Poems 3
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Ungrateful
Slap the baby's ass
hung upside down
never mind
what plans she may have made
sell her off
to a good family
on the road in search of home
Sign her up
piano and ballet
small hands cupped on keys
hold that fragile bird
Thunder thighs in tutu
clench into the positions
recitals for folks
watch our little performer freeze
1/30/2004
Unseen Help
Walking through the garden gate
Along a path at sunset
Fearful eyes caught up in a search
Looking for lost treasure
A lonely call was heard
A beautiful sad song
Hanging in the breeze
Looking up slowly
Surveying as I went
For the source of the music
But found instead
Held in tender under brush
My golden dangling locket
Holding his final picture
Latched safely inside
April 3, 1998 11:49
Unsung Poet's Life
Teacups, saucers, spoon and bowl
Precariously poised atop
Monuments of meals
Remnants that came before
Soft swirling dust kittens
Mischievously playing tag
Mysteriously making their way
Across quiet hard wood floors
Where are the human folk?
Mistresses of mess
Off chasing pretty poems
Perhaps their best yet!
October 15, 1998 10:46 AM
Untitled
Each footfall quiet as the dead
I enter the room in imagination
cautious so as not to awaken
the much-mourned childhood
buried but never forgotten
She is lying in bed now
against the west wall
much past the time
when the whirling house should have landed
upon her nasty disposition
In curiosity I creep forward
alone in my quest
knowing the eyes that turned to stone
Any who would dare to question her
would be wide and waiting
A horrible joke. now in poor taste
for alone on the bed
a shrunken body lies broken
aquiver with thoughts of mortal terror
and the day she must once again face me
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Venice Beach
All along Candle Café’s rain gutter
the committee lines up
wing feather to wing feather
Jesters come and go along the walkway of tattoo parlors,
tee-shirt palaces, piercing vendors and other assorted artists
who congregate along the path above the beach
An experiment of melanin pushed to its limit, where every race
of beings have become tawny brown to ebony sheen
the exception an occasional tourist with glare of alabaster skin
Some ride wheels on boards, on bikes, on roller blades
while others push strollers, meander, jog, panhandle
sit on benches, people watch
These plain gray birds eye those beneath
care nothing for what adorns people’s bodies or hue of their skin
only what is discarded, recycled or dropped
Up on Titanic’s rooftop a lone white seabird stretches majestic wings
quietly takes it all in, while I relax under harbored shade
lost in a thousand judgments behind polarized eyes
©2006 Cynthia L. Bryant
Voice of my Mother
I wanted to fly a plane
feel the raw power of the lift
up to the heavens
but the nearest I ever came
was marrying an Air Force pilot
being an officers wife
Not all it was cracked up to be
mowed the lawn
pulled the damn weeds
the man couldn’t bare to dirty his hands
most times he was flying anyway
meant raising
ungrateful daughters on my own
even the times he was home
I wore the black hat
to daddy’s girls
such pearls
tiny irritants
gnawing in my craw
solidified
larger by the years
so curious
asking non-stop questions
always poking in
probing for my past
long buried
none of their damn business
bringing home cheap crap
they made in school
expecting me to
ooh and ahh
over every piece
knowing I preferred to buy
my own presents
at least that way I got something
I wanted
even when the girls were small
they would talk back
or cry for no reason
and no matter how many times
I whacked their backsides
smacked their faces
with whatever was handy
my hand
a hairbrush
wooden spoon
paddle
or washed their mouths out with soap
they would continue
crying
whimpering like animals
threw them in their room
slamming the door
just to have quiet moment
3/5/2000
Up Against a Brick Wall
Never have you come up against
that which you could not
tough it out
out stubborn it
like a new bottle of catsup
hung upside-down in anticipation
hit on its bottom
shake it shake it shake it shake it
it doesn’t budge
you wait and wait
shove a butter knife up inside
watch it drain loose
but death
she does not retreat
lets you wrestle with her
until in sheer exhaustion
you see her face
Take your last parched breath
then separate from your container
pour forth
as death sighs in relief
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Upside Down
The world as we know it has tilted
Dangerously threatening to turn
Upside down
The stuff we were fed
On which our little hearts, souls
And ability to define our safely drawn
Perimeters of understanding
Sorely challenged
Things that were the bedrock of each
American…
How we are the land of all the huddled masses
Come together for freedom in religious worship
The humble shall inherit the earth
We the people created equally… by the people, for the people
Life liberty and the pursuit of happiness
7/25/2024
Verbiage
I run, jump, skip
No that is incorrect
I drag, coerce, compel
Concise words screaming
From the right then the left
Sides of my brain
All the time wishing
The thoughts would ease out
In a lazy spectral ooze
Painting the prettiest poem
Ever to appear on the page
Signed Cynthia L. Bryant
January 30, 1998 5:10 P.M.
