Poems
Remarks
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
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
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
Something Usual...
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
Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
Tests
When I go to this favored place in imaging
Where tall grass and cattails surround
Cool dark waters alive with reflection
A looking glass scrying questions
With no foreseeable answers
I gather abstract queries recovered from both sides
Dreamland and tangible tests
Mortality and frozen living pictured in shadows
Has this been a chosen path or one stumbled upon by fate
Gazing into test of reflection
A horrid dark entity appears solid
Holding its space faceless still nameless
Only aware of self yet threatening
I lean forward to catch a glimpse of the face
Who has come to do war over our existence
Wanting to know what I must challenge soon
Cutting short before a face is revealed
In enough time to keep from falling into the pond
Where I surely would drown
©2023 Cynthia Lane Bryant
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Missing in Action
Powerful, tender poem!
Louise Moises Donleavy
Agony of Jim Crow
I can’t comprehend
the mindset it must take
to hate on the cause of skin
tainted a shade too dark
in one’s mind eye
At what point
in the spectrum of color
does pigmentation bleed
over invisible line becoming a target
Hue casts shadows
that stalk then stain
an entire lifetime
Moment upon
mealy mouthed hatred
must pick away
while Crow feasts the soul
a constant reminder of crime
being born black
(C) 2018 Cynthia Lane Bryant
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
“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
Ode to Orange
Oh orange resplendent aum
Buddhist robes whisper above the path
Garfield with a Cheshire smile dry wit
Goldfish, pets for those not allowed dream
Monarch’s flit amongst marigolds warming the day
Carrots pulled from mother revealing vitality to serve
Peppers brighten a meal a party made
Marmalade a cheery hat on toasted bread
Jumpsuits revive an afterlife to those who dwell
where black and white stripes once ruled
Safety vests command attention from the timid
Tangerine, apricot, yam, cantaloupe and amber
brighten a blank page of possibility
Autumn leaves and pumpkin lanterns salve
towards coming darkened days
Cynthia L Bryant © 2022
The Perfect House
In the front yard of my childhood
sways a gentle weeping willow
surrounded by lush well manicured grass
Heavily scented yellow roses
line either side of the unfettered pathway
that leads to the closed door
Now—go around to the back
open the screen door slowly
this fine day on the sly
Slink your way in
don’t start to cry
Crying is not allowed
Watch in silence
while mother’s lessons are taught—
S M A C K
"I'll give you something to cry about!"
The family slogan driven home hard
“Children are to be seen, never heard”
Tinker Toys, teacups, Tiny Tears alike
left too long on their own
snatched up, tossed out with the trash
Toddlers thrown against walls with a thud
for beds unmade or pajamas on the floor
misdeeds worthy of corporal punishment
Lapses of bladder control reprimand
with unrestrained flow, the stench of urine
cascading payback over guilty child
Bare bottoms beaten crimson
with whatever is handy
angry welts on the rise
Rebellion washed out with soap
From grimacing mouths gagging
bubbles of sickening slime
Tiny arms tracked by weeping blisters
Small perfect circles seared into flesh
as attention getting device
Later that night
if your already queasy stomach allows
hide in some corner
Watch Daddy
as he sneaks into daughters rooms
taking
all the innocence he can hold
then tippy-toes back to sleep
snoring his way through untroubled dreams
While his clean well-fed children
beg God for Heaven's sake
to keep their souls
if they should die before they wake
© 1997 Cynthia L. Bryant
CRIMSON
INTRODUCTIONS I DESPAIR
ALL THE FEAR
MY ACHING HAIR
HELL ON EARTH
NO WORDs TO SAY
NOTHING TO TURN
THE JITTERS AWAY
KNEES ARE QUAKING
ALL IS LOST
SAID I’D BE HERE
NO MATTER THE COST
LOST IN SPACE
I AM TODAY
ALL MY RESOLVE
SEEMS FAR AWAY
AND SO IT GOES
BUT HERE I BE
HOPE THE AUDIENCE
WILL LIKE ME
MAY 15, 1997 4:31 PM
