covert campaigns
hidden
from hair-trigger mother
who exploded into obscenities
expletives that flared
hourly
A maniacal dictator
she catapulted
over the borderline
of her own disorder
into inner worlds
where another war raged
March 1, 1998 1:09 pm
Southern Breeze
Beautiful description brought the heat and perfume of the South right off the page. Then we get to the grit. We get to see the sad reality behind the beauty. Things have changed since Rosa Parks sat down-but not enough yet.
Barbara Scott Emmett,
UK Writer Editor Reviewer
Dedicated to Rosa Parks
who went to her final glory
October 24, 2005.
Southern Breeze
Summertime in the south
was slow with thick wet air
smell of magnolia blossoms
fragrant mint grew in yards
Swamp-coolers and overhead fans
moved like molasses poured over fritters
Black tea, sweet and well iced
hushpuppies served with syrup
grits drenched with butter, on the side
Where sensible white-folks with means
hired colored women with hungry children
for pennies on the dollar to do their bidding
Syndicated Amos and Andy Shows
played by under-employed black actors
brought peals of laughter across the South
on black and white televisions
in proper white homes
where blacks were allowed only as servants
White-hooded Klansmen still came by night
continued to burn crosses
hang bitter crop reminders of hate
from white poplar trees
that Billy sang about at 78 r.p.m.
for whites and blacks to sway to
The time before Martin had his dream
that ended in a nation’s nightmare
Days when thousands of people marched
singing “We shall overcome”
and a tired working woman took her place
defiantly in history, just by sitting down
Cynthia Bryant (C) 2005
Still Small Voice
They made me come see her
those folks that protects kids
Last year they took away sissy
for getting too fat or sumpin’
Next day police grabbed papa Joe
took him straight aways to jail
Mama says same thing happened to her
with papa Sam
Seems like womens are always causin’ problems
One time
after my baby brother Buck went to his rest
Mama told me her mama passed when she was ten
At Eleven, sissy born almost dead
could barely whimper
When she was thirteen I came into the world
screamin’, her daddy’s face grown on to mine
she slapped regular for no good reason
I saw the whole thing
clear as softball every Saturday afternoon
behind the old school
Papa Horace came knockin’ round midnight
singin’ Amazin’ Grace how sweet your mouth
lookin’ for some sugar
no more childs that way
How mama told him
she was fixin’ to have another child
he stopped singin’ then
turned all mealy-mouthed
mama shouted no, then screamed
Horace’s shiny black boot
caught her side, her open mouth
then landed on her belly over and over
‘til she was quiet as night
Mama’s in a high bed on wheels
her mouth split open like rotten peaches
left on the ground, spittle bubbles
runnin’ from the corners of the black hole
where teeth used to be
open to no man no how
The red bandana mama wore to bed
Is missin’, ripped off
Head wrapped with a clean white rag
stained with red patches like the berries
she puts up the end of every summer
spreads on our bread all winter long
Everyone of my papas run off or run in
No papa to take me in
Show me man stuff
Tell me how lifes gonna be
State foster folks my familys now
Grace is gone
Left me like her mama left her
no good for nothin’ mama just lays there
No more mouthin’ off, no more nothin’
Just like her papa Sam told me
Before he took off
Women’s ain’t nothin’ but troubles
They gets what they deserve
All of them bitches
Cynthia Bryant (c) 2018
Remarks: Still Small Voice
"Passionate. Heartbreaking. Wonderful poem."
Cindy Anderson, Monterey
"Heartbreaking, I am moved beyond words."