Visitor
All morning
something has darted
just out of line of sight
snagged at periphery
as it shoots past
stomach flutters a greeting
with each swoop
even though I know
you’ve left this life
beyond my comprehension
The mind is hopeful
The heart refuses to let go
May 14, 2002 3:04pm
When God spoke to Elijah on Mount Horeb, He could have done so in the wind, earthquake, or fire. But He didn't. He spoke with a “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12)
A 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
Voices
Technically a beautiful woman
She rides the sidewalk
In long catlike strides
Grabs moments of storefronts
Colorful garish in the extreme
Returns unwanted acknowledgement
to faceless passersby with her warm
practiced smile
11/27/2017
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…
Vote and Die
First comes the landslide
then the quake
a precursor to what
only time will tell
In every neighborhood
shrouds mount in
lifeless symbols of old glory
laid low
Big brother slithers among us
with license and bible
able to breach human rights
in a single bound
Hark the moral majority has risen
with their terrible swift sword
all shall be judged
every single fear of one another
flamed into history
AK-47s, M-16s and Uzis taken up
the righteous walk the streets
Six-gun toting sheriffs of Armageddon
blast away those without the mark
Women cannot choose
gays cannot marry
we must spread democracy
squeeze all humanity
into tight tiny minds
When we wake
in the middle of this nightmare
will we recognize the anti-Christ
as he smirks at his creation
©2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
Waiting for Death to Arrive
Like a pot watched too closely
I look for bubbles to rise
take over the surface of attention
Calmly I steady myself for the moment
I have imagined with clarity
then dreaded consumed in guilt
ever since I can recall
wishing on a star or praying to God
If only the doctors knew
what a beast she is
we could take her to a veterinarian
to be mercifully put down
Allow her now grown children
bashed about for years
to breath in the painful inhalation of grief
followed by the sweet exhale of release
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Waiting for the Stars to Align
I could not bear to look at him—
The wasted yellowed skeleton
I used to call Daddy
Me,
Big as a house
Ripe with the restless
Promise of new life
Looking like I would burst
Any second
My father,
Eaten alive by cancer
Not long for this world
Looking more like pictures
of the starving, dying
people of Bangladesh
Minus the flies
Sitting alone in the stilted waiting room
Of the VA Hospital
Begging God—
Take what is left of my father
Show him mercy,
Spare him pain
Beseeching God—
Blot out my view
Take this morbid deterioration
Helpless from my sight
God could not be coerced
He would not allow my father’s eyes
To rest upon his grandson
Nor rush the sweet release
Of father’s soul
I had to wait for the stars to align
June 12, 1997 12:06 p.m.
Wanting
Scarlet sunset’s hiss
as hot summer days
retreat beneath
cooling night’s kiss
left
wanting for nothing
September 7, 1999 11:13 AM
War
In the aftermath of war
some well fought
some never finished,
the rawness of broken spirits
rubs like a rope burn
Carnage piled like
minor spikes on history’s timeline
leaves behind
open sores that won’t heal
on souls of men
Women perpetually weep
grieve the folly
Where husbands sons
brothers leave a stain
that no rain may wash away
the hatred of war-scarred children
left to decide
“I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead men can tell the truth in this world.” Mark Twain
Warm Memories
Worn daily for a years time
Sliding down wooden halls
Warming cold toes on early mornings
Colored yarn to match our robes
Frayed and wearing thin
Ready for new ones by December's end
Fond memories covered our feet
As warm and colorful knitted slippers
Pom-poms on the top for the girls
Given lovingly every year
To all the grandchildren
On Christmas Eve
June 2, 1998 3:27 PM
Waste
I remember seeing in a movie once
an enormous herd of buffalo
frightened into charging after
their leader over the cliff
to their demise
I thought of this scene
as I witnessed a reporter
interviewing yet another fine group
of young fighting men and women
with orders to report
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Watering Hole
Nestled in the hills
outside Taos city limits
abandoned years since
awaited our bathing oasis
a hot springs pool
Surfaces crawled in algae
tepid water topped with steam
a hint of sulfur perfumed the air
The surrounding cliffs thick
with echoes of hoots and howls
of the indigenous men folk
There for a glance of thigh
white quivering breast
hit by cool air
nipples tightened into raisins
reduces our audience to a
slobbering pack of animals
Small price to pay
for the pleasure
of applying warm water to skin
for this road weary family
so far from a home
September 24, 1997 11:26 A.M.
Watermelon Wilson…
Went to town this afternoon
Holding his coins tightly fisted
Sharing his thoughts with no one else
Thinking only of his secret mission
The dusty road, rode his lips
Causing the split to hurt
Wasn't concerned much
About the new throbbin'
Or the filth on his shirt
Didn't notice
when the tough boys came out
should've paid more attention
did not look up
hit in the mouth
s'more blood he swallowed
his hands were left empty
Wilson had no watermelon today
January 28, 1999 4:47 PM
Way of Seeing
The worst nightmare,
the one that stays well
until daylight fades
Looking back at me
from the reflection,
the lie, that I know
couldn’t be me
Mocking—Laying me open
An obese middle-aged woman
bloated, wrinkled and marked
with the life she has
been but a specter in
What has become of
The fantasy—
The young, spirited woman,
with firm rounded form
A delight to view
Gone—
Years of living from the neck up
mercilessly caught up with the body,
long ago abandoned and forgotten
left for time to commandeer
and have its way
July 7, 1997 10:02 a.m.
