Poems 2 &
Other Stuff
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The Question Not Answered
We clung to the walls
cheeks to smooth stone
hands above heads
fingers extended
flattened to surface
as to attach to its safety
Overhead
fair weather birds circled slowly
in cyanotic morning light
flew into great scrapers of sky
Unsettled tears turned to dust
blood ran
dried in our mouths
Across America
a voice inconsolable
begs to know why what did we do
Battered citizens
swollen with revenge
pack off sons and daughters
laden with bombs
At least once a day
somebody’s child
returns earlier than others
body parts and effects
zipped soundly in airtight bags
loaded in boxes
draped with old glory
Questions still linger
©2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
The Town Crier
A bell rings clearly
breaks through early morning fog
on Main Street USA
reaches out to hungry ears
perked in anticipation
knowing their own turn to be heard
waits somewhere around the next hello
“Hearken, poetry is nigh”
© 2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
The Untenable Truth
Aging women
Maturing daughters
Childless sisters one and all
Facing monthly
The untenable truth
Cotton saddles strewn about
Discarded in silent rejection
Ridden to draw the moisture there
Keeping tidy the serene secret spot
All their own
Yet mirrored by millions
Unneeded fallow nourishment
River of life flowing
To a new home with other worthless refuse
Cotton clouds filled with unsung dreams
Maidens left with empty arms
No babe to hold this spring
February 6, 1998 9:30 A.M.
There was a Child
Everything sweet wrapped in cloth of childhood
Whether shown in black and white and shades of gray
Or the technicolor of Oz, once the house had landed
Comes to me in a patchwork put together in random patterns
that only makes sense to the holder of the map
that traces the original firing synapses of process
Some pictures were never meant to be held for remote viewing
Even original time and space could scarcely allow access into
The Grimm fairytale stories that could not have been
But were and deserve to be forgotten for the sake of
Lovely childhood imagining, the comfort of polite company
12/26/2010
Though She Walks Through the Valley…
Utah, a beautiful place to die,
particularly the desolate valley of the faithful
patrolled by terrible snowy peaks
pristine and judgmental
Three friends on a pilgrimage
not taken through the armed guards of winter
nor by way of the great dead lake of salt
Flew over wars in heaven and earth
buoyed by a cause
to have bedside audience
with, in her opinion,
the most unlikely of angels
in waiting
2/10/22
Through the Eyes of a Child
Louisiana, 1958
The first time I saw the sign
Colored
Posted on
a water fountain
downtown In
Silber’s department store
Colored!
What could that mean?
I looked at the fountain
It was white
Just like the other one
a good ten feet away
I pulled on mama’s dress
“Mama,
What does that sign mean
Colored?”
“It means that it is for black folks to drink from.”
”Why do they need a sign for that mama?”
“So white folks don’t drink out of it by mistake.”
And then as if in afterthought,
“The blacks are dirty people, they carry germs.”
Colored—
but not the way mama intended
her words brought questions
about the warm wonderful woman
who cleaned our house
the children I played with
the singer called Billie
mama listened to constantly
Because in my eyes, we all were
Colored…
Timing
Writing with the
coagulated blood of abuse
Hoarding the words
Locking them away
from polite society
“But they are good, you should share them”
Disbelief
Not trusting the flattery
Given over and over
but never fully received
yet always remembered
Safely buried and waiting
Someone said, “poetry” regarding my words
Could that be
Have I translated my pain into poetry
So I shared a few more
of the secret pages with folks
“Good stuff, very moving and simply put”
Holding my breath
plunging with a leap of faith
sending bits of my painful life
into a contest
then sighing in sweet relief
It is done—it’s out there!