Sheila Landre
Knot Knowing
Braided rigidly in childhood
Gently unwoven without thought
Santa tied to gifts faded with years
Followed by giant hopping rabbits
Colored boiled eggs that nobody ate
Huddled in mollycoddled upper middle-class
my country always the righteous leader of the free
where a Christian God determined choices of liberty for all
Everyone’s propagandized experience the same view
above the fog of reality
Ruminate on rote holidays loosely based on Pagan myth
A first Thanksgiving of wrongly named Indians savages
losers in cowboy games
Trinkets exchanged Indian givers
dry paper treaties that choke going down
Colonization stealing words beliefs lives
African Americans casual mention in textbooks like footnotes
Pictured serving betters in fields of cotton with simple song-joy
kidnapped chained close quarters below deck
wallowed in vomit shit tears for ancestors lost
So severe the treatment administered
Nazis used our blueprint to oppress Jews
Yes, we learned how Germany treated their Jews
In 1930’s America we excluded them
Doled out neighborhoods to live clubs to join jobs to seek
Our final solution, turn back ship-filled escapees
To concentration camps bullets gas then ovens
Tulsa’s Black Wall Street Massacre of 1921
Most knew nothing of before 2019
As a graphic novel Watchmen
released on HBO watched in horror
Streets of successful blacks of Tulsa
awash with killing burning
chasing reminders those who earned the same
or more than hate riddled whites
Millennium stories color our nation
The lies, the lynchings, the Jim Crow South adorned postcards
Buffalo soldiers escaped and emancipated slaves
drafted and enlisted fought died here and over there
maintain American moxie
Still treated like filth no jobs no honor
Redlining kept America white segregated and racist
In the Bronx landlords bribed
beyond poverty-stricken neighborhood kids
to burn it down in the 1970’s
create slums collect insurance money
cleanse area of color build ritzy apartments
Sundown towns still exist in America today
As do people of color chosen to die for our honor
Still fight for the rights of others
Voting roles stripped to drive while black
Or walk street paying a price the final one
History muted annexed protect fragile whites
America bans books to hide shame
Keep folks from shuddering at two-faced mirrors
Knowing has escaped loosened
Knot untied
(C)2022 Cynthia Bryant
Big Lies
Someone’s boning up on fascism
Feeding folks propaganda
Chanting catchy tripe
Repeat Repeat Repeat
Dumbing down folks
fed anger fill empty spaces
Where nutrition education clean living
No longer recognize home
Chaos has been sewn
Fear rages through streets
Littering pathways
disparities abound
Democracy has greedy hands
Wrapped around its neck
Choking out life liberty
The pursuit of happiness
Vote Take to streets call it out
Resistance is our job
Righteousness our moral compass
Repeat Repeat Repeat
©2022 Cynthia Bryant
Addend
Few people notice
A lone woman as she makes
Her way along wetted asphalt
Walks with head down
Where puddles glisten
Interpreting the many shades of gray
The shame pushed out over every inch
Serves to cloak her sensitive skin
From prying eyes
Her eyes catch the reflection
The knife stabs deep
(C) 2018 Cynthia L Bryant
Adoptee’s Lament
Something unsettling
a slap in the face
realization
to find personal history
once lost forever
Genesis
buried like old relics
under layers of denial
fervid prayers
questions never risen
Why did you give me up?
(C) 2001 Cynthia L Bryant
Aftermath
Freshly home on glorious tailcoats of exploration
small sections of this remarkable country
sealed together in the tidy package
of united states
This package so recently burst open
something taken
something else takes its place
a wound delivered in anger
As the pain exploded
like smoke from giant crematories
shock permeated people
shook loose part of the united
like bright shiny shrapnel stars
that cannot be put back together
For now a haughty patriotism blows righteous
across our purple mountain majesty
bloody revenge waves
red white with blue
from sea to shiny sea
June 20, 2002 11:38 pm
Anniversary
Tears
saved up
like a nest egg
over a year
tucked away
Stealthy steps
avoid emotional landmines
await the date
anniversary of a heart
unwilling to say
good-bye
Copyright 2001 Cynthia L. Bryant
Atlantis Aftermath
I could not let go
Timeless traps held tight
Vulnerable spaces etched out
By trials of splattered tears
Modus operandi
Molded from form fitting
Casual lies, defense defined
One major hit at a time
Ask me not to be real
But rather safe, isolated
Sensory deprived
An Atlantis aftermath
August 22, 1998 1:52 PM
Autumn Days
New fiery burnt orange days—
when moisture abandons
the leaves
that wave long soulful good-byes
to balmy summer memory
Restless brisk breezes
catch leaves, set to spin
as they cycle to the ground
trees fabulous undressing
of colors extraordinaire
Fallen leaves
roll out a many-hued carpet
crisply crackling underfoot
harbinger of another
austere winter on its way
…as for the other mothers
The ones for whom no cards were penned