Ways of Nature
I was quiet
knowing you weren’t feeling well
staying outside
Thinking up ways
to make you smile
I picked the tulips
in the planter out front
handing you flowers
which surprisingly
seemed to make you
unhappy
Even stranger still
By the time I came home
from kindergarten
next day
were the plastic tulips
that popped up vibrant
out front
in the planter
May 17, 2000 4:47 PM
The acronym of this title is taken from a television series
called Dinosaurs©
We Are Right
Mourning peals across the land
not long after the hollow echo of joyful noise,
hoorays for our side are replaced
by the deafening roar of armaments
G.I. Joes leak honor
across Iraqi living room floors
where pieces and pith of foreign bodies
carpet their landscape
Like imbeciles of old
God knows we are slow to learn
the lessons taught by war
where only the grim reaper wins the day
Let us plunge that hair-triggered pin
back into the grenade
listen and consider
with our children’s hearts in hand
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Weapon of Words
Words
they cannot harm you
the wild woman taunted
Flailing them as weapons
testing for ferocity
Each one left its mark
Scars that shone
burned white-hot
long after
target practice had ended
June 30, 1999 5:27 PM
What He Said
Women’s words never stand alone
like unadorned objects of tête-à-tête
Women gather words
tie them with colorful tails
set them aloft
buoyant on the breeze
So when a man delivers the words
I love you
in a voice sweet as summer air
It seems natural to women soaring so high
momentarily unable to catch their breath
to question why
©2007 Cynthia L. Bryant
What I Wore
I wore mom’s last year’s robe
to cover the flimsy negligee
I arrived in at dawn’s murky light
It allowed me to greet
Frantic Friends and family
coming to pay their respects
I wore the acrid smell of smoke
like a Viking maiden’s mantle
it lingered on my skin and hair
held my countenance prisoner
until I found my way
to soap and hot water
I wore the merciful gray shroud of shock
around me like thick fog
it occurred to me late, some days later
that when I was ready
to make my way outside
the safety of mother’s home
I had nothing else to wear
I wore hand-me-downs
blue jeans, a green plaid shirt
and old white gym shoes
borrowed from mom’s neighbor
to wear on my adventure out
to purchase my own clothes
I wore clothes
that belonged to only me
that day
when a double rainbow blazoned
the dark troubled sky
after the sun ran out of backdrop
I wore baby-blue slacks
with a silky blouse to match
allowed black only for my shoes
Jody Lee had never seen his mother
in a dress nor in black veils
and I wanted to make sure
he would recognize me
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
What of Life
What of life makes us cling
like opossums to a branch
Seeing things upside down
some of us dying
Sometimes just playing dead
Although most would say
it is death we fear
few know how to live
We can be taught how to kill
In the end
reasons given by leaders
busy playing some other game
won’t save our souls
© 2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
What If
What if I was born
To a woman full of love
And a man, man enough
To daddy a daughter
Without bruising the fruit
Or swallowing her whole
January 6, 1999 8:07 AM
What is the Point?
Stand to be counted
Sway to sound warning
Reach out to push
To thump some space
Probe openings
Ponder what’s next
Accentuate choice
Number one
Curl in on self
Tightly to neighbors
White clenched knuckles
In power
Paper Dolls
Tonight, I dream in sepia
Beautiful brown and beige photography that equate with past
Ellis island, our Statue of Liberty are teemed with people
Praying for new, better lives
As the forsaken come before officials
Skin is peeled back to ascertain countries of origin, shithole or W.A.S.P.,
like phrenology used to weed out the us from them by Nazi’s
rated accordingly
My rational mind argues, no need to cause them pain,
We are all the same under our skin, the peeling continues
Next children are ripped from parents, as I watch
The children wailing “Mama” from forced abandonment
tear like paper dolls with no pretty clothes to wear
They are torn, ripped and taken away
In heaps to cages, await their final solution
The light has gone out on Liberty’s lamp
What Remains
His days no longer preoccupied
in search of prey
he hunches over chin to chest
bony elbows rest upon arms
of the iron chair
while wormy tubes
feed body’s memory
of a life spent
The man
once ambitious with
testosterone
muscle broken down
become impotent
His skin waxy
almost translucent
wraps fragile purple veins
like white cellophane
clogged with low-life living
The thorny weapon
formerly brandished to demean
control
hangs limp
uncocked
in full retirement
drains yellow waste
into a bag
between deadweight thighs
His once scheming leer
imprisoned behind a catatonic
trance
of drug induced slow dance
unseeing eyes that still refuse
to blink
memory guardians
to those fallen too far
to find their way home
11/27/2017
What the Wind Blew In
Summer came that year
A blast of Dante’s Inferno
Folks spoke softly to one another
when they bothered speaking at all
always the same topic
never recollecting
so many days and nights
bunched on top of one another
with such unmerciful suffering
in the hideous heat
Corn dried up on the stalk
beneath brown withered husks
Winds drove dirt through town
like cattle moaning low
as it went
Even cicadas weren’t spared
the misery
swarming field after field
in noisy search of sustenance
That, the year of my beginning
dry-born to a woman-child
without benefit of husband
to lean on in a storm
Where people without pity
turned away from shame
like so much grime
to sweep out with the dust
Mother’s beaten pride honed
to a desperate frenzy by
small town isolation
cut the umbilical cord in barter
for food board
a way out
of the dusty little town
6/12/2010
What Young is For
Young men
croon the moon
sweeter than any coyote
silhouetted in its light
Whether they travel
solitary or in packs
intent remains the same
Sniff out prey
deliver a well greased line
seduce a mate
for the courting ritual
Once so much
a participant in the dance
I stay in these days
at the rise of the moon
snuggled down
with the old coyote
who captured my heart
Still on occasion
as I bang my head
against the rock of middle-age
the lament of lost wolf-calls
crosses my mind
WHEN I TOLD
WHEN I TOLD MY MOTHER, SHE SAID
“DO YOU FEEL GUILTY”?
WHEN I TOLD MY AUNT, SHE SAID
“I’M NOT SURPRISED”
WHEN SHE TOLD HER HUSBAND, HE SAID
“I WISH YOU HADN’T TOLD ME”
WHEN I TOLD MY UNCLE, HE SAID
“THAT’S TOO BAD, BUT THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO.”