Time passed
The contest put away
in a back closet
of my mind
The telephone rang
early one morning
The kind voice on the other end said
“Your poem won our contest
and I want to congratulate you”
The depth of my happiness
rose to 9.0 on the Richter scale
of emotions
I spent the next
few minutes listening
while I sobbed uncontrollable
unable to speak
Whispers in my soul over and over again
Thank-you God
Thank-you for hearing me
4/17/1997
Too Close to See My Reflection
Early morning walk
night lights twinkle
revel magic fairy dust
sparkle in fog among Ice plants
Palms along path
leading to the Bay
irregular in its outline
a shadow approaches
stench of urine reaches nostrils
a split second
before an overhead lamp
uncovers the face
upturned mouth
regaled in filth
road-weary rags
half-gloved hand
palm shoves forward
I quicken my pace
eyes turn downward
lost
in some special treasure hunt
that holds attention
on the dead ground ahead
A wailing on the air
deepens wind chill
momentarily stops the heart
slowly now I go
check bearings
emotional compass all a spin
I turn to face the familiar
a pitiful sound
Panhandler
a passing thought
© Cynthia L. Bryant 1/6/2022
Dedicated to Kim, my darling daughter.
Trading Places
When we grew up—
You so tiny of stature
Already old
Deep wisdom within
Me in adult body
A motherless child
Psyche emotionally stunted
Mothering you, best I could
You mothering me
beyond your years
Allowing me
To mother the others yet to come
Killing in you
Any need
To ever mother again
August 14, 1998 11:27 AM
Tried Patterns
You blow a dry kiss
From the revolving door of our home
Like a child of divorce
Weekdays there
Saturdays and Sunday here
Today restarts the tired pattern, my week off
I wonder if you will ever truly understand
How empty any house I abide
When business travels take you away
One week has passed since the transition
A new home stuffed with boxes
Waiting for each to come undone
I discover alone every precious item
So carefully packed for the journey here
The Rainmaker
The voice came from the shadow of the porch
engulfed me like a sunbeam warming,
leaving safety and peace in its trace—
So you want to make rain
The process is simple
Listen closely now
with open mind and heart
Walk into this day
closing your physical eyes
to the world
Visualize in your mind
the rain
as it falls gently to Earth
See the size and shape
of each wondrous drop
as it glistens in the sun
Train your ears
on every dripping
as it finds its target
noting the pit-pat
pit-pit-pat rhythm
speed of descent
Lift your nose
smell the heavenly scent
of moisture
as it beckons plants
to burst forth from the ground
Taste the sweetness
on your tongue
as rain spills down your face
dripping ever so slightly
into waiting mouth
Open your hands
reach toward the heavens
feel the small cool droplets
dancing on warm bare skin
Speak the word as a prayer
R A I N
Let it resonate
from deep within your soul
Let the word replenish the clouds
fill the air with R..A…I….NNNN
Know you are the joyful rain
wetting all that lay before you
Full of life force
r e v I t a l i z e
n o u r i s h
all that you touch
BEHOLD THE RAIN DOES FALL…
9/19/2004
THE RIGHT HOMONYM
THE RIGHT TO WRITE
TO WRITE THE WRONG
TO RIGHT THE WEAK
TO WRITE THE STRONG
WRITE AND WRITE
TO CHASE THE BLUES
THE RITES OF SPRING
THE RIGHT TO KNOW
THE RIGHTEOUS WRITE
BUT OUGHT TO KNOW
THEY’RE ONLY RIGHT
BECAUSE THEY SAY SO
MAY 29, 1997 10:23 A.M.
The Screen
I sit
I sit staring
Staring at the computer
Waiting for anything to
mysteriously appear
The way my writing does
When it comes
My writing suddenly
is there
Flowing into my vision
Onto the screen
Like mutual attraction
Today I sit
I sit staring
Staring at my computer
Waiting for a thought
A word
An idea
The screen goes black
September 11, 1997 10:39 A.M.
THE VOICE 2/10/93
WAY DOWN INSIDE VERY DEEP
PAST THE FEAR THOUGH THE FAT
AROUND THE ANGER
FROM THE VERY CENTER OF CHAOS IT CAME
VERY QUIETLY AT FIRST
HARDLY AUDIBLE AT ALL
SHE SPOKE CLEARLY AND SLOWLY
"HELP ME, SHE SAID
"PLEASE LOVE ME"
AND MOST OF ALL
"LET ME BE HEARD"
GOD
WHEN I WAS LITTLE
I USED TO PRAY TO YOU
WAS I DOING IT WRONG?
OR WERE YOU JUST TOO BUSY TO LISTEN?