The ones we prefer to blend into the area that lives in a landscape
just beyond sight, the green rolling hills dotted and dashed
With daisies, poppies and those little purple flowers
That is really just weeds grown along the periphery
We may find beauty in the decrepit barn and farmhouse
Blanched colorless, desolate with the running on of years
What of the woman who lived there, barren as the now
gone to seed garden hidden behind the house
The woman who opted for readymade children,
painting pretty pictures of the smiling family of four
standing outside a house waving at admiring passers bye
The woman on Mother’s Day every year who was heard to retort
“Quit bringing home handmade garbage for me to throw out”
(C)1999 Cynthia L Bryant
At 70…
There’s a hollow
in the space youth once grew
Bits and pieces strewn
without prejudice
Stretched thin in process
seen through to the other side
Some still full of fluff
float to the surface
An amusement to ponder
a nightmare I wandered
Never filling the void
sacralize memory or thought
A hole bombed out
left to challenge non-believers
© 2022 Cynthia Bryant
Change is Going to Come
It was rumored for years
Nobody believed
The scientists
Playing around in the gene pool
Day 1
After the bombs fell
All awoke
Still perfect in every way
Only changed
I no longer female
Aware of the subtle weight
Between thighs
chest pulled taut
Against me
My mate appeared before me
He no longer he
He now she
With full ripe breasts
Smooth soft cheeks
In those short sweet moments
As magnetic poles shifted
As men became women
Women, men
Wars suddenly ceased
Precious time spent
Coming to terms
Self exploration
And then full out
Joyous coupling
Life flourished anew
(C)October 5, 1997 Cynthia Lane Bryant
"Ban the Bomb, Burn the Bras”
As with so many of her works, it is the searing honesty that first appeals - writing about an intimate subject in a way I have never heard before - a subject that many might find uncomfortable or too personal. But that is exactly what I want to hear - the Band-aid line is so telling and revealing (or not!) - a real experience, a human experience I can relate to even though I am not a woman. Again, as with many of her poems, Cynthia mirrors the intimate against the impersonal world - a backdrop where names might change but the horror never does. A lovely piece of work on so many levels, quintessential Cynthia.
David Marrow
Rinse Cycle
Ocean at high tide
slowly recedes
belching up treasure
Yesterday's creatures caught
exposed unaware
In the giant net of twilight
Spotlight of gloaming
Gently displays
Iridescent jewels
discarded by mermaids
grown tired of it all
(C) 2014 Cynthia Lane Bryant
Ban the Bomb, Burn the Bras
Women ripping them off
taking to the streets in numbers
that staggered imagination
everyone was protesting something
In midst of fray
breasts became important to me
checking delicate buds daily
couldn’t wait for them to grow
With time came the first brassiere
cinched the diaphragm
covered the obvious
promised to lift and separate
suddenly we were shapelier
The first time out without
mom insisted
Band-Aids be placed over aureoles
as if nipples were eyesores
that would wound
Out of the house, out of the harness
revel in every bounce and jiggle
expand ribcage without duress
no more dents in shoulders
as if I carried the world
I suppose
the shelf-life of my breasts shortened
a day, a week, a year
for the rebelliousness
only to redress once more
a few years later
As for the bombs
they still fall
off and on
but put your minds at ease
Word is, they are smart now
Cynthia L Bryant
Avocation
What to be when I grow up?
How often I've aimlessly wandered
through that field of hopeful dreams
Still young I wanted nothing more
than to be a mother, loving her child
As a mother, I dreamed of being
a nurse, nurturing sick folks to health
Venturing into therapy, I had hopes
of spreading sanity into this crazy world
Not until I wrote poetry
did I finally nurture that lonely inner child
Heal the sickness inside celebrate sanity
having finally grown up
November 5, 1998, 3:30 PM
“Our new Constitution is now established,
everything seems to promise it will be durable.
but, in this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes,”
Benjamin Franklin
Acoustic Shadowing
War brewing just out of sight
Rumbles not heard for years
Become a constant irritation
Eclipse over folks a flutter
Unwilling to register whirling balls
Of fear and hate as they explode
Close enough to leave craters
Filled with leaded lies
Varnishing a thin coat of
How things are interpreted
Whether a response
Warranted or no
Is worth the effort
(C)2023 Cynthia L Bryant
Where sound goes to die, acoustic shadows are areas where sounds, from a certain direction and on a given day, will not penetrate; these acoustic phenomena occur either because the sound waves are absorbed, refracted or simply blown in a different direction. Relatively unnoticed in our modern, wired world, the phenomenon played a significant role in some of the most famous battles of the American Civil War.