WHEN HE TOLD HIS WIFE, SHE SAID
“TOO BAD THAT SOMETHING WASN’T SAID SOONER SO HE COULD HAVE DEFENDED HIMSELF”
WHEN I TOLD MY COUSIN, SHE SAID
“THERE WAS A RUMOR OF IT IN OUR MOTHERS’ FAMILY
WHEN I TOLD MY HUSBAND THAT MY FATHER HAD SEXUALLY ABUSED ME THROUGH OUT MY CHILDHOOD,
HE HELD ME WHILE I CRIED.
CYNTHIA L. BRYANT
APRIL 9, 1996
baby girl
what’s gonna become of baby girl
unwanted by her mama
a blot on a spotless soul
who sold her, the result of sin
to the highest bidder
slate cleaned
what’s gonna become of baby girl
product of original sin
secondary sin
passed through
the mark on her thigh
she was birthed with
what’s gonna become of baby girl
whose new daddy
the only one she has ever known
sees the mark
proposes a special love
transfixed in their relationship
what’s gonna become of baby girl
her new mother walks in
on one of many sessions
of daddy’s special love
meant only for two
the tangle begins
what’s gonna become of baby girl
only eighteen-months old
deduced to ‘the other woman’
in daddy’s busy hands
in mother’s jealous eyes
orphaned
WHEN I WANT TO BUY
WHEN I WANT TO BUY,
CLOTHES, DISHES, COMFORTERS, TOWELS.
I FEEL LIKE I NEED BEAUTY.
I WANT EVERYTHING TO LOOK NICE.
IT'S ONLY THE OUTSIDE THOUGH.
I REALIZE THIS IS THE WAY IT WAS AT HOME
WHEN I WAS GROWING UP.
THE STUFF THAT SHOWS ON THE OUTSIDE, WAS ALWAYS IMMACULATE AND PERFECT.
BUT ALL THE REAL STUFF, ABOUT WHO THESE PEOPLE WERE, AND HOW THEY FELT, AND BEHAVED WAS QUITE UGLY, ANGRY AND IMMATURE.
I THINK WHEN MY DAD WENT AWAY ON HIS BUSINESS, MY MOTHER TOOK OUT HER ANGER, LONELINESS AND FRUSTRATIONS ON HER DAUGHTERS
AFTERWARD WHEN SHE FELT BETTER, BUT GUILTY, SHE WOULD BUY US SOMETHING.
IT WAS LIKE THE PAYOFF FOR BEING HER VICTIMS.
JANUARY 16,1993
White Like Me
Born privileged upper status
Through a barmaid’s daughter
Bought by a barren woman
And her soldier husband
Their first investment towards
A perfect Family
My dolls were white
Eyes blue Hair blonde
Pink mouths with white teeth
Neatly pressed clothes
Crisp and clean mirroring me
Pre-teen body tanned in the sun
Mother asleep in her rum and cokes
I watched from the ceiling
while daddy slacked his lust
Taught me all I needed to know
about being born privileged
11/23/2020
Whitewash
I whitewashed my childhood,
as lots of folks do
I painted and polished
covered the blue
I dream of it often,
the white picket fence
Imagine the shutters
and other pretense
I never allowed myself
A glimpse of the truth
The nightmares aren’t real,
but merely a spoof
I often return there,
if only in dreams
The offal of childhood
is all that it seems
4/2/2001
White on White
Polar bears in a snowstorm
Lounging on ice bergs
Snacking on seals
Vestal virgins
keep home fires burning
A whiter shade of Pale
Pure white porcelain tub
Filled full
Buoyant bursting bubbles
Here comes the bride
Floating down the aisle
On clouds of wishes and dreams
Mis-spelled words whited out
With a drop of liquid paper
Spilling forth
A keyboard
Replete of texture
To hit the other notes
My lonely blank page
Before me
Stricken with writer's block
4/6/1998
Who—Am I
Am I an angel
That flew too close
to earth's gravitational pull
Am I a lost lamb
The black sheep of a family
turned out
Am I alien
Planted here in 1952
to soak up truth
Am I a bad joke
That no one understood
eyes cast downward
Am I a clone
Genetically split
from the original
Am I a poet
Does what I feel
translate to paper
Am I God's gift
To a world
empty of hope
Am I finished yet
Or do I
have many words
left to render
January 8, 1998 10:35 A.M
Whose hands are these?
It is difficult to say in the fleeting light. That's another thing where has the daylight gone. One moment it was here and the next—all gone. Back to the hands, what do they want? I can't seem to think clearly maybe I am dreaming. I don't recall going to sleep. Although with the craziness of the last week, I guess that is entirely possible. Nobody expected mother to die so suddenly like that in the middle of the night, sound asleep. Heavy into dreams. I wonder if she was dreaming after all no one can say for sure. And where was Daddy? Why didn't he know she had died until later. So many questions and nobody seems to care if a ten year old knows or not.