I WANTED YOU TO COME AND TAKE ME AWAY
OR TAKE THEM AWAY
ANOTHER DAY WOULD DAWN AND THE TERROR AND PAIN WOULD JUST CONTINUE
I FELT THAT I MUST BE BAD IF YOU DIDN'T BOTHER TO CHANGE THINGS
FOR SOME YOU ARE A GREAT SENSE OF RELIEF
BUT FOR ME YOU WERE JUST A BIG DISSAPPOINTMENT
2/19/93
THEREWASALWAYSSOMETHINGMOREIMPORTANT
SMOKING A CIGARETTE
READING A TRASHY MURDER MYSTERY
DRINKING COKE
TAKING NAPS
YOUR TIME
YOUR VASE
YOUR FEELINGS
YOUR REPUTATION
YOUR FRIENDS
YOUR DISHES
YOUR SAFETY
YOUR HEALTH
YOUR HOSTILITY
YOUR CRAZINESS
YOUR THOUGHTS
YOUR NEEDS
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN MORE IMPORTANT
THAN ALL OF THESE THINGS TO YOU
BUT I WASN'T
ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE THINGS TO CALL ME WAS SELFISH
I SEE NOW HOW SELF ABSORBED AND SELFISH
THAT YOU WERE
I'M ANGRY AND SAD THAT I HAD NO MOTHER
8/5/94
Thought Full
Maybe it’s because I have boys
men really
as decreed by law
that I wax thoughtful
poetically
given the topic of war
It defies me
no matter how many times
seated in darkness
while men of the screen
line up
face to face
rattling their sabers of choice
The sudden war whoops
slow motion run
Each to his destiny
a distant vista of utopia
reunion with bloodlines
Those left to bury or
cast a morbid bit upon a pole
the victors
Maybe it’s because I have boys
men really
as decreed by law
that I dig feet into earth
politically
given the topic of war
©2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
Time for Everything Under Heaven
There is a special moment
when the radio
spins you back with an old song
that grieving the loss
of a record collection
an accumulation
twenty plus years of love
regret joy heartache
licked by flames of fate
seems appropriate
Though at the time
having your eight-month-old son back
was all the heart yearned
July 6, 2003 4:05 pm
Tiny Tailored Thing
They bought the clothe
Two days into it’s creation
Thought it to be a blank slate
Where all their needs are met
Their thoughts and feelings
Pressed into being for posterity
Perfection was sought
There were Joneses to be kept up
Feed it boiled water, Karo syrup in glass vials
Propped up so no human touch could spoil
One groomed with soft mummery
Interested touching to explore
One complained of noise that showed disdain
Muffled or ignored
Eventually all fecal failings were strewn
Onto the clothe creating a heap of sordid sights
It was always important to hide those marks
Cover them with glowing health, successful notions
There She Blows
The whirligigs of childhood
Come sweetly to my mind
Spinning and twirling—
Just breathe and you’ll do fine
It never took much talent
To blow and watch it spin
But the hours I spent delighted
Were times I’d found a friend
May 29, 1997 9:29a.m.
Sunflowers
Giant yellow goddesses
Dancing in the wind
Reaching towards the flaming orb
It’s majesty brought down
By the weight of it’s hold
Small blackened treasures
Baked by the sun
And then harvested by birds
And so it goes with the flowers of the sun
May 25, 1997 7:40p.m.
Thirsty little ones...
