No Time to
Shoot the Poets
The Western World
caught in constant malleable
spin
obsessed in its bloody
trail of stigmata
Like a confidence man
pats you on the back
while he rapes your sister
Reminds you of his money
in the poor box
after he sets fire to
your home
Among the maligned
stand welterweight citizens
that resist, swing against
the strain of
that old parental credo
of folks without imagination
or forethought
“just cuz I say so”
One by one they pull back
the curtain
on the ‘great and powerful
Oz’
Like the little boy in
another story
who shouted
“The emperor has no clothes
on”
All too soon
the world sees its own
nakedness
filtered through the chill
of omission
deplete of golden rule
For in their hurry
to either sanctify, villainize,
or hypnotize
there was no time to shoot
the poets
Driving Me Crazy
Dedicated to Charlene
Villella
I drive, you ride shotgun
take aim at every other driver
in our path
swear at their stupidity, lack of expertise
‘nagrivate’ me all the way to the clinic
This isn’t the first time we have been
nor the second or third
but I let you rant and control the car
knowing how out of control
your life must seem to you
We arrive at the appointed time
I park the car and help you out
I open the door
you stop for a cigarette
take a long satisfying draw
Now up to third floor oncology
your port is sore and you wince
as they take some blood
then start the drip that takes
about an hour of your life and mine
Today it is a rough stretch
you look tired from the new chemicals
we make our way down the elevator
out the door to the next cigarette
now I am angry
I tend to get real quiet like a morgue
when I am mad
and right now I would like to smack
you
upside the head for not caring more
about you
except I feel guilty because you’re
sick
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Poetry at the County
Fair
Sycamore
trees spread
broad lacy screens
filter light in visual arpeggio
A fixed sheltered retreat
from the calamity of community
with push-shove of carnival
at both gates
Crowds flow through
like currents of water
look for banks to hold them
Siphon over the dam
through the archway
with its iron-work gates
into this sanctuary of calm
Words hang here along with art
awaiting their time
when eyes will glide along them
stroking minds as they go
along the letters
the feelings
then the name at the bottom
It is Sunday
the words
a gift of sharing
from one heart to one mind
for anyone who bothers
to stop and read
as they pass through
©2005 Cynthia L. Bryant
Ban the Bomb, Burn
the Bras
America-1960’s
Bombs were falling
women were ripping off bras
taking to the streets in numbers
that staggered imagination
everyone was protesting something
In the midst of the fray
breasts became important to me
checking the delicate buds daily
couldn’t wait for them to grow
with time came the first brassiere
Nothing more than a harness
the bra cinched the diaphragm
covered the obvious
promised to lift and separate
suddenly we were shapelier
I remember the first time
I sought to venture out without a bra
mom insisted I place Band-Aids over
nipples
as if nipples were eyesores
that would wound
Out of the house, out of the harness
I reveled in every bounce and jiggle
to expand ribcage without duress
no more dents in shoulders
as if I carried the world
I suppose the shelf life of my breasts
was shortened a day, a week, a year
for the rebelliousness
only to redress the bra once more
a few years later
As for the bombs
they still fall
off and on
but put your minds at ease
I hear they are smart now
Heaven on
Earth
It is summertime at twilight
crickets begin to strum
air is filled with jasmine's perfume
The old rocker swishes da-dum
Weary day has retreated
behind blushes of orange and pink
as old Sol is extinguished
in horizon of oceanic drink
Heavenly lights flicker
turning on one by one
Awe struck Earth prostrate
Mother Luna's reign begun
Blue moon is arising
large and golden as the sun
As crickets serenade eventide
the old man's ticker stops—da-dum
© 2002 Cynthia L. Bryant