I hear distance sounds know like spooky breathing in and out, funny though I seen to feeling it on the skin of my neck and the hands. They are huge and warm but not at all comforting and they seem to have a mind of their own. This is the strangest dream I have ever had. I seem to remember having a sore throat at dinner. Daddy gave me some special medicine to take my cares away. Yes, I think that's how he put it. That must be why I am having this funny dream
2/20/1998
Winter
Weary branches break
under weight
of winter’s frown
so pale and cold
from weeping
Icy stares
send shivers down trunks
blown clean
deplete memory
of summer’s generous warmth
Peoples pace quickens
with plans to work out
gifts to buy
homes to dress with light
every shadow graced
with fragrant boughs
tied in merry red ribbon
© 2002 Cynthia L. Bryant
WHAT I OWE MOM! (insight in memory)
I OWE YOU ZIP. WHY IS IT THAT OTHER PARENTS CAN HELP THEIR CHILDREN WITHOUT INTEREST AND STRINGS ATTACHED. BY THE TIME I PAY FOR ALL OF THE COUNSELING I’VE HAD AND WILL HAVE, JUST TO FUNCTION CORRECTLY IN THIS WORLD, YOU MAY OWE ME MONEY AND DEFIANTLY [WITH INTEREST].
DID YOU KNOW COMPULSIVE BUYING IS ONLY ONE OF THE SYMPTOMS I HAVE HAD OF CHILDHOOD SEXUAL ABUSE. I’M ALSO OBESE, I’M ALSO AFRAID OF THE DARK.I’M ALSO SUFFERING FROM LOW SELF ESTEEM. I ALSO HAVE SEXUAL PROBLEMS. I ALSO SUFFER FROM DEPRESSION. I’M ALSO AN UNDER ACHIEVER. I ALSO WENT THROUGH A PERIOD OF PROMISCUITY. BUT I WAS NEVER YOUR HUSBANDS LOVER! I WAS HIS AND YOUR PROPERTY AND I DID WHAT I WAS TOLD. I WAS VICTIM. I WAS THE CHILD. YOU KNOW THE ONE YOU BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. I THINK SOME OF THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CONDITION I WAS IN, REMINDED YOU OF YOU AND SCARED YOU.
IT’S TOO BAD THAT YOU DIDN’T GET HELP FOR THE PROBLEMS YOU HAD. KEEPING YOUR SECRETS DIDN’T DO ANYTHING BUT PASS YOUR SENTENCE ON TO ME AND MY SISTER AND THEN LATER ON TO MY DAUGHTER.
BUYING ME A NEW CAR TO GET ME OFF OF ANTIDEPESSANTS AND THERE BY END THE DEPRESSION WAS AN RIDICULOUS SOLUTION TO A BIG PROBLEM. KIND OF LIKE PUTTING A BANDAGE OVER THE CANCER AND HOPING THAT WILL MAKE IT GO AWAY. I HAVE BEEN HAVING SO MUCH ANXIETY WITH THE DEPRESSION THAT I COULDN’T USE THE CAR AND FEEL SAFE DOING SO EVEN IF I WANTED TO.
I NEVER UNDERSTOOD WHY YOU WERE SO COLD AND MEAN. I FIGURE NOW THAT YOUR HOME LIFE MUST HAVE BEEN VIOLENT, WHERE YOU WERE HURT AND BELITTLED AND PROBABLY SEXUALLY ABUSED. I TOLD YOU ONCE THAT THE ONLY TIME YOU WERE AFFECTIONATE WAS WHEN YOU WERE DRUNK, BUT THAT WASN’T QUITE TRUE. YOU WERE HIGHLY SEXUAL WHEN YOU DRANK AND THAT IS THE ICKY FEELING I GOT WHEN YOU GRABBED AND KISSED MY SISTER AND I.
I REMEMBER YOU MOSTLY BEING ANGRY ALL THE TIME. THAT YOU WEREN’T EASILY PLEASED, IF AT ALL. AND THAT IT DIDN’T MATTER WHAT I DID WHEN YOU WERE IN ONE OF YOUR MOODS. WHAT WERE THOSE MOODS ABOUT ANYWAY? WERE THEY CAUSED BY DRINKING, DRUGS, OR WERE YOU JUST PLAIN OLD CRAZY?
YES, INDEED YOU MADE A FINE MOTHER. YOU SWORE LIKE A TRUCK DRIVER, HATED MALES, TALKED LIKE A RED NECK BIGOT, AND YOUR FAVORITE NAME FOR YOUR HUSBAND WAS SHITASS, OF COURSE. YOU KNEW THAT DADDY WAS INVOLVING ME IN SEXUAL ACTIVITY SINCE I WAS A BABY. I KNOW I EVEN TOLD YOU. YOU WENT CRAZY AND CALLED THE POLICE TO HAVE ME TAKEN AWAY FOR BEING UNCONTROLABLE.
WHILE WE WERE WAITING FOR THE POLICE, DADDY WAS GOING CRAZY AND BEATING IN ME IN MY BEDROOM AND TELLING ME THAT “I’M JUST LIKE MY MOTHER, A BAD SEED. AND WHAT DID I THINK I WAS DOING TALKING TO MY MOTHER THAT WAY.”
DID YOU KNOW THAT I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AFRAID OF YOU. YOU WERE ALWAYS SO TOUGH. YOU SEEMED LIKE YOU COULD HANDLE ANYTHING. BUT I KNOW NOW THAT WAS AN ACT. YOU COULDN’T EVEN FACE UP TO YOUR OWN CHILDHOOD OR PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN. INSTEAD, YOU PLAYED THEM AGAINST EACH OTHER FOR YOUR FAVOR. YOU ARE NOT BRAVE AT ALL. YOU COULD HAVE HAD A FAMILY. BUT YOU GAVE IT UP RATHER THAN DEAL WITH THINGS AND GET HELP.