Stretching wide starving mouths
Empty wide eyes begging
Wanting attention
A little milk of kindness
Food for thought
To the rest of us
July 30, 1998
In the Den of Mother’s Home
Three monkeys
hands over eyes, ears, mouth
squat next to The Kinsey Report
one book over from The Tropic of Cancer
God’s Little Acre, Peyton Place, Valley of the Dolls
sandwich assorted dime-store murder mysteries
Prominently placed on the end
Emily Post’s Book of Etiquette
rests on a stack of Playboy magazines
Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories
a free gift with our set of encyclopedias
leans over the dog-eared copy
of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care
Mother, years later, rebuked Dr. Spock
for having the audacity to speak against
our American way, The Vietnam war
She was sure he was the harbinger
for a whole spoilt generation
raised and coddled on his advice
In the den of present prospect shelves line walls
littered with books I have chosen:
The Essential Rumi, Wonderful World of Beading,
Poems for the New Millennium, Through the Lens
and Oxford literary Quotations lay next to Poets & Writers
On the left three monkeys newly purchased
seemingly inert primates of alchemy
rest atop the computer screen
I think back now when my voice was silent
under clatter raised to frenzied pitch
and the books spoke for someone else
11/2/2021
Times Up
Perverts
I put you on notice
Someone will be coming
for you soon
They’ll be no place to hide
Nowhere to run
Chased down like the low life
Degenerates you represent
There is a God
And She is pissed
No more of this gooey forgiveness shit
Just blast you right off the planet
That’s right
She’s taking care of business
No more Ms Nice Gal
Your time comes
I can hear it now
All of you
Rapists
Pornographers
Pedophiles
Batterers and
Scums of the earth
As your last act in human form
Flushed—
Swirling together down and out
to your final resting place
Where you will find no rest
Only the faces of the people you tormented
Reenacting your crimes with each other
until the end of time
September 3, 1997 1:37 P.M.
Tirade
The ways and wants of humanity
Too numerous to survey
Encapsulated in time a'turning
Like rodents running the wheel
People destined to the same temporal conclusion
Churning furiously forward
like a locomotive powered by God
Making up history as minutes bound along
Unconscious, moving at a steady gait
As the tired old tortoise carrying the earth
Towards a master plan
Search the big picture, the overview
Like Zeus in his omnipresent splendor
What is it that you see
Birth and death
Death and birth
Chaos or God?
March 15, 1998, 9:57 A.M.
Touched
I thought I heard angels sing
ethereal voices
that tinkled like glass
restless to be heard
Loud enough
to still our lover’s quarrel
peaked with power
to bring us both down
I thought I heard an angel say
you have conceived
the only message
that could overcome
the horror of my child lost
when fire brought the curtain down
on the final act of marriage
that already hung by a thread
I thought I heard my lover say
did you hear what I heard
the sweetness of voice
eclipsed by words
spoken to mind
in the midst of sorrow
finding us here in anger
ready to give up
I thought I heard an angel say
like liquid sunshine
you are pregnant
heart-aches washed away
in simultaneous reticence
left
with echoes of joyful noise
and a child on the way
© 2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
To Fill A Day
Suppose this morning you woke
no enemy to face
or anger flowing through you like blood on fire
no fierceness in your jaw or eyes
or fists whitely clenched
could you breathe deep
born anew into the day
smile at your neighbor
invest time in growing peace
praise the omnipotent
by your sheer joy for life
July 14, 2002 3:21pm
TONIGHT, SWEETIE
I FORGOT TO TAKE MY ANTIDEPPRESSANT THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY. I THINK THAT IS WHY MY EMOTIONS WERE SO ROCKY. I FELT ANGRY AND DIDN’T KNOW WHY. I FELT SAD AND CRIED AND SOON AS I STARTED TO CRY, I WOULD STOP ABRUPTLY.
I FELT LOST AND NO ONE WAS EVEN LOOKING FOR ME. IT’S LIKE EVEN IF I FOUND MY WAY BACK NO ONE WOULD HAVE NOTICED I WAS EVEN GONE.
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED AND WAS AWARE THAT MY FATHER HAD REALLY RAPED ME. THAT HE USED TO GRAB ME IN THE HALL OR WHEN I CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM. AND I REMEMBER HIM SAYING IN MY EAR DURING ONE OF THESE TIMES “TONIGHT SWEETIE” AND HE LAUGHED. I TOOK IT AS TAUNTING ME AND I WORRIED ABOUT IT ALL DAY. ALL THE WHILE TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO AVOID THE EVENT.