Doing Time
Some say
Earth
is a giant penal colony
where all the spiritually bankrupt
file their Chapter 11’s
and time monitors
evolution of the soul
but I have spent my life
fingers in ears
eyes tightly closed
waiting
to be released
September 8, 1999 10:48 AM
Dragon
Today Dragon she got out
when you left the door open
to her underground home
Banished to the darkness
since before time remembered
chained to the wall in windowless cavern
where the demons chased her
immobilized her actions with fear
only a few short departures
which allowed dreaded beauty
escape then recapture
at last her bondage broken
fear conquered
Drawing an Elephant
He always began elephant drawings
with a single stroke of pencil
beginning at the trunk
finishing at the tip of the tail
filled in the body
massive legs finally the tusks
Told me of blind men
all in one room with an elephant
To discern its essence
each touches a different part
revealing to each
a unique sense of elephant
When I trace memory
of the many facets of Daddy
I am blinded by a daughter’s love
disoriented from the truth
I could not allow
in my search to know him
(C)2002
Bittersweet
At twenty
my favorite frock
an off-white muslin dream
festoon across smooth shoulders
gather in empire
under full-firm breasts
two pale-pink ribbons
cascade down the front in frivolity
like softly woven hem
that dance across the skin
of my bare feet
From the trunk
I gingerly gather treasured time
with all its longing
steeped with simmering passion
like a favorite aromatic tea
dark with desire
sweetened by time
At fifty
my precious dress
yellow musty daydream
elasticity given way to girth
surrendered in defeat
under sagging breasts
the once pink ribbons hang limp and lank
like dead poems of unrequited love
tattered edges of hem move slower
rake across feet
that do not dance
Missing in Action
Powerful, tender poem!
Louise Moises Donleavy
Missing in Action
He walks the neighborhood
halted step - jump - step
left leg wounded in the war
Shoulders hunched
from years of holding belongings on his back
Stringy hair
dusted with white
like the donuts he devours
at the soup kitchen
He stalked the jungle once
like a leopard
hunted by the enemy
trained to kill
or be killed
the life he once knew
obliterated in napalm
exchanged for this nightmare
He walks in night terrors now
prefers the safety
of the enemy he knows
to those yet to materialize
His freedom allows no square box
with walls or doors
to hold him hostage
moving daily to avoid capture
He stalks the neighborhood
after dark in fatigues
face painted with mud
(C)1998 Cynthia Lane Bryant
My Way/Or the Highway
If Jesus came today
would he be Christian
communing
once a week in house
misusing his words
excluding the different
Forgiveness and compassion
did they die on the cross
creating elitism
that snub
the street person
they glorified
Do I turn my back on God
or did the church do that
long ago
when they
took free will
from everyday man
July 7, 1999 10:32 AM
DOORS
WE SHUT THEM
WE LOCK THEM
THEY KEEP OUT THE BUGS
THEY KEEP OUT THE UNWANTED SALESMAN
THEY KEEP OUT THE BAD GUYS THAT COME
IN THE DARK OF NIGHT TO STEAL FROM US
I ALWAYS SHUT ALL OF MY DOORS
I ALWAYS MAKE SURE THEY ARE LOCKED UP TIGHT
TOO LATE, THE INTRUDERS WERE ALREADY INSIDE
(C)1996
Downtown Saturday Afternoon
A bronzed arm is flexed
Distracting some casual passersby
Stopping to gawk at the new tattoo
Finished earlier,
The ragged woman is wrapped in gauze
Like thick varnish on ageing pottery
An uninterested moth flutters from
Bulb to bulb
As the women on the street concur
On closer examination, smiling
That an annulment maybe in the works
February 28, 1998
Tattoo
Flex
Gauze
Distracted