I WILL PASS ON MY LOVE AND STRENGTH TO MY BOYS. I ONLY HOPE THAT MY DAUGHTER GETS HELP BEFORE SHE DECIDES TO HAVE KIDS AND GETS AWAY FROM YOU AND YOUR FINANTIAL GRASP. SO, EVERYTHING THAT YOU PASSED ON TO US WILL DIE WITH YOU.
MAY 22,1991
What Would It Take
TTo believe or not believe
What would it take?
If a child was crying, “a man hurt me!”
What if the man’s name was Daddy
Would you believe or would you need
Marks on flesh—not the spirit,
For your vision quest to succeed
How ‘bout some semen and blood
Dried and stuck to the sheets
Would you find reason to pause and think
Or beat a hasty retreat
What if the person in question
Was one that you thought you knew
Would you need to blame the child,
Knowing that children lie,
Or see the man anew
Would you want a ringside seat,
At the graphic hellish scene
Just to know for certain
Damage may have been
And if you came face to face
With a woman now grown old
Being ruled all her lifetime
By her four-year-old tortured soul
Could you then say with confidence,
“This is abuse that I see”
Would you do something about it?
Or would you silently
Leave it to me?
©1997 Cynthia L. Bryant
What’s with All the Clothes?
Imagine…
Tank tops, camisoles, tee shirts,
Long sleeve blouses, short sleeve slouches
Embroidered, dotted, laced and designer
One in every color
Seasons change
New boxes brought to the closet
The bedroom,
Hallway and bath
Slim jeans, indigo jeggings, slacks, shorts
Skirts-mid knee, midi and maxi, denim, cotton, silk, linen
Sweater sets-lightweight and winter
Embroidered, dotted, laced and designer
One in every color
A seasick stomach pervades the ritual
Knowing no matter what I wear
Like being drowned in lake water
My swim- suited form showing beneath
Rippled water’s surface only blurs my demise
When Poets are no more…
The world has not only shrunk,
our capacity to hold words
has narrowed
like a six-lane freeway
honed back down
to a solitary dirt road
In community after village
whispers fan out
the F word
has power
to turn childhood to stone
blanch the red enamel
off red ruby nails
Cartoon characters are banned
held up to ridicule
along the straight and narrow paths
where no room is found
for two walks together
to keep them from conspiring
In this the great land of the free
where leaders label man-made enemies
as haters of freedom
our freedoms are forced into sausage skins
fed to us in rote
fed to us in rote
fed to us in rote
Merchandisers out to sell a product
have us regurgitating
the untruths we were forced to swallow
knowing them as truth
knowing them as truth
knowing them as truth
The righteous of religion
stand tall, warming their hands
around the hellfire of burning books
the magic of childhood
extinguished under hoods of Christ
somewhere he shakes his head
somewhere he shakes his head
somewhere he shakes his head
and weeps
'Cause we'll make it to a love supreme
To a love supreme
Palm trees and breeze
I'm dreaming of a love supreme
Of a love supreme
Of a love
-John Coltrane, artist
White Supremacy
Am I really superior,
how can that be?
Thin-skinned 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 see every hue
of upright human doings
Flesh tones run the gamut
of albino white to darkest night
happily house each
In the family of human kind
Even color of eyes
give little hint
of what character of soul
peers through
Every one have sulked in poverty
to increments of gilded wealth
Kneeled down to many or no gods
Experienced joy and loss
Beside 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
allow self-loathing
hatred of others to divide
We cannot detect from sight
that which makes that atom split
makes us destructive to one another
Superiority does not exist
In a world
Folks created from stardust
with misfit genes
that only enhance imperfections
0/1/2021
Winter Wardrobe
Wintertime has come again
air turned bitter cold
exposing stark landscapes
dreary, gray and old
Hair on covered legs
ceases to be trimmed
fat layers quickly thicken
sunlight’s warmth is slim
Focus is on inner needs
not on worldly squander
I would prefer staying in bed
Until the spring time yonder
© 1999 Cynthia L. Bryant
WISHED FOR PROMISE
THE DARK CLOUDS ABOVE YOU
ARE MOVING AWAY
A RAINBOW ABOVE YOU
A PROMISE TODAY
IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSARY
TO TAKE YOUR LOVED ONES AWAY
DECEMBER 9, 1980
With My Eyes on the Prize
Grandfather passed along wisely
early in my grooming
tidbits a granddaughter needed to know
A promise to have in the future
He reveled in my inquisitiveness
mentally penning figure eights
around the fresh slate of my mind
challenging me to reach
His puzzles filled me with awe
Wondering, possibilities
always with the promise
he would nod, smile and hand me another
Grandfather passed beyond existence
leaving fondness for mystery in memory
years ran on ahead without him
leaving his promise in their stead
Echoes of childhood promise
Grandfather made
"When you're fifty you'll know"
7/21/2004
NIGHT TERRORS
I WOKE UP THIS MORNING WITH VOMIT
IN MY THROAT
I KEPT WAKING UP ALL NIGHT
I HEARD HEAVY BREATHING
I HEARD 'MOMMIE, MOMMIE'
I HAD PRESSURE IN THE MOUTH
PRESSURE IN THE CHEST AND STOMACH
I SAW A PERSON GARBLED BY COMPUTER
I HAD THE SENSATION OF BEING BOUNCED upon, UPSETTING MY STOMACH
FEBRUARY 11, 1993
Within—Without
The air is thick with longing
As a new day begins
Sunshine shows its fiery head
While birds loudly gossip in trees
The computer dings
"You have mail"
Familiar surrounds me
Everything in its time and place
Except altered
One-dimensional
Colorless
Without you
April 28, 1998 10:18 A.M.