FEBRUARY 17, 1993
Touching the Infinite
I begged and pleaded
Screamed and moaned
Pushed and held
Pushed and held
Grunted, pushed and pushed
Glanced a glimmer of life anew
And touched the infinite
Softly on his head
6/2/1998
TREADING WATER
HERE IT COMES AGAIN
WAVES OF EMOTION
THREATENING TO DROWN
USING THE EMERGENCY PROCEDURE
JUST TO MAKE IT THROUGH
TAKING UP TIME
UNTIL THE NEXT FEELING
CRASHES OVER
DETERMINED TO TAKE
ME OUT WITH THE TIDE
TRYING TO STAY AFLOAT
TREADING WATER
OCTOBER 10, 1996 10:08 AM
Guttersnipe
Didn’t ever work much
had lackeys for that
Derived pleasure
from riding them around
all day
like trained donkeys
Orders barked
like a demonic Drill Sergeant
but the language was all
truck driver
Shit ass this, God damn brat that,
hurled as weapons
used to injure and destroy
What was the establishment thinking anyway,
Making her a mother in exchange for coin?
July 7, 1997 10:43 a.m.
Treasure Hunting
Begun in bitter desperation
A reflex action of sorts
To endless tedious pain
Searching for that which was lost
Having been submerged in the mire
I trekked the Pit of Despair
Following the Ancient Ruins Road
Ending in the Infernal Regions,
Where no light dare shine
Hades Domain—
Peeling me back slowly overtime
Layer by layer
Like an onionskin
Until fearful, certain nothing—
No part of me existed any longer
Wading through nightmares
Of memory, day and night
As the past caught up with me
Keeping me scared
Far from false safety of numbness
Maintaining the monotonous regimen
Of the living dead
Making daily agreements to breathe
Feeling my way along in the dark
A pinhole of light appeared
A mere reflection in murky puddle
Truth stared back
I saw who I was—
Scars and raw parts remained
But the healing had begun
Rebirth—
The wholesome child
Traversing abandonment and shame
Reclaiming her treasures
July 6, 1997 4:47 p.m.
Truth or Dare
It was Thanksgiving, 1978
father’s family gathered around
Aunt Midge’s living room
shoes off, belts loosened
after the feast
the usual family chatter
All except Mom and Dad
gone home early
chemotherapy and radiation
hacked away at dad’s stamina
left him
a scarecrow
in his too large coat and pants
Grandfather’s eyes dug in
my heart jumped at the sound
of his once powerful voice
sounding more like
a scared schoolboy’s inquiry,
“Do you believe your father is dying?”
Does he really want the truth?
Aware that other eyes held me
I could not turn from his relentless watch
“Yes Grandfather, I do.”
In that errant moment
Grandfather chewed
the abominable possibility
swirled it on his tongue
tasted it fully
Finding it bitter
he spat it out
True Crime
I look forward to alternate weekends
special time with my six-year-old
daughter with dimples
clear blue eyes of her mother
without the accusations
ready made smile breaking way
to belly laughs at slightest provocation
She’s up early this morning
begging her daddy for pancakes
poured into animal shapes
I wearily rub my eyes her head
find my way to relieve myself
of last night’s beer
look in the mirror at a hairline
retreating further every year
eyes crusted with sleep
dip my head into the basin of water
shake loose like a dog
comb unruly hair straight back
walk into an empty kitchen
where the hollow feeling begins
banging my gut slightly
up against the inside of my back
I call her name hear the echo
come back into my morning head
irritated I search through the empty rooms
call her mother across the street
she hasn’t seen her and why don’t I know
where my daughter is
The couple of hours
that police and neighbors searched
were gut-wrenching moments
when my mind traveled
the nightmarish unmapped territory
of a child gone missing
We never had time
to put her little face
on milk cartons
or alert other fathers
across America to not let
their children out of sight
Someone said they saw a little girl
this morning
heard her laughing
as she rode on the shoulders
of a homeless man
heading towards the woods
July 28, 2002 2:28pm
True Life
Cinderella, Cinderella—
You sneer, then laugh with glee
Strip me of self-respect, girlish dreams
Overburden me with your filthy chores
Too taxing for a mother to bother
Guessing young, adoption must be like
Having a mean stepmother,
Who never cared or wanting you
Finds you useful just the same
Homemade princess waits helplessly
Covered in unremitting shame
Daydreaming a rescue
From her real mother
One sunny day when doorbell rings,
Queen mother stands, arms outstretched
As a mean mother yells my name
Are you daydreaming again?
