Cynthia Lane Bryant
Poet Laureate Emerita, Pleasanton, California
poetry readings and public speaking
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
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
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
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
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
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
Into Now
Chill Air
moves arms
of great green giants
outside window view
Today they do not dance
Unable to sing...
Voiceless a prayer
Help these simple humans
So busy doing
they have forgotten
Look up from your gadgets
See your path spread out
Folks allowed to meander into treachery
Many animals fade into extinction
Days bake in blazes or frosted in ice
Winds swirl like genetic markers changing blueprints of landscape
Great migrations swarm from rising seas
As much as in peril of receding fresh
Holes open Lands shake Air turned caustic
Outside chaos mirrors inside madness
Mother Earth may have to rid herself
(c)2022 Cynthia L Bryant
The Ritual
Covers up over the chin,
tucked in around my body
Teddy hugged closely to my chest,
arms crossed
Legs stiff out straight,
clamped together and
crossed at the ankles
Breathing quiet and shallow,
until it virtually disappears
Closet doors shut all the way
Bedroom door opened wide
Supersonic hearing activated
Eyes focused on the open door
Is this the way
all 7-year-old girls
prepare for sleep?
Cynthia L. Bryant ©June 12, 1994
*
My first poem. It won third place in The Morris Center, San Francisco, CA International Poetry Contest..
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
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
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
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
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
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
Supremacy.
Am I really superior.
how can that be?
Thin skin milky white
created in absence of love
sold on the black market
I crawled on bloodied knees
through emotional obscurity
to now
As i look about I spy every hue
of upright human doings
flesh tones run the gamut
of albino white to darkest night
happily housed souls
the family of human kind
Even color of eyes give little hint
of what character of soul
peers through
Each have sulked in poverty
to increments of gilded wealth
Kneeled down to many or no god
Experienced joy and loss
Besides the necessary differences
of male to female anatomy
and amorphous others
spectrum of all remains the same
Have the same viscous fluids
that maintain life on the inside
loosen each moment when interrupted
erupted to air, flowing on the ground
circle the drain
Our emotions are all that separate souls
allow self-loathing hatred of others
to divide us
we cannot detect from sight
that which makes that atom split
makes us destructive to one another
Superiority does not exist
in a world where all
were created form stardust
with misfit genes
that only enhance imperfections
Cynthia L Bryant (C) 2021
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
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
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
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
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
Age of Night
Darkness that teased
stars to light
long before
God called forth
the heavens
Serenity that quelled
a molten melting pot
cooling hardening sphere
into the Rock of Ages
First to suck breath
off the atmosphere
last to leave
its moss dark kiss
after he calls it quits
(c) 2000 Cynthia L 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
Gloaming
In the etch less seam
between light and dusk
we the lucky peasantry
stand in attendance
glorious last hurrah
Sun-beamed clouds unfurl
tangerine pink of fading light
that slinks below sight
into royal purple sky
and in the hush
Earth sighs
(c) 2001 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
Sitcom Life
Back then
When "Donna Reed" was mother
"Father Knows Best" dad
When my young mind settled
Living in black and white
Fantasy unavailable in color
Too vivid in real life
A set-aside place
Where life problems got resolved
Over a twenty-two minute time slot
Everyone loved happily ever after
No matter what the story line
Every day ending with a hug and kiss
Back then
When "Donna Reed" was mother
"Father Knows Best" my dad
When make believe parents
Were the most I could hope for
Filling mile-wide gaps of affection
Where my Techni-color family dwelled
(c) 1997 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
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 in disrepair
rubble all around
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 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 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
Remarks: Still Small Voice
"Passionate. Heartbreaking. Wonderful poem."
Cindy Anderson, Monterey
"Heartbreaking, I am moved beyond words."
Sheila Landre
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) 2021 Cynthia L 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
Salt
Small but beautifully formed.
Barbara Scott Emmett,
UK Writer Editor Reviewer
Clouds
Many days
clouds have sullied the light
with their downcast brooding
weight of untried tears
Perhaps vision of the miniscule minion slimy
slinking from every overturned rock
has burdened their sensibilities
You see greed and hatred has seized the day
it is the year of our Presidential election
all that is right with our world
becomes overlooked as grace dies
When this second deluge commences
the world is covered with tears
Will we the survivors be content
with a dry spot to lay our heads
as we watch the gentile giants in the sky
pass over
(c) 2020 Cynthia 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