POEMS
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
Humming Bird
Tiny nervous creature
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
Millennium
In the minds of surveyors
the scribes of Man
as another century slams full speed
into the wall of time
The millennium
teeters on the edge of abyss
the black hole of future
unexplored
Common eyes poised
in a backward gaze
fearful to let go of the familiar
The Midas touch of nostalgia
apportioned to faded past
All thought turns now
to the hands of time
swiftly reaching for each other at midnight
For that is how it will come upon us
in the black of night
people struggling to focus in the darkness
only to be greeted by dawn
2001 Cynthia 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
2012 Cynthia L Bryant
Comments
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
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 Bryant
Crossroads
Nightfall contained pitch-thick air of desert
though muted night-lights glistened above
no light made its way through doorless opening
into the adobe pueblo with earthen floors
floors to sit, fitfully sleep upon
ample water from a nearby well
Daylight hours spent in town
daughter perched on hip
husband’s eyes hawk-like from a distance
as we pulled manna from the hearts of tourists
for formula, diapers, food
enough to gas the psychedelic painted van
bartered for in Colorado the month before
Barely into my seventeenth-year
on the sly with Army-deserter husband
who hid beneath a dark-haired wig
tied at his forehead with rawhide band
Our hungry daughter
whose bottom prickled with rash
that year outside of Taos
Summer season brought happy diversions
shared with brightly clad wanderers
whose long hair, beads, bandanas
colored my world
as they trickled eastward
toward rumors of days and nights
filled with free-love, music
We stayed on
unable to follow the dreamers
Our young family
pressed deep into living
that summer of ‘69
battling survival and dysentery
against colorless New Mexico backdrop
under shadow of fading youth
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
9.0 Two Hours Later
Viewed from above
beaches littered with little semblance
of what must have been cycled lives
that rose then fell
with thirty-foot waves
that crashed into reality
faster than Japan’s bullet trains travel
arriving at the speed of tourist carrying jets
to ring the gong of tragedy
so clearly
the whole world shivered
and cried out as one
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Panther
The stranger’s open hands
found mine
grasped firm
pulling me up
on to the landing
Clothed in black
Leather pants
hung low
on narrow hips
encircled by ovals of silver
Long-sleeved shirt
hugged close to
masculine shoulders
several buttons left undone
Long restless curls
wandered his head
wild and free
Intense cat eyes
almost golden
gauged me with curiosity
Self-satisfied smile
on the prowl
Hey Honey
What ya doin’ here?
Suddenly self-conscious
I mumbled something
about my old man
being in the opening band
Too bad, he purred
showing me a chair
Later on my boyfriend and I
hand in hand
lost in a sea of faces
on darkened dance floor
One beam of light shone
on the promoter
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
Drums thumped solitary
like a clap of thunder
Strobe lights flashed
As electric harpsichord played intro
my man in black
leapt onto the stage
microphone in hand
©Cynthia L Bryant
Beach Town Summer
The stone bench carved with Celtic knots
waits in the garden
remains empty
As I admire it from my office window
Alongside the deeply rooted fifty plus foot tree
has the look of someone poising
right hip swung to one side
gnarled limbs buoyant on ocean air
Small precious butterflies dart in around
bright summer foliage
the place my dogs love to play
chase their shadows
as lemons decide when to drop
join the others on the ground
Even the many birds
Who sing, chant and rail for me this June morning
Know little of the path travailed dreams
dead and otherwise
That led me here today
my bit of Shangri-La
(C)2018 Cynthia L Bryant
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
Novice
Today’s flight began early
Before mother earth had waken
Stand in lines Remove shoes
Please place all jewelry, change, phone and computer
In the white plastic boxes provided
A walk through the metal detector
Already comfort zone level ajar
When the machine clangs alarm
Taken aside red-faced stricken upright
A hand wand is waved up and down the body
Emitting another rude sound
When out comes a barrel of a woman with the look
Of an annoyed pit-bull
Has me stand still arms out straight
Gets to 1st and 2nd base with witnesses
As my PTSD alarm kicks in
And I disappear
Only my rhinestone-studded blouse
To face the verdict
2016 Cynthia Bryant
Early Dream
Drawn from troubled repose
rubbing sleep from eyes
I follow laughter
down the hall
Enter knee-hi into a room
with a soft haze of acrid air
alive with sleek hands
holding chilled stems of cocktails
smoldering butts
between yellow-stained fingers
I search frantically for mother
as prattle dances across the room
from the myriad
of bright red mouths
that smile hideously
cackle loudly then louder
I gasp in horror
for mother’s face
is on each and every
wicked witch there
August 19, 1999 3:46 PM
Cynthia Bryant
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
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) Cynthia Bryant 2017
Corkscrew Dance
1
New life begins—
spirit crowning into this world
in ever narrowing spirals
as if attempting
to screw itself into life
grounding
surrounding soul
2
Old life ends—
Breathless energies
harmonic colors
whirlwind in ever widening
twister formation outward
Unplugging spirit
from earthly ties
3
All cycles begin then end in
a metaphysical corkscrew dance
of rainbows light
constant cyclic completion
ordered in divine devise
July 18, 1997 11: 36 a.m.
Back Alley
Back alley…
A misnomer, too benign
For such a vile deed
The place I was taken
To cover the heinous deeds of my father
The house was in disrepair,
rubble all around
the question of sanitary conditions
Answered simply by lifting eyes or nose
There, seated on well worn couches
Fidgety, frightened, forlorn women
I in my shame, hardly daring
To look up or glance around
Given a tranquilizer an hour before arrival
At the den of death
The corners of my vision softened
Ever so slightly
Mother sat by my side
Attempting small talk
A nervous ruthless culprit in crime
Determined to have her way
Strangers
Lead me down the darkened hallway
To a lighted room—
Given gas, almost immediately
Awakened into a nightmare:
Loud squealing, crashing sounds,
Brightly colored flashing lights
Assaulted my senses
As my molested body contracted to hold on
Sounds of a ruinous running remedy
Poured into some far away bucket
Outraged, my tortured mind screamed
I came to—two tampons crammed up
My young ravaged body
My fragile mind splintered beyond belief
Or caring
Father’s sin washed away clean
Murderers paid in full
I was encouraged to leave, post haste
©2005 Cynthia L Bryant
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
"Passionate. Heartbreaking. Wonderful poem."
Cindy Anderson, Monterey
"Heartbreaking, I am moved beyond words."
Sheila Landre
Remarks: Still Small Voice
Remarks-Lock Her Up
"Powerful Poem"
Anita May, LA Poet/ Editor
"Amazing Poem"
"Eric Howard-Editor and Poet