Fairy tales,
Do not always have happy conclusions
October 26, 1998 8:57 AM
Tryst
Hot water cascades
heats the air
thick like clouds
plug finds its mark
Soft luminous bubbles
play with the light
build silently
one on top of the other
Full-bodied
rose bouquet
rises out of the mix
seduces senses
to inhale deeply
Flowing water
surrounds
soaks
fills
every lonely crevice
July 18, 2000 5:11 PM
Ebb
Grief— a tsunami that rides the night
like cancer rages through her body
deftly dragging down hope
cell by cell by organ
the undertow grabs
pulls her out to sea
holds the maligned body under
while the weight of dark water
shakes loose
from what in time
will wash ashore
drenched in our tears
that which must go on
Tule Disassociation
In wintertime,
vapors spread across the delta
softening edges of perception
obliterating objects
beyond one’s own feet and hands
That’s when I walked, head bowed low
catching a bit of grass on the periphery
right step left
right step left
To take attention off this cadence
would give leave to the fog
swallow me whole
and I would walk this way,
alone in limbo
forever
©2007 Cynthia L. Bryant
Tulips
Vrid sheaths
envelope tender buds
furled tight as a spring
each in its moment
catch the essential ray of light
expose bright colored jewels
spattered in morning dew
that glisten … alive
TURN
Turn turning
Stomachs turn in disgust
Turn turning
Wheels keep on turning
Turn turning
Turn to left at the next light
Turn turning
When love turns to regret
Turn turning
Turn it over it your mind
Turn turning
Vegetables turn from green to brown
Turn turning
Clocks turn timely
Turn turning
When leaves turn brown
Turn turning
Religion took a turn for the worst
Turn turning
Alls well that turns out for the best
Turn turning
Sexy young ladies turn a trim ankle
Turn turning
Turn a new page on life
Turn turning
Turning out children like no tomorrow
Turn turning
A time for every season that turns
Turn turning
People, take your turn one at a time
Turn turning
Turn all rocks over slowly
Turn turning
The earth keeps turning
Turn turning
My husband turns over in sleep
Turn turning
Turn up the volume…LOUD
Turn turning
In time my turn came
Turning…turning…turning….
April 28, 1998 12:02 P.M.
Turn of the Century
When Alta was born
at the close of the 1800’s
most babies were born
at home
in the beds of their mothers
when they came early
as Alta did
that frosty October morn
few survived
the hardships of birth
proved too much
for these tiny
not quite-done-forming
folks
from the start
Alta’s breath taking
was a chore
the midwife cleaned her up
bundled her
in the knitted blanket
Grandma made
put her fragile
bluish body
in a small wooden box
set it under
the lit wood burning stove
to keep warm
while her family said prayers
June 2, 2000 7:08 PM
Turtle Woman
Turtle plods along at its own pace
not concerned with pushing the river,
only survival, playing out its creative urges
Long have I aligned with turtle in spirit
I would draw my neck into a heavily armored body
seeking protection from a sense of vulnerability
I rejoice in the ancient shelter of being a turtle woman
finding joy and sanctuary in my shell
Knowing in my own way and time
I will complete and win the big race
July 18, 1997 3:51 p.m.
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 jets carrying tourists
to ring the gong of tragedy
so clearly
the whole world shivered
and cried out as one
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
undone
poke a hole
push through the viscera
make haste if you have hopes
in finding me
hidden here
among her haven
of inhospitality
mere mackerel
afloat in soured brine
unaware
of the reason
for the barrage of hate
that batters me about
cold metal
shiny and sharp
flashes up the shadows
painstakingly
to cast about
parts
they tear from me
slice and gut
slice and gut
11/25/2017
Unexamined Life
Yellowed long slender fingers
Ancient weaver of taciturn lives
Holding fast saving for last
The makings of dreams
Pulling taut the viscera
Tighter now
Strengthening from within
Holding in restraint
Stray innermost wishes
Turning to tail
The Fate's aimless visions
Leaving one pale in comparison
Driven away by fears
Aware only of what is not wanted
Anorexic needs the main goal
Managing another day
Breathing another breath
Witnessing another sunrise
Frozen to walk forward
Into the priceless day
January 28, 1998 10:00 A.M.