Women of the Air
I met some women
Just recently, who had never
Met one another
They had shared their inner most
Feelings, some for years
Yet never gazed on the faces of those
Who shared
They came together on the occasion
Of building something wonderful
And putting it out there
They were drawn together
From the glue of creative expression
And as genuine love tends to do
All proceeds going to women
Needing help back to the center
Of their unharmed cores
Cynthia L. Bryant
June 10, 1997 11:08 a.m.
Wonderland
Pogs™ hidden away in a mattress
precious mementos of childhood
tucked inside
comfy place to dream
forgotten treasure
dug up unexpectedly
dislodged from the safe cavern
while moving to a new address
of adulthood
Like the Cheshire cat
only the mischievous smile
of boyhood remains
© 2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
Words
There they stand
Once on their own
Startling statues of stiletto precision
Lost forever in magnificent sacrifice
Words
Given over identity
The poem passionately lives on
March 7, 1998 7:28 P.M.
WORDS
Precious are words
Lining up on pages
Telling untold stories
Expressing human feelings
Sharing multiple ideas
Infinite are the ways
June 5, 1998 10:32 AM
Working Man
Potent, proud, a little tired
He withdrew just under the deadline
Particularly impressed with himself
Precision work, taking great cares
Shortened firm strokes, finding the mark
Finishing up the ins and outs
Before the slut
woke up, screaming once more
Surveying the trophy, his handy work
He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply
Realizing his rush to finish, wasted time
No!
She would never scream again
His heavy boot killed the smoke
Unbuckling his belt
He went back to work
April 9, 1998 5:54 P.M.
Writer's Life
Terror lives—
An ever-present specter
The relentless stalker by day
Phantasmagoric by night
Critiquing remnants
Query letters
Tattered and torn
Proper and pristine
Sending out verse
Manuscript and line
Imagined blast of cold stares
Upon neatly typed pages
Holding breath
Waiting to hear,
Rejection?
Friendly cheers?
Another unopened reply
Waits on my desk
February 12, 1998 7:09 P.M.
Yesterday Calls
Time passes slowly
Poignant moment, dull second
All treated the same
Counting off to the next
Resonating like a tiny gong
Marking its passing
Look quickly its gone
The past left behind
Silently lying beneath
Fog covered shroud
Guarded by unconscious impulse
That awakens,
Occasional unruly blithe spirit
Beating its own drum
November 20, 1998 3:57PM
Words Elude Me
Float through the air in front of my face
Wagging their tongues
Saying you can’t catch me.
Some say it’s chemical reaction
Others moods set too low
Dragging bellies across the carpet
Hoping for sparks to light up the poem
I am full up of words
thoughts that rally around
But won’t stick to the page
Dizzy from the spin
Weary of the wait
Hopeless in the quest
Computer screen gone dark
I’m off to find a net
8/25/2911
World Weary
Like the nail
that over time
has one too many pictures hung
weight it can no longer hold
gives way
on impact at the bottom
to resounding clatter
broken pieces scatter
At least the uncertainty
is ended
January 2, 2002 3:33pm
Writing at Bakers Square
Over in the next booth,
the parental counting game
has started up
The shaggy-headed four-year-old
seems unmoved by the numbers
counting down to veiled threat
Forgotten already, now on to juice or milk
chocolate milk please
glances to mom, she nods approval
I think how many homes in America
these words echo from mother to child
as daily warnings, mother means business
What then of other parts of the world
places where dangers are car bombs real
No time between mother and child
of humdrum threats
restless moments to count off breaths,
before another heart breaks
11/25/2017
YESTERDAY, FANTASY
YOU WERE MY FANTASY
YOU WERE A COMBINATION OF BETTY CROCKER AND DONNA REED
IT WAS YOU WHO I THOUGHT OF WHEN I FELT UNLOVED AND AFRAID
I KNEW YOU LOVED ME AND SOME DAY WOULD COME AND TAKE
ME WITH YOU TO LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER
I KNEW YOU HAD ONLY TO PUT ME UP FOR ADOPTION BECAUSE YOU WERE YOUNG AND ALONE
I KNEW YOU HAD WANTED TO KEEP ME BUT OTHERS HAD FORCED YOU TO GIVE ME UP
I KNEW NO MATTER WHAT I DID YOU WOULD LOVE ME BECAUSE YOU WERE MY REAL MOMMIE
I FINALLY FOUND YOU
I WAS SO EXCITED
WOULD I LOOK LIKE YOU
I DO YOU KNOW
MY HALF SISTER SENT ME YOUR PICTURE
MY HOPEFUL LITTLE GIRL INSIDE
SENT YOU A HANDWRITTEN MOTHERS DAY CARD
I ALSO SENT YOU A PICTURE OF ME TODAY
WITH BEST WISHES AND HOPES THAT WE COULD SPEAK SOME DAY
I GOT YOUR LETTER ON FRIDAY THE 13TH OF MAY
IT WAS IN A BIG BROWN ENVELOPE WITH MY CARD AND PICTURE OPENED AND RETURNED
IN THE VERY FIRST SENTENCE YOU SAID
"I'M TRULY SORRY THAT YOU CANNOT ACCEPT THE FACT THAT I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER"
I NEVER THOUGHT IN MY FANTASY THAT YOU WOULD WANT TO DENY BEING MY MOTHER
OR THAT YOU COULD BE SO CRUEL
YOU THEN SENT ME TO GOD FOR HELP
YOU THREATENED THAT MY LIFE, MY CHILDREN AND MY HUSBAND COULD ALL BE LOST BECAUSE I WANTED TO KNOW THE WOMAN WHO GAVE BIRTH TO ME
YOU TOLD ME I HAD NO RIGHT TO LOOK AND FIND OUT THAT I ALSO HAVE A HALF BROTHER AND SISTER
WHAT I WANT TO KNOW IS
HOW DO YOU COME TO TERMS WITH YOUR GOD?
HOW DO YOU JUSTIFY THIS LIE YOU HAVE TOLD AND THE TREATMENT OF YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD?
I HAD EVERY RIGHT IN THE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT MY
FAMILY OF ORIGIN
DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT SIGNING YOUR NAME ON THE DOTTED LINE RELIEVES YOU OF ANY MORAL RESPONSIBILITY
TO THE CHILD YOU GAVE BIRTH TO?
I ONLY WANTED TO FILL IN THE BLANKS OF MY HERITAGE
HOPEFULLY, WITH SOME CARING
YOUR LETTER WAS VERY JUDGMENTAL AND HOLIER THAN THOU
AND YOUR FINAL CLOSING OF 'MAY GOD BLESS YOU' FELT MORE LIKE A CURSE
IF YOU WANT TO HIDE BEHIND GOD AND NOT TAKE ANY RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR OWN LIFE THAT'S FINE, YOU LIVE WITH IT
BUT DON'T YOU PRESUME TO KNOW ME AND WHAT I NEED
AND DON'T YOU FOR ONE MINUTE THINK YOU CAN TELL ME WHOM I MAY HAVE A RELATIONSHIP WISH
YOU DO NOT OWN ANY OF YOUR CHILDREN
WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, MY MOTHER?
5/27/94
Here— poems come to be born
just as surely as the Hawthorn returns
each Spring to spatter white stars
Work Hours
I walk in a dream
betray days in sweet repose
As others scuttle their way
I drift hallways
with cloud soft edges
shoulder the work
for after dark
when the muse awakens
©2004 Cynthia L. Bryant
Worrywart
We who do the worrying for the world
Know it to be a time-honored tradition
with the responsibility of a lifetime
I myself have personally kept many airplanes aloft
safe from disaster
The truth is planes couldn’t really fly without us
The shear magnitude of worry keeps it airborne
How many mishaps were averted
by the silent passenger in an automobile
Pressing his foot on the supposed invisible brake
Located on his or her side of the car
Equally affective from the rear of the car
It’s worrying that counts
Would the sun
Still rise each morning
If not for the efforts of the worrywarts
Deeming it so
I think not though it cannot be proven because
Just one day off for Sun and its rising
Could bring about such worldwide cataclysms
to stop worrying long enough to test the resolve
would bringing about our own demise
So let’s lift a cup
Thanking the worriers for their loyalty
And time well spent
Allowing us the luxury
Of Sun for yet another day
August 28, 1997 10:48 a.m.
Yesterday's Friends
Friendly words conjure
They weave and wane
Softly spoken half-truths
Covering all possibilities
What do you want to hear, anyway?
Approaching life like a comical crab
Timid—never eye to eye
Sideways stepping
As many forward as back
Then climbing from sight
Into conical shell
Until inner tides reside
Unfinished search resumed
among debris
Small bleached skeletons
evidence of yesterday's friends
4/28/1999
You Are Not Alone
I too, belong to the club
in sad point of fact
the numbers are countless
like stars
in the ink-black sky
silent cries of abused children
overwhelm this planet
in their wide to narrow eyes
pleading
for respect and caring
November 9, 1999 11:22 AM
Every Tear
Jody my son
The unbearable loss of you
Poignant and raw to a mother's heart
With no escaping the irritants
Glistening tears strung together
Daily reminders crystallizing memory
I wear you like fine pearls
Each precious memory joined to the next
Taken out on those daily occasions
When this lifetime medal
for the ‘Mother of Pain'
Grows heavy
As certainly as I knew
The nature of your soul
As I carried you within my being
I know too
You will be in every tear that I shed
For the rest of my life
3/24/1998
Young Poet
Poets meet in the strangest places
eyeglasses in one hour, while you wait
people-watching
I noticed a tired young mother
her three-year-old handful in tow
As I focused on her redheaded cherub
Abuzz with life
watched as he scooped up his mother’s keys
the small eager hands shook them
pure delight beamed from his being
as I heard him chime
“Listen, Mama,
listen to the keys
the keys are laughing!”
November 3, 1997 11:01 P.M.
Zappa Meets Manson
When the man growls like a beast
my solar plexus trembles
his stringy black hair
makeup with women’s clothes
One sensibility after another
trampled then shook
a memory comes to mind
as I think to
my fifteen-year-old sons’
new musical obsession
M A R I L Y N M A N S O N
The many satisfying moments
of my adolescence
spent behind
pounding walls and closed door
lost in the lyrics
of he who disturbed
my parents
just by the slang of his band’s name
T H E M O T H E R S
Transparent delight in their disgust
at Frank’s long black hair
dark as their fear
I might be turning to drugs
Topped by irritation
of the loud pounding beat
irreverent words
putting down
the whole Plastic People generation
in one fell swoop
with vivid imagery
Today’s outrageous talk of Manson
just like I remember a rumor
circulating that Zappa
during a live show
took a dump on stage
Never could I admit
my revulsion
in case my parents might think
I had surrendered
joined the other side
April 29, 2001 12:41 PM
